Page 15

I t’s Friday night, and I’m contemplating going to bed early when I get a text.

Backroads & Bad Decisions Group Chat

Birdie: SOS! I was at the diner earlier and overheard Mr. Grady say that one of his chickens is getting pecked on and she’s not worth the trouble. He’s going to put her down tomorrow!

Birdie: We have to save her before it’s too late.

Briar: He’s got thousands of chickens. How would we know which one it is?

Birdie: She’s in her own pen waiting for her execution.

Charlie: Welp. Guess we’re going on a chicken rescue mission.

Wren: Seriously! The FOMO is real.

Charlie: You left us unsupervised. This is on you.

Briar: Besides, you’re our backup plan if this goes sideways.

Wren: Like when you tried rescuing a box of kittens from a dumpster that turned out to be baby possums, and one of them bit Charlie?

Wren: I still owe my cousin for meeting you at the clinic after hours to give Charlie that rabies shot.

I laugh at the memory. For living in a small town with four thousand residents, we sure do find ourselves in precarious situations quite often.

Charlie: I thought we agreed to never speak about that again.

Briar: So… what’s our game plan to save this chicken?

Charlie: There’s only one solution: Operation Feathered Freedom. We’re breaking her out tonight.

Briar: I’m pretty sure this is illegal.

Charlie: Only if we get caught.

Birdie: You guys are the best!!

Wren: Better write my number on your arm so the cops know who to call for bail.

Charlie: Appreciate the vote of confidence.

Between Birdie’s bleeding heart and Charlie’s knack for finding trouble, it’s a miracle we’ve stayed out of jail this long.

It does help that Sheriff Matterson is Birdie’s dad—he tends to look the other way when we get ourselves into trouble.

Most of our past run-ins with the law involve unlicensed rescue missions or Charlie’s disregard for “No Trespassing” signs.

Charlie: You want to save the chicken or not?

Charlie: Meet at my place at nine. Wear black.

An hour later, we’re in Charlie’s bright red SUV on our way to Mr. Grady’s farm, all decked out in head-to-toe black. Anyone passing by might assume we’re filming a low-budget spy movie with no money left for a wardrobe budget.

“This thing isn’t exactly incognito,” Birdie complains from the back seat.

“My orange Jeep would’ve stood out just as much,” I say, tossing a handful of popcorn into my mouth.

Charlie came armed with snacks, as if we were on an FBI stakeout.

“We could’ve taken your car, but someone refused to drive,” Charlie grumbles, glancing back at Birdie.

“It’s not my fault a family of rabbits decided to make their home under my car,” she protests, crossing her arms. “The mama just gave birth last week, and they won’t be able to leave until the babies are old enough to hop and venture out on their own.”

“What’s your plan for getting around until then?” I ask.

“I have Earl on speed dial. He’s got a punch card system, and I’m halfway to a free ride,” she says proudly, as if it’s a badge of honor, ignoring Earl’s track record of turning flowerbeds into mulch.

“The man is a goldmine for gossip and animal rescue tips,” Charlie admits .

I’m just glad Birdie has a positive outlook on the situation, because my guess is that those bunnies are one litter away from forming a permanent colony under her car.

Charlie pulls off the road onto a narrow gravel turnout, parking the SUV behind a grove of trees to avoid drawing attention. Around here, someone’s bound to stop and check if we’re stranded, so we have to be cautious.

“Let’s take a quick picture to send to Wren,” she says, leaning over and holding out her phone with one hand.

“Everyone say, ‘Free the chicken!’” She snaps the photo with her grinning from the driver’s seat while Birdie and I squish into the frame, mid-laugh.

The flash goes off, briefly casting a sharp glow on our faces.

Charlie leans back in her seat and fires off a text, my phone chiming seconds later. I glance down to see that she’s sent the picture to the group chat with a message.

Charlie: Wish us luck, Wren. We miss you!

Once she’s finished, we all climb out of the vehicle and make our way through the trees.

When we reach Mr. Grady’s farm, we keep low to the ground, darting behind farm equipment and haystacks. Thank god he’s behind the times and doesn’t have cameras on his property—though, I wonder if that’ll change after tonight.

Birdie and Charlie whip their heads toward me when my phone chimes, the screen lighting up.

“What the hell, Briar,” Charlie hisses. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“Sorry,” I whisper, putting my phone on silent. “Wren was responding to the photo you sent.”

“She’ll have to wait for a reply until after we finish this mission,” Charlie says, her voice low.

