Page 80 of His Tenth Dance

She cradled the hen in question—Beatrice, apparently—and gave her a gentle abdominal palpation. The bird clucked softly, clearly uncomfortable.

“I think she’s egg-bound,” Kristie said. “It happens sometimes, especially with diet or stress changes. We can help her pass it.”

The woman looked horrified. “Pass…it?”

“It’s not too hard,” Kristie said with a reassuring grin. “We’ll try a warm soak, some calcium, and gentle massage. Worst case, I can come back tonight and intervene more directly if she’s still straining.”

As she walked the hen toward the chicken coop, she continued her assessment. “And the laying issue? Most likely some nutritional imbalance. What are you feeding them?”

“Well…mostly scraps,” Alice admitted. “Old pasta, some rice, the ends of salad mix.”

Kristie nodded, already pulling a laminated page from her clipboard. “Here’s a little cheat sheet I give to all my new chicken owners. Hens need balanced layer feed. Scraps are okay in moderation, but you want them getting the right protein and calcium levels consistently. Like us, they lay better when they’re not living off takeout.”

She offered a smile, trying not to let the ticking clock in her head show. She still had to shop for her dessert ingredients tonight, and at this rate, Mission would be at her house before her. Worse, she’d miss the window to drop off her apple crumble tart if she didn’t get started soon.

Her friends would surely be halfway done with their prep by now. But she couldn’t leave until Beatrice was comfortable and Alice had a handle on things here. Kristie’s conscience wouldn’t allow it.

They got the hen soaking in a warm Epsom salt bath—Kristie holding her with steady hands while Alice cooed words of encouragement and wiped away a few tears with the sleeve of her flannel.

Finally Beatrice passed her egg, and Kristie managed to smile her way into her SUV.

Then, it was all business as she drove to the grocery store to get fresh apples for her tart. She had to have it in the Creative Arts Building by two o’clock.

As she waited for the woman to scan her grocery items, she texted Mission.Can you start preheating my oven? Three-fifty, please.

You got stuck at the Kyler’s, didn’t you?

New chicken owners are clucking needy.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into her driveway. Thankfully, Mission’s truck took up the other half of the driveway, and he came down her front steps to help her with her groceries.

“You got everything?” he asked.

She nodded, suddenly so nervous.

“Hey, kitten.” Mission swept a kiss along her cheek. “Don’t be nervous. You’ve got this. Let me help, okay?”

Kristie blinked at him. “You bake now?”

“Nope. But I can carry in groceries and stand around very supportively.” He took all the bags into the house, leaving Kristie with the only job of following him. He started unbagging them, and she joined him, taking a deep breath and then another.

She dropped her keys on the counter and gave him a grateful look. “Thank you, Mish.” She glanced over to his freakishly long hair. “While the crumble bakes, I can cut your hair.”

Mission didn’t respond right away. He watched as she pulled out her stand mixer, the carefully labeled jars of spice, and the handwritten recipe.

“Whenever is fine with me, kitten.”

Kristie had told him multiple times she’d cut it…and he’d been waiting for her to do it. Her emotions wavered, but she strengthened them. She needed all her focus on the crumble forright now. She could catalog all the ways Mission showed how much he cared about her after she’d dropped off the dessert.

As she creamed the butter, sugar, and salt together, she asked, “We’re still going to lunch after I drop off the tart, right?”

“Mm hm.” Mission sat at her bar, his focus on his phone. He didn’t have to talk to keep her company, and he seemed to sense that she didn’t want the distraction of his voice.

She kneaded and refrigerated. She blind baked and sliced apples. She spiced and stirred and squeezed a bit of lemon into her filling.

She measured and tasted and adjusted. Finally, the tart was assembled, and she slid it into the oven. “I have about twenty-five minutes before I need to make the glaze.”

Kristie stepped over to the sink and washed her hands while Mission finally looked up from his phone.

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