Sweet Return by Anna Jeffrey

confrontation with a friend’s son whom she didn’t even know. Wounded by his antagonistic tone, she stammered, “Uh, well, um, not really. We’ve kind of got a deal we both like. It’s, um, hard to explain.”
    “I’m beginning to see that. And those jackasses are part of this egg business?”
    “Actually, they’re supposed to keep predators away.” His mouth didn’t smirk, but she could see the disdain in his eyes. As quick as lightning, that look turned her anxiety into irritation, if not downright anger. She had done nothing wrong. Why should she feel so intimidated by him? After all, he was the one who had ignored his family. “They do keep the predators away,” she added more firmly.
    “That’s hard to believe. Your message said my mother’s sick. What’s wrong with her?”
    “I can’t imagine that you don’t know, but she had walking pneumonia back in the spring. It really got a grip on her and she hasn’t been able to stop working long enough to get well. She’s better, but still not a hundred percent. She waited too long to go to the doctor.”
    He said not one word, just looked at her, picked up his glass and finished off his tea.
    She abandoned hope of congenial conversation. “Did you drive here, uh, Dalton? I can call you Dalton, right? Or would you prefer Mr. Parker?”
    “You can call me Dalton.”
    Ass! She held her tongue, but her eyes bugged.
    He turned his attention to the dining room’s picture window and the view of the fenced pasture where the hens lived. In the sun-brightened area, they were strutting and clucking and scratching the ground for bugs.
    Gray, life-size plastic owls perched on posts at strategic locations. Her two donkeys grazed beside the short flagpole from which thin, silky Asian flags fluttered and flicked pointed ends in the breeze, all of it her effort to protect the hens from flying predators. She didn’t have to be told that a source even more fatal than a chicken hawk suddenly jeopardized her business. She had no idea whether Clova would resist if her oldest son insisted the hens be removed.
    She cleared her throat. “So, um, did you drive all the way from California?”
    “Flew to Lubbock. That piece of shit in the driveway’s a rental.” He got to his feet. “There’s usually a work truck around here. Where is it?”
    “Your mom took it. To feed the cows and check on the downed fence. Her dually’s parked in the shed, but she doesn’t usually drive it out into the pasture. There’s an ATV, but it isn’t working.”
    He mumbled a cussword.
    She made up her mind to try again. Miss Congeniality. “Look, my truck’s here. Your mom’s all the way at the back of the south pasture. I—I could—I’d be glad to drive you down there. There really isn’t a road, but my truck’s got four-wheel drive.”
    His head turned her way and he stared at her. “I know where Hulsey’s place is.” Then a smirk tipped up a corner of his mouth. “But, yeah, you can take me down there. Let’s go.” He walked to the coat tree in the corner, helped himself to a bill cap and walked out, letting the screen door slam behind him.
    Asshole! She sat at the table a few more seconds, collecting herself. She had met all kinds of people in her various enterprises, but she couldn’t recall ever meeting someone she wanted to throttle at the same time she imagined jumping his bones. On a deep breath, she got to her feet, picked up the two glasses and took them to the kitchen, then followed him outside.
    She found him standing on the porch, staring across the driveway at her hens. Without looking at her, he lifted the cap, pushed his fingers through thick, but short, graying hair, then shoved the cap down on his head. “Just exactly how many chickens have you got here?”
    She hesitated, debating whether she should fib about the number. Horse sense told her not to. “At this moment? Two hundred. Sometimes a few more, sometimes less.”
    He turned his head her way. The