We stick to the perimeter of the property before passing through a cluster of cottonwoods leading to Mr. Grady’s house .

When we reach the maze of fencing and sheds that make up the chickens’ enclosures, I spot a small pen off to the side, holding a lone chicken with patches of missing feathers.

Birdie doesn’t waste a second, bending down to unlock the latch, trying to coax the bird into the crate we brought to transport it.

She’s halfway in when a loud squawk suddenly echoes from the other side of the coop.

The chicken panics and scurries back inside its pen.

We might not be able to see the other hens, but it’s obvious they sense something isn’t right when they all begin to cluck furiously. One particularly loud rooster lets out a battle cry, and the entire flock erupts into chaos, shaking the fence.

“Uh-oh,” Birdie whispers.

I wince, my eyes darting toward the house, hoping we’re too far away to be noticed. Spoiler: We’re not.

Seconds later, the porch light flickers on, and Mr. Grady stomps out in his long johns and boots.

“What in tarnation is going on?” he hollers.

“Shit,” Charlie mutters. “We have to get out of here before we get caught.”

My adrenaline kicks in, and all I can think about is escaping undetected. If we don’t, and Jensen finds out, he may never let me see Caleb again—especially if I get arrested for trespassing and stealing someone else’s property. I can’t let that happen.

“New plan,” I say in a hushed tone. “Birdie, you’re going to carry the chicken out of here.

Charlie, you distract Mr. Grady. I’ll take the crate.

” I’d leave it behind, but it has the Silver Saddle Ranch emblem on it, and the last thing we need is for this to become front-page news in the local paper.

“Why do I have to be the one to distract him?” Charlie hisses.

“Because Birdie panics under pressure, and you’d probably face-plant if you tried to run with the crate in those shoes.” I gesture toward her black ankle boots. They’re meant for a trip to the coffee shop, not a covert mission .

She lets out a sharp breath, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, a determined expression setting in. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with. I’m definitely going to need a drink after this.”

We watch as she stealthily darts along the perimeter of the chicken enclosure, ignoring the hens that continue to squawk loudly.

Once she is out of sight, Birdie lifts the fragile chicken from its pen, cradling it against her chest. “Shh, I’ve got you,” she whispers when it clucks.

We wait for what feels like an eternity, the sound of Mr. Grady’s boots growing louder with each step.

Just as he’s about to round the corner, a loud commotion from the other side of the coop grabs his attention.

I crane my neck to see hundreds of chickens scattering out of the enclosure, running in all directions.

That’s one way to distract him.

“Goddammit,” he shouts as he bolts toward the open gate.

My heart races, thumping wildly. Now is our chance to make a break for it.

I glance at Birdie, still holding the chicken, her brows furrowed in concentration as she tries to keep the bird from squawking its head off.

“Run. Now,” I order.

She doesn’t waste a second, taking off in a sprint across the yard. I grab the crate off the ground and follow. As we reach the tree line, I glance back, catching sight of Charlie, her hands pressed against her chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me to wear a sports bra for this?” she whisper-shouts.

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to laugh. “How was I supposed to know we’d be sprinting for our lives? Was it necessary to let the other chickens out?”

“What did you want me to do, distract him with my impressive rack?” She motions to her chest. “Even that wouldn’t have been enough to divert from the fact that we stole his chicken. ”

“Correction, we liberated her,” Birdie adds, ever the optimist.

We don’t stop running until we get to the SUV. I toss the crate in the trunk, then climb into the passenger seat, leaning back to steady my breath.

Charlie slides behind the wheel and starts the engine. She turns and points at the hen, who’s now wrapped in Birdie’s jacket, its head poking out and swiveling curiously.

“Listen up, clucker. If you even think about making a mess in my car, you’ll be turned into chicken nuggets. Got it?” The chicken stares at her, nuzzling its head into Birdie’s chest. “That bird is as sharp as a rock.”

Birdie shoots Charlie a scowl. “Don’t say that. You’ll hurt Nugget’s feelings.”

Charlie throws her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, great. Now you’ve gone and named the thing.”

“Yup. Nugget is here to stay,” Birdie says with a toothy grin.

“As much as I love this feel-good moment, I think we should get out of here,” I say.

“You got it.” Charlie buckles up and pulls out onto the road. “Once we drop off the chicken, we’re going to the bar to celebrate.”

“Alright, but only if the bar has better music than your car,” I tease.