Page 57 of All We Carry Home

Though Warren urged me not to, I called Sheriff Lowe. I knew he wouldn’t do anything, but there’d be a record of the visit, nonetheless. So at least if Victor made any sort of further threat, there might be a chance at justice.

Warren had faced off with those men, and for a heartbeat, I was terrified that he might even fight them. I couldn’t bear it if Warren, Eddie, Peter, or Annie was hurt because of me. Because of my stubbornness.

Sheriff Lowe shuffled around the property, wrote a report, and told me to call him the next time those men showed up. Warren had been right. It had been a waste of time.

Warren and Eddie were planning and preparing to reinforce entry points and construct barriers. They drew up a map of the property and compiled a list of former Ghost Riders to call based on the perimeter and access points.

“I’m simply protecting my horse,” Warren had said with a wry grin. “You can’t fault me that. I’m entirely within my right to add in security at my expense.”

There was no fighting him—and I was worried for Phantom’s safety too.

“Do what you think is best,” I said. “I’m going to focus on Phantom’s training or none of it matters anyway.”

The day was slipping away, and I’d agreed to pick up a new horse from the Carson ranch out in Joseph, three hours away. Once Sheriff Lowe left, I set about hooking up the trailer to my truck.

“Where are you going?” Annie appeared at my side as I removed the wooden pieces behind the tires of the trailer to keep it stationary. She held a small white chicken under her arm.

I brushed my hands on my pants and straightened. “New horse to train. I’m going to pick him up now.”

“Could you look at Pepper’s foot first?” she asked, lifting the chicken to me.

I hesitated. Each moment of delay was more work to pile on later. But even with the existential threat to Birkstrom, I knew the care of even the smallest and most helpless of creatures still mattered.

They especially mattered to Annie, who had become very dear to me.

I took the chicken, keeping a firm grip over her wings so she didn’t flap free of my hold. One of her feet was swollen, with a large red circular sore in the middle.

“Bumblefoot,” I said, handing the bird back to Annie.

“Will she be okay?” Annie’s eyes were wide and horrified at this malady.

I bit back a patronizing smile, remembering how deeply I had cared for every chicken, puppy, kitten, goat, and calf at her age. Before life had accelerated and shifted in such a fundamental way that these matters felt trivial.

When had I lost that passion for these animals? I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“She’ll be totally fine,” I said. “It’s a small infection and most often heals on its own.”

The girl let out a long breath.

“If you want to make her a bit more comfortable,” I offered, “you can fill a small bucket full of warm water and put some of the soaking salts from under the sink in there. Then have her stand in that water for twenty minutes.”

Annie brightened. She wanted some way to tangibly help—a feeling I knew all too well. Perhaps the youngest Moore would be a nurse one day. Though from what I had seen, I’d wager she would be a veterinarian.

The girl ran off, and I did the final preparations to the trailer to leave.

For the last hour or so, Eddie and Warren had been making a few phone calls to see if any other former soldiers were looking for work and could come to the ranch, as if preparing for battle. To Warren, this was war. I recognized the look in his eyes, the singular focus.

I couldn’t let that happen. They’d just escaped Europe with their lives.

I had to get Phantom to the show arena, take on as many clients as possible. That was the only way I’d keep the bank at bay and any other sort of offer off the table.

I went to the house to get my handbag, and Warren knocked on the door and stepped into the kitchen. His gaze rested questioningly on the girl with a chicken in a bucket of water on the kitchen table.

A proper woman probably would have been horrified by the thought of the farm animal in the kitchen without having been fully plucked, but injured animals had always been a staple inside the Birkstrom Ranch house. I had cuddled many a sick goat in the living room next to the fireplace on cold winter nights.

My heart tripped over itself at Warren’s insightful, curious gaze. He wore tan slacks and a dust-covered T-shirt that seemed out of place in lieu of an Army uniform.

I motioned to the chicken. “Bumblefoot.” Then I patted Annie on the shoulder. “Make sure you dry the foot off well after her soak and try to keep it clean as long as she’ll let you.” I picked up my bag and walked past Warren into the sunshine.