Page 50 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

Molly rounded the corner into the kitchen and stumbled to a halt.

A lone sunflower had been stuck in a mason jar and placed in the middle of the booth’s table. There was a plate, utensils, and a paper napkin lying empty but ready. A glass of orange juice was already filled. A box that looked like Chinese takeout sat to the right of the plate.

Molly turned to the small galley kitchen stove and stared in surprise at Trent. He was wearing a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was damp from being freshly showered. His feet were stuck into a pair of moccasin slippers.

“What are you doing here?” Perhaps the lamest question she’d ever asked, but it was all Molly could think to blurt out.

Trent looked up from where he was flipping an egg in a cast-iron pan. His expression was straightforward. “Making you breakfast.”

“What about work? The farm? Themilking!” A person didn’t just not go to work in the morning when there was a dairy farm of cows mooing to be released of their heavy udders.

“I talked to Jerry. He said he could manage.”

Jerry. One of Trent’s co-workers. “Okayyyyy...” Molly dragged out the word because she wasn’t certain itwasokay.

“Have a seat.” Trent waved the spatula toward the booth.

Keeping her quizzical eye on Trent, Molly slipped into place. “What’s this?” She tapped the white Chinese takeout box. “Orange chicken?”

Trent’s mouth twisted in a surprised sideways smile at her attempt at sarcasm. “Sort of.”

Molly scrunched her face in skepticism. “Chinese chicken for breakfast?”

“Why don’t you open it.”

She reached for the box and was surprised when it felt lopsided and not at all the solid weight of orange chicken. Molly reached for the top to unfold it, wary when she heard scratching inside. Then a little squeak. Her gaze flew up to meet Trent’s.

“No,” she said.

He smiled softly. “It’snot quitethe same type of orange chicken you were thinking.”

Molly pulled open the box, and sure enough, orange chicken was inside in the form of a baby chick. It stared up at her, its enormous eyes frightened and curious all at the same time. There was a distinct waft of chicken—the live sort—and the chick cheeped, its beak opening as though Molly were about to feed it.

“Trent...” Molly breathed. She felt suffocated with emotion. The kind she hadn’t felt in—forever. She bit the inside of her lip to keep her tears at bay. Trent’s thoughtfulness was unexpected. “Why?”

Trent scooped the fried eggs onto a serving plate that was already holding a few sausage links. He brought the platter over and set it on the table. “Just ’cause.” He returned to the counter and filled a mug with black coffee, just the way Molly liked it, and returned to set the mug next to her plate.

Molly studied the little chick scratching at the bottom of the container, its scrawny wings fluffed with the beginnings of orange feathers. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Girl,” Trent answered as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

“How do you tell?” she asked, reaching out with her finger to stroke the chick’s back.

Trent smiled. “Do you really want to know?”

“No.” Molly couldn’t help but offer a little laugh.

Trent sat down in a chair opposite her. He cupped his hands around the mug. “There’s more. Outside in the coop.”

“What?” Molly knew her eyes were probably wider than the moon.

“Yeah. Sid picked them up for me last night after everyone left and you went to bed. I called her and asked if she would. We wanted—Iwanted you to have something to look forward to.”

“But ... all the baby chicks out there! Nothing is set up. I don’t have warmers, or feeders, or even fencing yet, and what about predators? Keeping out fox and coon and—”

“Hey, hey.” Trent held up his hand. “I’ve got it covered. Your chicken coop is ready enough for now, and Sid said she’d help this afternoon. Plus,” he added, “there are adult chickens too. We didn’t just get chicks.”

“And a rooster?” Molly was shocked at the level of excitement she felt over the stupid birds.