Page 46 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Ira stilled beside me, cup halfway to his lips. His head turned, that old military stillness overtaking him in an instant.

“Get inside,” he ordered quietly. I nodded but didn’t move. “Gabby!”

“I literally can’t move fast,” I hissed. “Remember the part where my bones are taped together like a clearance-sale action figure?”

He cursed under his breath, set his coffee down, and disappeared into the dark, so silently I didn’t even register the moment he left. One second, he was there, and the next, just empty space and shadows where he used to be.

For a solid five seconds, I stared, waiting for my brain to catch up, and then the panic set in.

I glanced around wildly for a weapon—anything—my hand landing on two items within reach: a nearly full can of industrial-strength ant spray and the seasoned skillet of doom I’d ruined breakfast in. Perfect.

I tightened my grip around the skillet’s handle with one hand and clutched the ant spray like a grenade in the other, slowly standing and hobbling into a position near the door. My heart pounded like a war drum as I tried to keep my balance.

A low groan of wood settling made me jump just as a branch snapped somewhere to the left. The shadows between the trees shifted just enough to make every hair on my arms rise.

I took a shaky breath and braced myself, picturing how my police report would read: Local woman fends off attacker with pest control and poorly washed cookware. At least it’d be memorable.

Then I saw movement—low and fast—cutting across the line of trees.

I raised the ant spray with shaking fingers, ready to blind whoever dared approach me.

“I swear to God if that’s you trying to scare me, Ira, I will make it hurt.”

There was no response—just more rustling in the shadows.

I took a step back toward the doorway, eyes scanning the shadows, breath coming in shallow bursts...and then Ira stepped out from the trees.

He looked confused, relieved, and maybe even a little offended, like he’d just been accused of something he hadn’t done.

He stared at me, waiting. I figured I'd give him a taste of his own medicine for making me move quickly, so I stared back, skillet raised, and the spray aimed at his chest.

“Well, that’s comforting.”

I lowered the spray a fraction, still breathless. “What was it?”

He blinked like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Do you have…an exceptionally fat raccoon friend?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yes, yes, I do.”

Ira stared at me for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “Of course you do.”

“I’m naming him Clayton,” I added.

“Why?”

“Because Steve’s already taken, and he’s handsome,” I replied simply like that explained everything. “Clayton deserves a name that shames him into being more like Steve.”

Ira watched me warily. “Who the hell is Steve?”

“You met him earlier. The raccoon with the sleek tail and symmetrical dark circles around his eyes. Total heartthrob. He’s polite, calm, and only swipes when it’s his turn.”

Ira threw his hands in the air. “They all have dark circles around their eyes and striped tails. They all look like that!”

I gasped like he’d just insulted my child. “Absolutely not, Steve's distinguished.”

He trudged back to his chair, muttering under his breath. “Concussions make people crazy…”

I did my own version of a flop back onto my seat beside him and huffed. “I named him before I got my head injuries, thank you very much.”

Ira just rubbed his face with both hands, probably trying to decide if there was enough bourbon left in the world to deal with me.

Out beyond the porch, the shadows settled again, the rustling quieted, and the fat raccoon—Clayton—peeked from behind a tree like he’d been listening this whole time. Great, now I’d fat-shamed a raccoon and terrified an old man.

Clayton blinked at me, so I held up a cheesy puff as an apology and watched as he waddled forward. Balance was restored. Sort of.

“He looks like a Pork Chop,” Ira mused, squinting at the hefty raccoon now waddling along the edge of the porch. “Or maybe just Chunk. Yeah, Chunk suits him.”

“Will you stop?” I snapped. “You’re going to give the guy a complex.”

Ira raised his eyebrows. “A complex? Sweetheart, he’s more like a duplex.”

I didn’t dignify that with a reply—just threw a cheesy puff at his head. Or tried to. It missed and landed on his knee instead.

And that’s when it happened.

One second, the porch was quiet, maybe even charming.

The next, there was a blur of motion, a thump of something heavy, and Clayton—the raccoon formerly known as Raccoon Kong—launched himself onto Ira like a furry torpedo, swiped the cheesy puff off his leg like it was a sacred treasure, and jumped down again with an agility his body type had no right to have.

Ira froze mid-holler, clutching at his chest. “I take it back,” he wheezed. “To hell with dying of a heart attack, I’m going to die of rabies.”

