Page 1 of Purring for Her Lion
CHAPTER 1
LIANA
My bare feetpress into the dewy grass, toes curling with frustration as I stare at the betrayal before me: a gaping hole in my supposedly chicken-proof fence.
The morning sun beats against my skin, making the thin cotton of my shirt stick to my back as seven escaped chickens strut around my yard clucking with the confidence of prison escapees who’ve just tunneled their way to freedom.
This is not how my homesteading fantasy was supposed to unfold.
In my imagination, homesteading was all flowy dresses and perfect braids, morning coffee on the porch with the smell of fresh bread wafting through the house. There was always a basket in these fantasies filled with fresh eggs and vegetables I’d magically grown without killing.
Instead, I’m standing barefoot in my backyard at 6:47 AM, wearing pajama pants with dancing penguins on them, with seven escaped chickens, a half-built coop, and a growingsuspicion that my neighbors are documenting my failures for their personal entertainment.
I squint at my absolutely useless backyard fence. The DIY tutorial had made it look so easy. “Simple chicken coop for beginners!” they said. “Afternoon project!” they promised.
Three weekends and seven YouTube videos later, I have what can only be described as a modern art installation made of wire and disappointment.
The chickens, meanwhile, are thriving in their criminal era. They peck at the ground with delighted little jerks of their heads, wandering farther from safety. Buttercup, my white Leghorn, has already made it to the edge of my struggling vegetable garden, eyeing my tomato plants with malicious intent.
Chestnut, my Rhode Island Red and obvious mastermind behind this jailbreak, struts across the lawn with her chest puffed out. She stops, turns to look directly at me, and lets out a cluck that sounds suspiciously like mockery.
“I see you,” I hiss. “You think you’re so clever.”
A soft breeze rustles through the trees, and for a split second, everything is deceptively peaceful. Golden morning light filters through the leaves, painting dappled shadows across my overgrown lawn. The sky is clear and perfect blue, birds chirping in the distance.
Then Chestnut, the ringleader of my feathery gang of delinquents, lets out a smug cluck and takes off toward the property line.
“Oh, hell no.”
I sprint after her, ignoring the sharp stab of twigs under my bare feet. My heart pounds as I push myself faster, cursing my previous life’s neglect of cardio. Every second counts in a chicken pursuit.
I barely know anything about my neighbor except that he keeps to himself, he’s apparently huge, and he’s not exactly friendly. The woman at the general store described him as “not much for talking” with a significant look that suggested this was the understatement of the century. Someone else mentioned he was “from away”—small-town speak for anything from “moved here from the next county” to “literal alien.”
But none of that matters, because my chicken is committing trespassing crimes, and I refuse to become known as the woman whose poultry vandalized the grumpy neighbor’s property after only three weeks in Harmony Glen.
“Chestnut, I swear to every ancestor I have, if you do not get back here—” My threat dissolves into breathless panting as the chicken veers left, darting between two trees and straight into what I can now see is my neighbor’s backyard.
Except “backyard” doesn’t begin to cover it.
The land opens into a sweeping field bordered by ancient trees that stand guard over the space. A small pond glitters in the morning light like scattered diamonds. A massive oak dominates one side, its branches stretched wide, and near it stands an open barn with weathered wood and neatly stacked hay bales visible inside.
It’s unfairly beautiful, like a painting brought to life. Each element placed with perfect intention, creating a harmony my chaotic little homestead could never achieve.
Even the grass seems greener, more lush, as if it knows it’s growing on superior soil.
It’s also very, very occupied.
By someone very, very large.
I skid to a stop, bare feet sliding on dewy grass, breath coming in short gasps. My hair has escaped its messy bun, falling around my face in sweat-dampened strands. I’m painfully aware of my appearance: barefoot, disheveled, wearing a T-shirt that says “HOMESTEAD QUEEN” in big, ironic letters.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
The massive figure before me is not an old lady spying from a window.
He is tall. Impossibly tall, towering at least seven feet. Broad, with shoulders that could carry my entire chicken coop without strain. And he is covered in golden fur that catches the morning light, giving him an almost ethereal glow despite his intimidating size.
The first thing I notice are his eyes. Golden like his fur, but deeper, more intense. Sharp, like they see too much and whatever they’re seeing is all severely lacking.
