Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“No,” I say defensively.
Dottie shoots Aggie a look. “She’s lying.”
“Neither of you has to eat,” I retort. “Or how about you make your own eggs.”
“They’re just eggs,” Dottie comments, throwing down a few more handfuls of corn and shaking the last of it out of her pail for the hungry chickens. “I don’t see what’s so hard about it.”
“That’s what she said,” jokes Aggie.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “You two suck. I’m going to go find Murr.”
They chortle, and I try to hide my grin as I walk away. It’s become a running joke that I destroy the eggs every morning, but we eat them anyhow. I’m determined to get it figured out, and until I do, I endure the ribbing.
It’s a beautiful day as I head up the hill to the big barn. In the months since we’ve moved to the farm, we’ve repaired the roof and the interior stalls and swept everything out. The fences are mended in most of the pastures, and we rotate the cattle between fields so they don’t chew the grass down to nubs. Murr is excellent at herding the cattle thanks to his drakoni form, but he’s also surprisingly good with the animals even in human form. It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense that he means them no harm.
I put a hand to my eyes, scanning the distant field for a dragon. I see cows with their heads down, grazing. In one of the nearer pastures, our alpacas and goats are playing, with a baby goat bouncing on an old tractor tire. More farm animals have shown up every month, some wandering in our direction, some found as we scavenge the nearby properties for useful items. Everyone is welcome, even the old blind donkey that hates everyone but the dogs.
We have two dogs now. The puppies have all gone to good homes in the fort, loved on by their people. We still have Stella. Our second dog is an old collie that wants nothing to do with us and spends all his time with the herd, as if they’re his sworn duty to protect. Rabbit calls him Don Quixote, a name that Jonah came up with. We make sure he’s fed and comfortable and leave him be.
Murr isn’t in the field, so I turn towards our gardens. We’ve taken over the massive, overgrown garden that was here and have tried to work it into some sort of shape. Since it’s summer, the tomatoes and cucumbers are growing wild in the heat, and our peppers are turning colors. The corn is reaching to the sky and our watermelons…well, our watermelons look sad, but that’s all right. The next farm over has peaches and plums, and they’re almost ready for picking. No Murr in the gardens, either. There’s a cat laying in Dottie’s boxed herb garden, but no dragon.
I head to the barn, and I’m humming the repetitive chorus all over again. It isn’t until it registers what I’m humming that I realize it’s a song in Murr’s head that I’m picking up on.
“When did you learn ‘Tubthumping’ by Chumbawumba?” I call out as I stroll into the barn.
My dragon husband glances back at me, a sheepish expression on his face. “I don’t know. Is it a bad song?”
“Not bad, just surprising.” Rabbit has taught him a few songs, but this one probably comes from Aggie, if I had to wager money. “It’s a song about drinking.”
“Drinking what?” he asks, ever innocent. God, he’s cute. Even after six months of being mated to him, I’m never tired of looking at him. I’m never tired of his questions, or his protectiveness, or the way he’s determined to save every stray animal that wanders our way. It’s like he wants to make sure every creature we find is safe and cared for and has a family, because he knows what it’s like to be alone.
I’m not sure how I got so lucky to get him, but I’ll take it and thank my lucky stars each day.
I move carefully to his side, keeping my steps slow and measured and my hands down. Our newest arrival at our farm is a horse, so skinny you can see every rib. It’s nervous around everyone so far, the whites of its eyes showing as I approach. It prances in the barn stall, eyeing me.
“You’d think he’d be more grateful after a few days of food,” I comment, moving to stand behind Murr and looping my arms around his waist. “This is the grumpiest horse I’ve ever seen.”
“He is scared and used to being hungry. He will calm down once he realizes we are friends,” Murr says, unbothered. He extends a hand towards the horse, palm up. “I brought you food, Pikachu.”
Oh lord. Rabbit’s naming conventions strike again.
Pikachu-the-horse flares his nostrils at Murr’s gentle words and paces in his stall. There are mounds of fresh grass (courtesy of Murr’s claws) and hay in a bucket for him, cool water, and a bag with cracked corn in it. We’re giving him small portions at first so he doesn’t make himself sick. Once we know he’s not diseased, we’ll move him in with the other farm animals. The books say to keep new animals quarantined for at least a week or two in order to determine if they’re healthy.