Page 4 of Purring for Her Lion
I reach the tree line just in time to see my new neighbor faceplant into a patch of clover while lunging for a speckledbrown chicken. The bird sidesteps with insulting ease, and she sprawls forward with a string of curses that would make veteran soldiers blush.
I cross my arms, lean against an old oak, and watch.
She’s a disaster. Wild dark hair escaping what might have once been a bun, an oversized t-shirt declaring her “HOMESTEAD QUEEN” in garish letters, bare legs smudged with dirt, absolutely no strategy as she chases her flock in frenzied circles.
Her scent is stronger now—flour and sugar and sweat and determination.
One particularly smug red chicken struts past her, just out of reach, and she makes a sound between a growl and whimper that makes my ear twitch.
“Come on, Chestnut, you feathery little traitor. We had a deal. I feed you organic feed that costs more than my coffee habit, and you stay in your stupid coop.”
The chicken—Chestnut, apparently—ignores this appeal and continues exploring my property, pecking near my feet, completely unconcerned.
I should walk away. This isn’t my problem. I’ve spent three years carefully constructing a life of minimal interaction and maximum solitude. Getting involved with this woman’s obvious chaos would be counterproductive.
And yet I remain rooted, watching as she makes another desperate lunge, this time for a white chicken that evades her with a flutter of wings. She lands on her knees, huffing out a frustrated breath, blowing a strand of hair from her face.
“I swear to every ancestor I have, when I catch you—” She freezes mid-threat, finally noticing me.
Our eyes lock.
Her mouth falls open slightly. I can see the exact moment recognition hits—not of me specifically, but of what I am. Her pupils dilate, pulse visibly quickening at her throat, and she swallows hard. Her anxiety spikes, sharp and tangy, cutting through the sweeter notes.
But there’s no fear. Just surprise and something else that makes my fur stand on end.
I say nothing. Don’t move. Just watch, keeping my face neutral.
Her expression cycles through shock, embarrassment, resignation, determination, and finally a strained attempt at casual greeting.
“Oh. Hi. I—uh—so funny story.”
I continue staring, unblinking. My tail flicks once, the only tell of my mild irritation.
She pushes hair back from her face, inadvertently smudging dirt across her cheek. The motion releases more of her scent—warm skin and something yeasty, like she’s been baking.
“I live next door.” She gestures toward her property as if I might have missed the human woman who moved into the abandoned Mercer place three weeks ago. As if the entire town hasn’t been talking about her. As if I haven’t been carefully avoiding her during supply runs.
“This is my first morning with the chickens, and I had a plan, I really did?—”
The white chicken chooses this moment to flap frantically toward the pond. She whirls around, nearly losing her balance.
“Buttercup! Get back here right now!”
I exhale slowly through my nose, patience wearing thin. This is getting ridiculous.
I step forward, movements fluid and deliberate. Years of military training and hunting instincts take over.
I don’t run or lunge. I simply move with purpose, using my size and presence to guide the chickens. I angle my body to block escape routes, herd the birds with subtle pressure, and within seconds, all seven chickens are clustered near the woman’s feet.
She stares at me, chest heaving, eyes wide and dazed. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks. The scent of her surprise is almost pleasant.
“Did you just—what the hell? Are you some kind of chicken whisperer?”
I ignore the question and look pointedly at the birds, then back at her. “Your fencing is weak. Predators will get in.”
She blinks rapidly, processing both my words and the fact that I spoke. Then her chin lifts defensively.
“It’s a temporary setup. I was going to reinforce it. Eventually.”
