Honey Bea Farmis bold and curved across the top. Our family name hangs from a wooden sign beneath written in soft, delicate script. Below that, the year it all began—the year my parents were married.
My foot slips off the gas.
The truck idles in the middle of the empty road, engine humming quiet beneath the weight pressing on my chest.
I can’t move.
Can’t tear my eyes away from that damn sign.
How easy it would be to take the turn, to drive down the long, gravel driveway and park in front of my family's house. How simple it would be to justgo home. To see the farm, my sisters. To sit at the old dining table and talk to my mom. Tell her everything that’s changed. Open my mouth, bear my soul, and beg her to tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
It would be so easy.
Except, it’s not easy at all.
Not a single thing in my life is simple right now.
My fingers flex around the wheel and my foot presses down on the gas a little too hard, making the fields skip by in a blur.
A flash of movement, small and fast, darts into the road.
My foot slams down on the brakes and my knuckles pop from the force of my grip.
“Shit!”
Instinct has me jerking the wheel just enough to veer off onto the shoulder, gravel skidding under my tires. My heart slams into my ribs as the truck shudders to a stop, pulse hammering in my throat.
I sit there for a second, breath heavy, hands still locked around the wheel. Then I shove the door open and step out, scanning the dimming horizon.
A few feet ahead, a tiny, scruffy dog sits in the middle of the road, staring at me like I personally offended it. Its dark fur is matted, its beady brown eyes full of judgment, but I didn’t hit it, thank fuck.
Exhaling sharply, I rub a hand down my face, calluses scraping along my overgrown beard. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Without warning, the dog rolls over, giving me a full view of its manhood.
My head falls back, and I stare up at a sky heavy with puffy white clouds. Haven't even wrapped my head around theshitshow that’s become my life. Now I’m dealing with a stray dog that has the survival instincts of a rock.
“Alright, asshole,” I mutter, slowly stepping closer, careful not to spook it. “Let’s get you outta the danger zone.”
My leg protests when I crouch down, but I ignore it, reaching out cautiously. He sniffs at my fingers then throws himself at me, licking at my hand as if to congratulate me on my new family member.
“Not happening.”
Taking a chance I sift through his thick mop of hair. Beneath the dirt and matts, I’m pretty sure he’s a light brown color, but the breed’s impossible to make out. Some kind of mix, probably. I also can’t tell his age, but it’s spastic as hell, so I’m assuming young. No collar, either.
“Guess we’re both lost, huh?”
My eyes scan the road. Archer land still stretches to my left, and unless new homes have popped up in the last few years, this dog’s a long way from civilization.
I stare down at the floppy-eared pup, and my stomach sinks. “You’re a goddamned Archer, aren’t you?”
It latches onto my beard and tugs, growling demonically.
With a sigh, I carefully pry its jaw away, saving myself from an impromptu wax, and cradle him to my chest. Shoving to my feet, I head back to my truck. Whether the dog is an Archer farm animal or not, it can’t stay out here. It has no survival skills and won’t last long in the country, especially with a big storm headed our way in the coming week.
There’s no way in hell I can take it back to my place.
I glance at the little demon that’s now curled up on my warm bench seat like it’s his goddamn birthright. He licks a paw, barks, then lets out a sigh so content, it actually makes me jealous.
