Page 85 of Deacon

“Well, take that upstairs and see if anything fits,” she says.

Obediently, I carry the bag upstairs. There’s a pair of jeans that fit alright. The only sweater is a pretty Icelandic print, and it compliments my hair and eyes. I pull it on and tie my hair up before going back downstairs to the kitchen. When Ginny sees me, she cocks her head.

“Oh, you keep that sweater,” she says. “It’s pretty on you.”

“Oh, I can’t,” I protest.

“Not worth arguing with her.”

I turn to find the kitchen door leading to the four season porch is open. Deacon stands on the stoop, screen door jammed open with his elbow. He’s in his work pants and boots, a charcoal gray Henley over his broad torso. It’s rolled up to his forearms, all his chaotic tattoos on display. He’s got a cigarette between his lips and a cup of coffee in his hand. There are two thick bandages over his knuckles.

We make eye contact. A tingle moves through the vicinity of my heart.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking the cigarette out.

He has an odd way of holding them, almost like a pen between his first finger and thumb.

“Hi,” I say, barely audible.

Deacon steps to the side, and my eyes fall on another man standing in the yard, smoking. There’s something familiar about him. He’s tall, lean, and broad in the shoulders. There’s an easy, open way about him. His eyes are bright gray-blue, his hair dusky brown. He’s got a handsome face, like a film star, just worn around the edges.

I think all these western men are a little rough at their edges.

The man takes his hat off. “Jensen Childress, miss,” he says.

“Freya,” I say, keeping back. “I know you, I think. You were standing outside the café when I found Deacon’s puppy.”

Deacon’s staring, like he’s afraid Jensen’s about to embarrass him. There’s a heavy bark, like a big dog, and the owner of that sound careens around the corner. It’s a big hound with drooping jowls and black dapples down its back. Distracted, I step onto the four season porch to get a better look. I love animals, and I can’t resist trying to pet any dog I can get my hands on.

“That’s Chicken,” Jensen says.

I swing my gaze around. “That’s his name?”

“It’s the only word he responds to, anyway,” says Jensen. “Ain't worth shit except for hunting raccoons and keeping the foxes off my property.”

Deacon’s eyes follow me as I circle him and Jensen, unable to resist the urge to pet Chicken. The hound smells like a barnyard, buthe pushes his nose into my hand and nuzzles it. He’s got big brown eyes, droopy and sweet.

“Oh, he’s nice,” I say, scratching his ears. “I love hounds.”

Deacon clears his throat. I glance past him and see Ginny’s gone and the dishwasher is running. Jensen puts his hands on his hips.

“Let’s finish talking later, Ryder,” he says. “I got a job up at Sovereign Mountain, but I’ll be back around in a few days.”

Deacon jerks his head in a nod. Jensen starts around the house, heading for a big white truck parked by the barn. He whistles, opening the door. Chicken is sitting at my feet, staring into the middle distance, eyes unfocused.

“Chicken,” Jensen yells.

I nudge the hound, and he stares up at me. “You better go.”

Jensen slaps his thigh. “Jesus Christ, get in this truck.”

Chicken heaves himself up and takes his sweet time crossing the yard. He doesn’t get in the truck. Instead, he just stares up at Jensen until he snaps and lifts him into the passenger side. He’s grumbling under his breath as he gets inside and pulls the truck out, heading down the drive.

Then, it’s just Deacon and me, standing on the stoop with the chilly autumn air settled around us.

He flicks his cigarette in an empty pot. “You feeling alright, sweetheart?”

“About what?” I say, not backing down from his midnight stare.

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