Straight To His Heart

by Anna J. Stewart

  “Do I want—” Flynn moved toward him only to send a stack of CDs crashing to the floor. His head spun. Just how many beers had he drunk last night? “No. I don’t think—”

  “How about some nice runny eggs fresh out of the hen,” Trevor suggested.

  Flynn glared at him. At some point, his “little” brother had gained two inches, twenty pounds, and a mouth that wouldn’t quit. They’d gotten into it last night after closing, with each of them accusing the other of being out of touch in regards to the others’ life. Essentially picking up where they had left off the last time they’d seen each other. Flynn had accused Trevor of not paying attention to something and Trevor shot back he already had parents, he didn’t need another.

  Yeah. Exactly where they’d left off.

  “Now me?” Trevor went on. “I always like the way the yolks explode and ooze when you poke them with your fork.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand. “Liquid gold puddle of goo.” He slurped. “Sizzling bacon dripping in grease. There’s this recipe for blood pudding I’ve been wanting to try—”

  Flynn covered his mouth and, office décor be damned, shoved past his brother into the bathroom before giving him the satisfaction of vomiting.

  “Still so easy,” Trevor called from the hall. “It’s oatmeal day anyway. Dad’s already got it going.”

  “Coffee,” Flynn called from where he leaned over the toilet. “Just coffee.” He banged his head on the rim. Apparently he was heading into his first full day in St. Helena dragging yesterday behind him like an anchor.

  He turned on the shower, stripped, got in, and by the time he’d decided not to drown himself, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed up to his brother’s closet to find something clean to wear. Hair dripping, feet bare, he returned to the office for his phone.

  His stomach rolled again. Still nothing from Jocelyn or Kirk. What was it they said? No news was good news? As hesitant as he was to hear the news, being left in the dark was driving him bonkers. How was he supposed to make any decisions without all the information? On the bright side, he had a text message from the airline that his luggage had been located and would be arriving sometime in the next twelve hours.

  He found his brother and father sitting around the kitchen table, sipping coffee, a big pot of oatmeal bubbling on the stove. Both were already dressed and looked ready to tackle their day. Trevor leaned back so only two legs of his chair were on the floor; that same damnable grin on his face . Of all things for him not to outgrow.

  “I feel like I woke up in a Ma and Pa Kettle movie.” Flynn poured his own coffee. “What on earth were you thinking getting chickens? And a rooster? Aren’t there ordinances about livestock?”

  “Clooney was a surprise,” his father said as if discussing the grandchildren who apparently didn’t have any issues sleeping through Clooney’s oration. “We thought he was a hen.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to look under their skirts or something?” Flynn sipped his coffee and prayed for death. “Doesn’t seem complicated to me.”

  “You’d be surprised how often a rooster sneaks in there. Mistakes happen.” The relaxed smile on his father’s face was more proof the move here had done wonders for Flynn’s parents. They might be working their butts off at the restaurant—which had left Flynn in charge of Caley and Wyatt’s bedtime. He found himself smiling at the memory of little Wyatt curling into his side and snoring softly as Flynn read Goodnight Moon.

  “We weren’t about to punish the poor bird for it,” his dad continued. “He’s happy as can be in that pen with his ladies. No neighbors close enough to complain. Except Sabrina, and well, she doesn’t complain about anything.”

  “Where would she find the time with all the advice she gives out?” Flynn mumbled around his coffee.

  “You still bitching about mom skydiving? Or are you talking about how she told Nissa to go for it with this assignment?” Trevor asked, his brows knitting.

  Flynn closed his eyes. Sabrina was responsible for his sister’s photographic re-awakening? He should have known.

  “Wasn’t anything Nissa didn’t need to hear,” their father said. “It’s going to do her a world of good being back at work. She needs to find herself again.”

  “Sabrina’s really good at figuring out what people need,” Trevor agreed.

  “Your mother’s been talking about skydiving for years, Flynn,” Brady said. “Sabrina just gave her that added push so to speak. I’m not thrilled about how it turned out, but that smile on her face when I got to the ER, nothing better than that.”

