Home to Roost_Bower, Colorado

by Reina Torres

  Today, she wanted to prove herself.

  When she’d first applied to her father for a job he told her that he would never hire her. A woman working with numbers seemed as irrational as a woman seeking to work with them in the first place, but she showed him how determined she was. And, she showed him how capable she was. Dogged determination was apparently something she’d inherited from him and it had served her well.

  Taking a moment to gather her nerves and smooth the parts of her clothing that were still whole, Brigid opened the door and stepped outside.

  She had seen some of the homestead earlier when Mr. Quinn had brought her hat to her. It was a tidy place. Brigid wasn’t sure what she had expected. Her father had always credited the cleanliness of their home to the housekeepers, but this homestead certainly didn’t have one. Yet, she couldn’t help but notice how well kept everything was.

  To say she was impressed would be a vast understatement.

  “Mr. Quinn?”

  He didn’t answer her back. She certainly wasn’t expecting him to wait around all day and keep her busy, but there was a little moment of anxiety. Being in a strange place, by herself, was a little worrisome.

  So, she took another step forward and took a long look at the barn across the way. There was a small structure affixed to the side of the building with a fence around it. The door was open and the enclosure was empty.

  Narrowing her eyes at the enclosure she tried to think of what kind of animals he would keep in such a place. She moved closer, hesitating a bit, but when she was close enough to see into the little shed-like structure, nothing looked back at her.

  What a relief. Whatever it was… her heart tumbled in her chest and her stomach twisted. Whatever was normally behind the fence was now outside of the fence.

  With her.

  Somewhere.

  And she had no idea what it looked like.

  Or what it ate.

  Turning her back to the barn wall she backed up, her eyes watching the yard carefully as she moved. Her heel caught on something and she stumbled back, bumping into the wall with a thump of sound. It was a shock and would have staggered her down to her knees if she hadn’t seen a flash of white in the corner of her vision.

  Pressing a hand against her chest, she waited, breathless to see what it was. And then, a fluff of white twitched into the open doorway, disappearing back into the barn a moment later.

  She almost sighed in relief. Something white and fluffy couldn’t be dangerous, could it?

  A pale pink nose emerged this time, followed by a sloping forehead and dark eyes and two white ears that looked much like the original glimpse. “Oh, hello!” Brigid bent down and held her hand out, hoping to coax the little animal forward. “Come on, come out here.”

  She waited, nearly eager enough to move closer but not quite. Not yet.

  The little head shook and she could swear she heard his ears flap in the air. Then, one leg after another, the tiny four-legged creature was out in the sun, prancing. Struggling with her early school memories, she remembered the little sketches in the McGuffey Readers. A goat. And unlike other things she’d seen from her old school books, this little baby was so much more adorable than the line drawings she’d seen years before.

  “Oh, aren’t you just a dear.” As he moved closer, she tentatively reached out and brushed her fingers through the furry tuft at the top of his head.

  Bumping his ear against her palm, she relaxed into the soft caress. “So sweet.”

  She gathered the little one in her embrace, crouched down and felt the soft-feathery brush of his head against her cheek. “You’re such an adorable little thing.” Brigid was just about to turn and touch her other cheek when she heard a heavy whump whump of sound behind her. A moment later she felt something like dust or dirt peppering her cheek, neck and sleeve.

  Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw the most horrifying thing she’d ever seen. Talons, razor-sharp spikes, like dragons in books about medieval knights and sorcerers, slicing through the air near her face. Following behind that terrifying slash of color were wings, glossy-black feathers that blocked out the sun. What kind of nightmarish creature had descended upon her?

  With one arm wrapped around the sweet little goat, she held up her other arm, blocking the flashing talons from her face. “Go away!”

  She felt something bump into her forearm and she yelped. Her heart squeezed within her chest, the heavy press of the corset nearly cutting off her air completely. Brigid swept her arm out, hoping beyond hope to ward off the vicious creature, but she could still feel the push of air from its mighty wings. She thought to whisper a prayer but decided to call on a more earthly force that might provide more tangible assistance.

  “Mr. Quinn! Quinn!”

  She felt something grab at her hair, pulling it so hard that she felt as though it might tear the strands from her scalp.

  The little thing in her arms tried to squirm free, but she held on, worried that the wild creature would snatch him up and fly away.

  She heard heavy footfalls before she heard his voice.

  “Down!”

  She heard the order in his voice and froze. There was a hard edge to his tone that had more of an effect on her than the volume.

  “Down, you stupid bird!”

  Bird?

  That got her attention too. Could that horrible beast be only a bird? Hunched over, she tried to turn her head enough to see what was happening, but all she could see were long legs stepping between her and winged danger.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She heard a muted squawk and she started to stand, using her quivering legs and torn skirt as another shield to the little furry baby behind her. She touched his arm and felt his muscles tense before she leaned around his shoulder.

  “What is that?”

  The mad winged creature of her fears was, in reality, small enough to tuck under her arm, that is if she wanted to hold something with vicious claws and an ill-temper.

  A pointed yellow beak nipped at his elbow and he pushed it back, watching it carefully as it seemed to fall slowly through the air to settle on the ground.

