Page 15 of Finding His Redemption

Jax slowed. “Is that thing… glaring at me?”

“Keep walking and don’t make eye contact,” Boone called over his shoulder. “That’s General Mayhem. He don’t like… well, anyone.”

“I thought this was a dog ranch.”

“We don’t only rescue dogs. Mayhem and his hens came from a hoarding situation.”

The rooster narrowed his eyes. Then, with a sharp, rasping screech, he launched himself from the coop.

Jax instinctively ducked. “Shit!”

General Mayhem dive-bombed him, talons flashing, beak aimed like a dagger. He flapped once, twice, then landed heavily on Jax’s shoulder, puffed up to twice his already terrifying size.

“Don’t move,” Boone warned, deadly serious.

The rooster let out a low, rattling growl—agrrrrrksound that made Jax freeze—then jabbed his beak at Jax’s ear like he was tagging his new territory.

“Fuck! What the hell kind of chicken is this?”

“The homicidal kind,” Boone muttered and approached with his hands up like he was wrangling a raptor. “Don’t flinch. He smells fear.”

Jax stood still as stone, muscles locked tight. How had he gone from war zones to being held hostage by a goddamn chicken?

Another peck. He swore and nearly took a swipe at the beast, but Boone was suddenly there, plucking the giant rooster from his shoulder.

“I’ll be damned.” Something dangerously close to a smile twitched at the corner of Boone’s mouth. “He likes you.”

General Mayhem flapped furiously, letting out a squawk as Boone lobbed him back toward the chicken coop like a football. He landed with a thump, ruffled feathers flaring, and slowly, deliberately, turned on Boone, letting out a sharp, gutturalkrawk. It was the kind of sound that belonged more in Jurassic Park than a barnyard.

Boone arched an eyebrow. “You wanna be dinner?”

The rooster narrowed his eyes… but then, with exaggerated dignity, climbed back onto his perch, shaking dust from his wings like a man brushing off an insult.

Jax rubbed his ear and eyed the rooster warily. “How do you know he likes me?”

“He didn’t draw blood.”

“If that’s what he does to the people he likes, I’d hate to be his enemy.”

Boone chuckled under his breath as he turned away. “Ask River. He’ll tell you all about how much fun that is.”

There was a story there.

He didn’t want to be curious about these people or this place, but… fuck it, he was. He jogged to catch up. “Who’s River?”

Boone hitched his chin toward the bunkhouse. “One of your bunkmates.”

“That a nickname?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

Jax grunted, filing away the information without commenting. He didn’t plan on getting close enough to anyone to learn their stories. Names were enough.

Boone cut behind the barn to a long, low building with chain-link fencing extending from its side.

The barking started before they even reached the door, a chorus of different pitches and rhythms.

“Fair warning,” Boone said as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “These aren’t your average shelter dogs. Most of them have histories. Bad ones.”

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