  “It’s like I’ve entered an alternate universe.” Flynn stared at his brother and father. “What on earth is going on around here? She’s sixty years old for crying out loud!”

  “If that worries you, don’t ask what she’s planning for sixty-five,” Trevor chuckled.

  “Speaking of your mother,” Brady said. “I’ll be at the hospital most of the morning, so Flynn, I expect you’ll do what you can to help Trevor at the restaurant.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Taking orders from his kid brother. Yeah, that would be fun. He looked out the window as a distraction.

  “You taking the kids with you?” Trevor asked.

  “Mmmm.” Brady nodded. “One of the patients is having a birthday party. Should keep them out of trouble for a while. Sabrina’s the one who told us about it. Apparently she provided a couple of the gifts.”

  “You see a lot of her then. Sabrina?” Flynn stared at the larger than expected guest house situated at the far end of the expansive back yard. Not too cute, Flynn thought. Two solid pillars supported an overhanging porch that displayed a rocking chair next to the bright white door. Paned windows were neatly settled into the sea foam green siding. Envy and regret struck in equal measure. He’d bet she didn’t have to traverse an obstacle course the second she woke up.

  “We see her enough,” Trevor said in a tone that made Flynn’s ears burn. “She’s been a big help at the restaurant since we lost Laura. Why? You interested?”

  “We shouldn’t need to call on her quite so much now that you’re here,” his father cut in before Flynn could answer.

  “The egg basket is right there.” Trevor motioned to the worn wicker basket with an oversized handle by the back door. “Chickens should be done laying about now.”

  Flynn’s stomach clenched in an entirely new way. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

  “Someone has to collect them. I’d be happy to let the kids do it, but we have to get an early start and it looks like they’re sleeping in.”

  “The sun’s barely up.” Not to mention he was still on East Coast time. Flynn looked accusingly at the slow moving peek-a-boo sun. Pretty sunrise though. All the purple and orange hues melding together like pixels on a high def screen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched the sun rise. “Just how early do you need to be?”

  “We’ve got deliveries scheduled starting at eight.” Trevor strolled over to the stove and dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling oatmeal. He rattled off a litany of tasks for the day to the point Flynn’s head started to spin. And he thought his days were busy. “Unless you’re not up to the challenge.” Trevor looked at him. “Working at a restaurant isn’t like planting your ass behind a computer screen all day.”

  “I wouldn’t go lecturing me on work ethics, kid,” Flynn muttered even as he hated the testy tone in his own voice. “I’m not the one who’s had a dozen jobs in the last four years.”

  “We don’t all emerge from the womb with a career plan in mind. What do you think, Dad? Three dozen eggs should do us for today, right?”

  “Um, sure. Sounds right to me.” Brady said from behind his paper.

  “You might have to wait some if there isn’t that many. Maybe clean out the coop while you do,” Trevor said. “There’s a bucket of feed outside the pen. A couple of scoops in their bowls should suffice. If you want to ride in with me, I’m leaving at seven-thirty.”

&
nbsp; “You want me to collect eggs.” Flynn blinked, unable to process the idea. “From chickens. In the coop.”

  “You’ll want to be careful with Lola,” his father advised as he sipped his coffee. “She likes to peck at fingers.”

  “And Lola would be the…?”

  Trevor grinned. “The brown one.”

  Flynn glared at him.

  “This isn’t going to be done for a bit yet.” Trevor scooped up some oatmeal. “Why don’t you get the eggs before we eat? Kill two birds…so to speak.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.” He drank as much coffee as he dared and headed for the back door. Trevor’s implied dare didn’t sneak past him. Given how many hours Flynn had spent lecturing Trevor about his lack of responsibility over the years, he wasn’t about to give the kid any ammunition to use against him. If dealing with chickens and eggs was how he was meant to start his day, so be it.

  “Best put on some shoes,” Trevor called. “Unless you want to stroll through chicken crap in your bare feet.”