  Keeping his eyes on it, Livingstone turned his face toward her to speak. “That horrible creature,” he ground out his words through his clenched teeth, “is my rooster.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “And I don’t know what got into him. He doesn’t usually act like that.”

  “Well,” Brigid offered a thought, “It’s probably because I’m a stranger.”

  The rooster bristled, a shudder running through his sleek feathers and shaking the long-curved feathers in his tail. Pacing back and forth, moving closer to her with each pass. Sounds, like chortles, seemed to come from his long, feathered throat.

  “What is he doing?”

  She thought she heard Livingstone laugh, but before she could say anything, she felt his warm hand on her shoulder as he moved closer to her side. “He’s not going to hurt you, I promise.”

  No other words had ever sounded so sweet. Her frantic pulse was still throbbing through her body as she struggled to catch her breath. “When I saw him at first, all I saw were claws, and I felt this strong wind on my face. I didn’t know what to think.”

  He smiled at her and she didn’t see a mocking light in his eyes. She saw worry relax into relief. “When I heard you scream,” he swallowed and she saw his throat tighten, “all I could think about was getting back as fast as I could. In my head,” he let out a shuddering breath, “I saw all the dangers-”

  “But it was only a rooster.” She felt her eyes water and cursed herself for the weakness. “You must think I’m so silly. All of that fuss just for a rooster!”

  “I’m thankful that it was that old cantankerous rooster and not-” There was something in his eyes as he looked over the line of trees that surrounded his homestead, peering into the shadows. “There are so many other things that could have-”

  As he spoke, she struggled to bre
athe. His eyes darkened and she couldn’t stand to see him worry. He didn’t deserve to fret over her. It wasn’t his fault that she’d stumbled off into the woods and lost herself in the storm. “I’m sorry.”

  She moved, or he did, but either way it ended up in an embrace.

  “I’m so sorry.” He felt her words against his neck and he only held her closer.

  “Don’t be,” he murmured into her hair, “you were afraid.” He felt her hand on his back, smoothing over his spine. “So was I.”

  He felt her tense against him and he held still. She’d already had enough of a fright that morning.

  “You were?”

  Closing his eyes, he felt the tentative brush of her breath against his skin and struggled not to pull her closer. He’d already crossed the line of propriety, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. In holding her, his instinct had been to comfort, but with Brigid in his arms, he felt something too. Something he couldn’t quite name.

  “I was.” He’d only spoken two words, but he felt like he’d bared a part of his soul. Since she’d shown up, literally falling at his feet, he not only felt responsible for her safety, he’d come to admire her pluck. She was strong. She was sweet, but he’d felt something darker in the tone that colored her voice. He’d felt fear and a near blind panic. He’d dropped his ax and taken off at a run. A myriad of dangers had played through his mind, making him move faster.

  Now, as he struggled not to let his fears scare her more than she had been, he wrestled with his own feelings. Feelings that he’d never been plagued with before. Feelings he’d never thought he’d have.

  Feelings that he shouldn’t have for someone who was planning on marrying another.

  The rooster, who’d apparently tired of waiting to be heard, chose that moment to make himself known, throwing back his head and trumpeting his displeasure.

  Livingstone laughed at his own disappointment, but as he stepped away he thought he saw Brigid’s expression turn down a bit. He didn’t know what he’d done to cause it and that only proved that women were that foreign to him. He felt a flutter of air against his legs and the scratch of claws.

  He glared at the feathery fiend. “That’ll be enough out of you.”

  Fluttering to the ground, the rooster landed hard enough to send up puffs of dirt around his feet. Once he was on solid ground, he walked over to Brigid. To her credit she stood her ground and didn’t shy away. When he’d nearly completed a circle around her, he jumped up in the air and plucked at her skirt.

  With a yelp of sound, Brigid pulled her skirt away from him and they both heard a loud rip of cloth.

  “Oh no!” Brigid grabbed her skirt in earnest and yanked it, hard. The fabric tore even more, and when the rooster settled back to the ground, he carried a long piece of fabric in his beak. He strutted back toward the corner of the barn and that’s when Brigid must have caught sight of his flock.

  And the flock certainly caught sight of her. And together they moved closer to get a better look.

  Turning her body, she backed up toward him. Something caught at her feet and she stumbled. He caught her easily but struggled with the instinct to pick her up and hold her close again. The chickens milled about their feet, greeting Brigid with little pecks at her skirt, but his guest didn’t see the greeting for a friendly gesture. Brigid clutched at his hands and pulled herself upright, fitting her tall form snuggly against his.

  Needing to break the tension building up inside of him, Livingstone said the first thing that came to him. “You might have shown up here by accident, but they think you’re part of the flock.” He was sure his words sounded more than silly. He’d regretted them the moment they came out of his mouth, but instead of keeping his mouth shut, he opened it back up again. “They like you, Birdie. How could they not?”

  She spun around and winced. “Ouch.”

  He hated to hear her in pain, but he realized it had saved him from any number of embarrassing questions. He’d had the nickname in his head since he’d found her hat with that poor little bird, drenched in mud, managing to keep his head above the muck. Brigid’s character was much the same. She may feel lost, but she had the strength to rise above it all.