I doubled over laughing, even as the pain in my ribs flared. “Oh my God, your face?—”

He held up a hand dramatically. “Wheelchair now. That rodent cracked my femur with sheer heft.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’ve been assaulted by wildlife!”

We were mid-bicker, about to launch into whether or not a raccoon that round could actually be classified as “wildlife,” when a soft tinkling echoed through the air.

We both froze as another chime rang out—faint but unmistakable. It was one of the perimeter bells, the soft sound cutting through the stillness like a warning. Someone was out there.

Ira narrowed his eyes. “If that’s more Godzilla-sized raccoons, I’m going inside, locking the door, and using that deluxe bathroom you’ve been deprived of. Then I’ll describe it in graphic detail while you keep pooping behind trees.”

“Try it, and I’m peeing on your pillow.”

But he was already gone—slipping back into the dark, silent as ever. I waited a beat… then another… then too many. With every minute, my heartbeat climbed higher in my throat.

Skillet in one hand, ant spray in the other, it was a slow, limping descent off the porch, staying tucked in the deepest shadows that clung to the cabin like a security blanket.

I kept my back pressed to the wall, breath held tight, every muscle braced against the urge to imagine the worst. My heart was thundering so loud I was sure it could be heard from space.

What if it wasn’t more raccoons? What if something had happened to Ira?

What if?—

The bushes rustled then parted, and Ira emerged—grinning like he’d just won bingo night—marching two men by the ears like they were drunk frat boys caught TP’ing his rose bushes.

“Found these two skulking around,” he stated gruffly. “Say they’re here to protect you, so I brought ’em in for questioning.”

He flicked on a flashlight and shined it in their faces, making both men wince like vampires at dawn. I squinted, pulse still racing, not trusting what I was seeing. Their faces were screwed up so tightly they looked like a pair of distressed cats.

“I think I recognize them,” I said slowly, my eyes darting between their squashed features. “But I can’t tell because you’ve mashed their faces together like a Claymation nightmare.”

One of them—taller, leaner, and visibly regretting his life choices—spoke up first. “Name’s Jesse, I’m Webb’s brother. You’ve seen me at all those family things I never wanted to go to.”

The other one muttered, “Remy. You know me, too."

I tilted my head. “Can you relax your faces, please? You both look like… cat’s assholes.” They did as I asked slowly. “Oh!” I brightened. “Yeah, now I see it. You’re the guy who kept stealing the deviled eggs at Webb’s aunt’s Fourth of July barbecue.”

Remy looked mildly offended. “They were delicious.”

Jesse rubbed his jaw. “We’ve got guys lying in wait around the cabin monitoring all entry points.”

Ira scoffed, folding his arms. “That's just unnecessary. I trapped the place myself.”

“Yeah, well,” Jesse replied, “Gabby’s traps are holding up too.”

“My traps are superior,” Ira countered.

“You nearly got me in one of yours.”

“Sounds like you weren’t paying attention.”

“Gentlemen,” I interjected, waving the ant spray. “Can we not measure whose trap is more masculine?”

Remy sighed. “Can you let go of my ear now, please?”

Ira blinked, startled. “Oh, sorry. Forgot I was doing that.”

He released them both, and Jesse immediately rubbed his ear and muttered something under his breath that definitely included old man strength.

“So…” Jesse asked, stretching his neck. “You gonna do that to Barris if he comes anywhere near Gabby?”

Ira smirked. “It’s effective.”

Remy muttered, “Let’s see how effective it is when he’s pointing a gun at your chest.”

Ira just chuckled darkly, strolling back toward his coffee. “That’s child’s play. Let him try.”

I looked at Jesse and Remy and gave them a dry smile. “Welcome to my nightmare. There are cheesy puffs if you’re brave.”

Jesse eyed Ira warily, rubbing his ear one last time. “So, we’re cool to hang back, yeah? G.I. Grandpa doesn’t mind?”

Ira puffed out his chest with such pride you'd think someone just pinned a medal on him. At this, Jesse and Remy exchanged a glance—one part admiration, two parts concern.

“Seriously,” Jesse huffed, “you’re like a retired action figure come to life. They ever sell you at the VA gift shop?”

Ira adjusted his belt like he was tightening a utility harness. “Limited edition. Comes with a real skillet and a can of ant spray.”

They both wisely chose not to ask if he was joking.

“So, Gabby,” Remy said a little more gently. “How are you feeling? I mean—head injury, broken bones... What the hell were you thinking leaving the hospital?”