  Flynn dropped his chin to his chest, clenched his fist around the basket handle and walked back to his brother. “Do you have a pair I can borrow?”

  “There are rain boots on the back porch,” his father said. “And try not to be too noisy. Chickens are easily startled.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Flynn closed the door behind him before he said something that would get him grounded. He shoved his feet into the too large rubber boots and stomped off the porch.

  He peered into the barely illuminated back yard. Solar lights spiked out of the grass to create a path, but their energy had long since been drained. He could hear rather than see the chickens. He could hear both everything and nothing given the deafening silence out here. Flynn trod through the thick, damp grass and gave the guest house a purposely wide berth. With the way he’d left things with Sabrina last night, he’d rather deal with the aforementioned cranky, egg laying Lola.

  The back of his parents’ property stretched further than Flynn expected. He didn’t see a fence line or demarcations, but the grass thinned into dirt then into slippery mud thanks to the overnight sprinkler action. Giant oak and pine trees dotted the landscape and off to the west he saw the aforementioned garden that was in full bloom. The clucking grew louder.

  His eyes went wide and watered against the cool morning air. His father hadn’t been kidding. There were more than a dozen birds pecking around the ground on the other side of the wire. A few walked lazily out of the small doorway of the coop.

  Cockle-doodle-doo! Cockle-doodle-doooooooo!

  Flynn jumped, his head throbbing as he stared at the aforementioned Clooney perched on the roof of the coop. Bright red, with an oddly shocking pink poof of feathers on the top of his head, the bird looked as if he was trying to morph into a flamingo. Those blinky black eyes followed Flynn’s every step either sizing up the competition or planning his method of attack once Flynn gained access to the pen.

  It took Flynn longer than he cared to admit before he found the latch to enter. A few minutes later he found himself standing amidst a flock of chunky birds that didn’t seem in any rush to get away from his clomping feet despite their sudden excitement.

  Their conversation picked up, the clucking hitting every octave on the scale as Flynn wondered which one would cause his head to explode. They were odd creatures. He turned in a slow circle. And who knew they could run so fast.

  Wait a minute.

  Where on earth were they—?

  “Aaaak!” He dropped the basket and dived for the unlatched gate, but it was too late. Three chickens were making a mad dash to the vegetable garden.

  He ran after them then realized he’d forgotten to shut the gate behind him. By the time he got it latched, another two chickens made a break for it. Flynn raced toward one who seemed more interested in taking in the view than gaining its freedom, but the too big boots on Flynn’s feet sank ankle deep in the mud.

  He fell forward. His feet popped free. He landed in the muck.

  “You missed.”

  He knew that voice. He closed his eyes. Not again.

  He sputtered, swallowed hard and cringed as mud—at least he hoped it was mud—slipped down his throat. Gah! He tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped out from under him and he landed even harder this time.

  An odd pair of plastic clogs appeared in front of his face. Sabrina stooped down, a glass of some green liquid in her hand. The hell with it. Not much more he could do to embarrass himself now. He leaned up on his elbows and crossed his bare feet. Those glorious dark curls of hers were sexily tousled. He could see the trace pink of sleep in her face brightened by the yellow tank and matching pants. His gaze dropped from her amused face to the cleavage and pale skin bidding him good morning. Two dog-tag like medallions, one displaying a red cross indicating a medical condition hung from the chain around her neck. Why was it the first woman to intrigue him in ages was responsible for the chaotic mess his family was currently in? “Let me guess. You have some advice for me.”

  A slow smile spread over her lips. “Even with both feet in your mouth you can’t turn off the charm, can you?” She stood up, held out her hand. “Come on. I’ll help you catch them.”

  “Catch them?” He was deliberate as he moved, feeling like he was on ice skates for the first time. His knees wobbled as he side-stepped onto more solid ground. “Can’t we just let them have a free day? Chickens need exercise, don’t they?”

