Page 309 of Hate Mates

I sigh, not spotting his big, furry body headed my way. Looks like I'll have to go get him.

"Duke, you don't live here. Go home.Go home, Duke." Groaning, I set my coffee down and head for the fence separating our properties.

"Duke! Get back over here and leave her alone." I put enough authority in my voice to see his shaggy form squeezing back under the fence. So, that's how he keeps getting over there; justone more thing to add to my list of things that need fixed. Duke plops down at my feet, tongue lolling happily.

"Can you please try to keep him over there?" Chris stands at the fence, her apron dusted with flour, and her brown hair in a loose knot.

"He's used to going back and forth, from when Old Man Morrison owned the place. Now that you've got livestock, he's just doing what a good guard dog does; guarding." I don't bother to hide my irritation.

"My animals don't need guarding. They're perfectly safe in acceptable habitats." Her sharper accent bleeds into her words, and I hate that I find it endearing.

"Listen, lady, I'll do my best to keep him on this side of the fence, okay? That's the best I can do."

Chris's nostrils flare, her cheeks flushed.

"What were you doing anyway? You're covered in something."

"I was baking cinnamon rolls," she says, crossing her arms, an action that unintentionally emphasizes her chest. Not that I notice.

"You don't get that messy baking cinnamon rolls. All you have to do is crack the tube." I focus on Duke, who's now sprawled on his back, waiting for belly rubs.

"Crack the tube?CRACK. THE. TUBE?!" Her voice breaks, horror written all over her face. "Oh my God, please tell me this man is joking." She claps her hands over her mouth, as if I've said something sacrilegious.

I glance around to make sure nothing's snuck up on us. "What? What's wrong? Why do you look like that? What's wrong with your face?"

"I donotbake cinnamon rolls from tubes. I bake them from scratch, like I have all my life. the wayMamantaught me." Thepure offense in her tone would be funny, if it weren't paired with that haughty glare.

"Well, forgive me, your majesty. I didn't know. The rest of us peasants are perfectly content with cinnamon rolls from tubes." With that, I toast her with my now cold coffee, and stalk back to my house.

Walking into the kitchen, I see Brandon at the stove, cooking breakfast, and Patrick at the table, sipping coffee. The screen door slaps shut behind me, and they both grin. Rolling my eyes, I dump my cold coffee down the drain and refill my cup.

"I don't want to hear it, Brandon," I warn.

Brandon raises his spatula in surrender. "Didn’t say a word, brother. Just making breakfast."

"It doesn't smell half as good as what's coming from next door," Patrick chimes in.

"True," Brandon agrees, flipping the bacon in the skillet. "Don't remember anything ever smelling that good when Old Man Morrison lived there."

"If you two ladies are done gossiping, we've got work to do," I cut in. "We need to move the cow-calf pairs to the closer pasture. I want them to be easy to reach when it's time to cull the bulls. There's a sale coming up in a few months."

Brandon salutes me with the spatula, and turns back to cooking.

I sit down, trying to enjoy my coffee, when it hits me. "Where's Eli?"

"He said he'd check the mail, but that was a while ago. I haven't heard him come back in," Patrick replies, pulling out his phone just as Eli walks through the front door, a pastry in one hand, and the mail in the other.

"These cinnamon rolls areamazing," Eli announces, his face sticky with frosting. "Christiane sure can bake. Did you guys know she bought Mabel's place in town? She's turning it into abakery! If she's serving these, I'll be there every morning. Man, they're good."

"Eli," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Did you seriously go over to the neighbor's house and ask for food?"

"Not really," Eli says sheepishly. "See, I went out to check the mail, and noticed her mailbox was leaning funny. Someone hit it and knocked it over, and it's busted up pretty bad. So, I knocked on her door to let her know. She already knew, but I offered to pick up what she needs and fix it for her. She was really grateful, and gave me two cinnamon rolls as a thank you."

"Dear Lord, give me strength," I plead with my ceiling. When no divine intervention appears forthcoming, I turn back to Eli. The youngest of us, just barely in his twenties, we practically raised him after Pa died. "Eli, we are not friendly with the new neighbor. She is an outsider, and honestly, I am not sure I fully trust her."

"Well, I like her. When I left, she was scolding that black goat of hers. Apparently, it managed to get into the feed room. You're just mad that Old Man Morrison died before he could sell to you, and that money-hungry nephew of his sold it.” Eli snatches his hat off the hook near the door. “I'm going to saddle up Princeton." The back door slams behind Eli, as he stalks out to the barn.

Sighing, I take another sip of coffee, only to realize it has gone cold again. "I give up. I'm going to Willow Glen Feed. I'll be back." Dumping it down the drain, I snag my own hat and head outside. With how this day is going, I could look both ways before crossing the street, and still end up getting hit by an airplane.

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