Page 49 of Eden and her Mercenary
Before I can guess again, the distant rumble of an engine catches my attention. A cloud of dust rises above the tree line as a transport truck lumbers into view, followed by a horse trailer.
"Here they come," Eden says, rising from her rocking chair.
I stand beside her, watching as the vehicles approach. The truck slows to navigate the final curve in our driveway, its suspension groaning under whatever weight it carries.
Then we hear it—a high-pitched, frantic squealing that pierces the afternoon quiet. The sound is unmistakable, though entirely unexpected.
"Is that a pig?" I ask, eyebrows raised.
Eden nods, barely containing her excitement. "Not just any pig. She's a rescued breeding sow from a factory farm. Five hundred pounds of traumatized porcine who's never felt grass beneath her feet."
The truck comes to a stop, and the driver waves. The squealing intensifies as the vehicle settles.
"Five hundred pounds?" I repeat, trying to imagine the size. "Where are we going to keep her?"
"We converted the old storage barn, remember? The one with the attached yard? It's perfect for her."
The driver hops down, clipboard in hand. "Afternoon, folks! Got your special delivery here. Bertha's been quite vocal for the last twenty miles."
Eden steps forward to greet him. "How was the journey?"
"The dogs and cats were angels. Horse was stoic. Bertha, though..." He gestures toward the truck. "She's got opinions."
I peek around the side of the truck. Through the ventilation slats, I catch a glimpse of something enormous and pink. Another piercing squeal makes me step back.
"She's scared," Eden says softly. "Wouldn't you be? Eight years confined to a gestation crate barely bigger than her body, then suddenly loaded into a strange box and driven for hours."
The reality of what this animal has endured hits me. This is why we built this place, why Eden pushed herself through recovery with such determination. For creatures like Bertha, who have never known kindness.
"Well," I say, rolling up my sleeves, "let's show her she's home now."
The driver hands Eden the clipboard. "You'll need to sign here. And fair warning—the unloading might be... challenging."
Bertha takes her first tentative steps onto ourproperty, her massive head swinging from side to side as she assesses her surroundings. When her hooves touch grass—perhaps for the first time in her life—she freezes, then snorts in what sounds remarkably like surprise.
"Welcome home, you big beautiful porkchop,” I murmur, and Eden barks out a laugh.
“Don’t even think about it! Once she is rehabilitated a bit, she has a home with Kim and Dean over at the inn.”
“Did I hear my name called?” Kim is walking from behind the horse trailer with Dean in tow.
“You certainly did. Coming to check out your new addition?” Eden smiled.
Kim nodded vigorously. “Oh, would you look at her?” she sighed. “Isn’t she a beauty? We should have brought Peony, to see if they get along.”
“Forget it,” Dean chuckled. “One pig living in the Inn is enough. I’m surprised none of the guest have complained.”
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Actually, most guests don't even notice Peony. The ghosts haunting the inn keep them pretty distracted."
I raised an eyebrow. "Ghosts? You've never mentioned ghosts before."
"Oh, they're harmless," Kim waved dismissively. "Just creaky floorboards at night, doors that open on their own, the occasional cold spot in the hallway. Guests either love it or they're too freaked out to complain about a pig wandering around the garden."
Dean nodded solemnly. "The old place has history. Built in 1873. Three confirmed deaths on the property."
Eden shot me an amused glance. "And you're okay sharing your inn with spirits?"
"They were there first," Kim shrugged. "Besides, it's good for business. We market ourselves as 'Pearl Lake’s Most Haunted Bed and Breakfast' now. The Halloween bookings alone pay our property taxes."