  “Would you like to explain their vacation to your mother? Besides, I bet Trevor and your father are probably making a bet right now as to just how long it takes you to accomplish your task.”

  She pointed to the kitchen window. Even from a distance he could see—and hear—his family howling with laughter.

  “It’s so good to be home.” Flynn swiped his hand down his bare arms to slick the mud off his skin.

  Sabrina yelped and jumped back, her drink spilling over the edge of her glass as she shrank back.

  “Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Flynn reached out to wipe the splatter of mud off her chest and face, only to realize his hands were covered. His feet were going numb in the cold, mud laced grass. He laughed, held up his hands and gave up. “So much for making up for yesterday. Now I’ve made things worse.”

  “Only because I hadn’t planned to do laundry today.” She drank down half her drink, the look of which made Flynn’s stomach roll anew. “It’s fine. I’ll probably look even worse in a few minutes. Here, hold this.” She handed him her glass.

  He sniffed, frowned. “Are you being punished? What is it?”

  “Kale smoothie with protein powder, wheatgrass, and pineapple. Drink some.” She bent down and stood back up with her arms and hands locked securely around the flank of a bird. “It’s supposed to be good for a hangover.”

  “What makes you think I have a—”

  She arched a brow, shook her head, and carried the chicken back to the pen, her shoes squeaking in the damp earth. She unlatched the gate, and set it inside, murmured a greeting to Clooney who had dropped off the coop and wandered over to the gate. “One down. Drink. Trust me. It’ll help.”

  He sipped, only because he didn’t want her to think he was a coward and nearly dropped the glass because of the mud on his hands. Despite the noxious color, he had to admit, it was rather tasty. It would probably go down easier if he didn’t know what was in it. Or if it didn’t look like slime. He caught sight of her waving towards the kitchen window.

  Flynn groaned. He could only imagine how this story would turn by the time Christmas rolled around. Just what he wanted to be this holiday season: entertainment.

  “Are you some kind of chicken whisperer?” he asked Sabrina as she strode past him with yet another chicken in her hands.

  “You just have to be quiet and try not to startle them. Their brains are pretty small. It doesn’t take a lot to fool them.” She returned to the pen. “How many more?”

  “Three, I think? I lost count when
I hit the ground.” An obscene sucking sound erupted when he pulled the boots free from the mud. When he took a step toward one of the birds, the creature squawked and flapped away.

  Sabrina laid her hand on his arm and squeezed. The second she touched him, every bit of cold coursing through his body evaporated. “You’re right. I’ll get them.”

  He spotted a spigot and set the glass on the grass. His hands nearly froze in the chilly morning water, but at least part of him was clean. Looked like he’d be doing some laundry this morning. And raiding his brother’s closet again. She rounded up the last of the birds and got them safely back into their pen. Clooney let out a series of approving clucks and herded his girls back toward the coop. Sabrina returned to Flynn, took the little that was left of her drink and turned him toward the chickens. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “Couldn’t you just get the eggs for me? Trevor told me Lola pecks fingers.” He flexed his. “I need mine to make a living.”

  Sabrina rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the flicker of amusement on her face. “We’ll do it together. Loosen up, City Boy. Come on.” Sabrina took his hand in hers and led him into the pen. He had to duck to keep from bashing into the top wire, not that chickens would fly out, but he assumed it was there to keep predators out. “Just think, when you get back home, you can brag to your friends about how you got fresh eggs from actual chickens.”

  He could think of a lot of things to brag about, but egg gathering wasn’t one of them.

  “Here, you hold this.” She hooked the basket over his arm and unlatched the coop’s door. “Good morning, Marilyn.” The fluffy white chicken clucked as Sabrina slipped her hand beneath the mound of feathers. She pulled out a brilliant white egg. “Your mom named each one after Hollywood starlets. There’s Carmen for Carmen Miranda over there.” She pointed at the multi-colored diva roaming the edge of the wire. “And Veronica Lake, Bette Davis over there has a serious attitude problem, and whatever you do, keep her away from Joan…”