  But, those were thoughts best kept to himself. “Come,” he insisted, setting her on her feet and gestured toward the cabin. “Let me look at your ankle.”

  He felt the panic that rolled through her and didn’t push when she turned to look at him.

  “I don’t think it’s my ankle,” she waved away her thoughts. “Well, yes, it was my ankle, but what I meant was that I think it’s my boot. Or maybe,” she let out a soft chuckle, “it was my boot that caused my… please tell me you understand so I don’t have to keep talking.”

  He felt the tension between them ease and wanted to offer her his arm, but part of him needed the distance. He needed room to think and suddenly the expanse of the woods felt very very close around him.

  Livingstone followed her into the cabin, keeping a watch over her in case she were to stumble again, but thankfully she made it to the table without a single bobble.

  Before he could crouch down and help, Brigid managed to undo her lacings and slip off her boot. Tucking her uncovered foot under the hem of her skirt she held it out to him.

  He took it in his hands and turned it over, examining the bottom of it with narrowed eyes.

  Brigid tried not to stare. And then she tried not to blush. But, watching him hold her boot in his hands seemed all too… private. “You don’t,” she began struggling to find her words, “you don’t have to...”

  His brow crooked up over his eye and she tried to ignore the flecks of brown in his hazel eyes. They would have been so much more attractive if he didn’t seem to be looking right into her thoughts. He turned his gaze back down to the boot and frowned at it.

  With his gaze directed away her mind was free to mull over other things. “You called me Birdie.”

  He turned the boot sideways and raised it up until it was level with his gaze, using his work to pull his focus away from her curiosity. He reached for his waist, and when he lifted his hand again he was holding a rather long and wicked looking knife.

  The blade was so broad that it brought to mind a painting she’d seen of King Arthur or some other knight in shining armor wielding a mighty broadsword. The flicker of light off the blade only managed to mesmerize her for a moment. The flash of the blade as it descended on her shoe filled her with horror.

  “Wait!”

  Brigid gasped loudly in the quiet interior of the room.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to stand and fell back against the high-backed chair. With just the one boot on, she was rather lop-sided. “Those were new!”

  “Were.” His tone contradicted her words, but he listened and set the shoe down on the table. “Now, they’re worn.”

  “I bought them six days ago,” she bemoaned the memory, “and now they’re ruined!”

  “If you wear it again, the heel is likely to fall off the next time you put weight on it.”

  His words were filled with reason, but she didn’t want anything to do with reason, not when she was looking at a boot that she had loved at first sight, even though they pinched her feet something awful. Her lips pressed together for a moment as she folded her arms across her chest. She ignored the hard wall of the corset under her bodice, digging into her ribs. The pain only helped to prick her temper a little more. “So, you were going to lop it off.”

  “That was the plan.”

  She clapped her hand down over her heart, fearing that it would jump out of her chest and land somewhere betwixt the table and the wall. “Then I’d be walking crooked in a different way.”

  He thought over her words and looked over the boot with a curious eye. “I can see what you mean.” Setting the knife back into its sheath, he laid his thumb on the bottom of her bootheel, placing the tip of his finger at the edge, he used the rest of his hand to measure the length of the boot.

 
; She watched him cross the room and lift the top of a trunk. It only took a few moments for him to find what he was looking for. Walking back to the table he set half of his treasure down and set the other half in Brigid’s hands.

  “I made these for my sister, but I haven’t sent them yet.”

  He smiled at her and she shook her head, shocked by his admission. “I can’t. You made them for your sister.”

  “I want you to have them. There’s time for me to make another pair before the holidays. You need something to wear now.”

  She saw the determination in his eyes and she gave him a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Quinn, I am very grateful.”

  There was a wink of humor in his eyes. “You called me Quinn, earlier.”

  She colored, her cheeks turning rosy with a bit of shame. “It was an odd moment, and I wasn’t thinking, I just said what was in my head.” He didn’t say anything and when she set her foot down on the ground, the supple leather warming against her leg, she lifted her gaze to his.

  “I liked it.”

  It was her turn to be silent, blinking up at him.

  “I’ve never felt comfortable hearing my name,” he explained. “It felt too formal. Like donning a suit when you were going to plow a field. It didn’t fit me as a child and doesn’t fit me now.”

  The room felt closer around them, as if the walls had moved within reaching distance, and yet Brigid felt something inside of her open up. “So I can call you Quinn.”

  He nodded. “If I can call you Birdie.”

  She looked away for a moment and smiled at the realization. “My hat,” she sighed, “my poor, poor hat.” She set her hand down on her skirt and winced when her fingers fell through a hole that seemed to have opened up out of nowhere. “Goodness.”

  “I don’t,” he paused again and she looked up, “I don’t have any of my sister’s things.”

  She felt horrible. “Oh, I wasn’t asking for anything.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “Living alone, all I have are my old things. I grew out of my pants and shirts the more work I did on the homestead.” He reached a hand up to brush his longer hair from his shoulders. “I have a needle and thread to fix holes along seams, but there’s not much else that I can offer.”