“I know,” he replied testily.
“We should meet later.”
“Name the time and place.”
“I’ll reach out when I have one.”
“Sure.”
The call ended, and Besian sat on the edge of his bed. He dropped the burner and reached for his personal phone. Before he could even finish a text to Ben, his phone vibrated with a new message.
Just heard the news. Aston is trying to reach Marley. No luck yet.
Besian hesitated before sending a message to Ben telling him to meet at the shop. He didn’t ask about Marley. Hardening his heart, he reminded himself that she wasn’t his problem. He had made a choice, and he had to stick with it.
Yet even as he showered and dressed, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He didn’t have the faintest idea where she even was. Somewhere in Europe, and frankly, that wasn’t helpful at all. Would she come straight back once Aston contacted her?
Part of him hoped she would stay away. There was nothing she could do to help Spider, and she would be better off and safer with an ocean between her and all of Spider’s legal bullshit.
Of course, the legal side of things was the least of Spider’s worries. Most of the outfits who used the MC factored raids into the cost of doing business, but if Spider had clients who weren’t as flush, well, he might wish he had died in the shootout.
Stop, he silently chided himself. Focus on your men and your business. They’re counting on you.
As he left his penthouse and took the elevator to the garage, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Marley counted on him, too.
Chapter Three
“I don’t think this storm is going to let up anytime soon,” Agnesa predicted the next morning as she stood at the kitchen window with her cup of coffee while I snuggled two of the healthy puppies from Zinnia’s litter. “If you’re on a tight schedule, I can drive you down to the village. If not, you’re welcome to stay until it stops raining and dries out a bit.”
“I wouldn’t mind staying another day. I can help with your farm chores,” I offered, hoping to be useful.
“Have you ever worked on a farm?” She moved to a large chest freezer against the wall and pulled out a couple of wrapped packages that she put into the refrigerator. She exchanged the frozen packages for similar defrosted ones that she dropped onto an old dented wooden cutting board.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m a fast learner, though.”
“I could use help with the chickens, my geese and ducks.” She pulled a gleaming cleaver from a knife block and opened the white paper around the package. Hunks of red meat were revealed. “You can help with the dogs, too.”
“Sure.”
“My helper doesn’t come on rainy days. He’s a bit grumpy like that.” She slammed the cleaver into the giant hunk of meat and split it into smaller pieces. I flinched with each whack of the blade and tried not to think about how easily a knife like that could take apart a person. “I need to handle the goats and my two cows before I move the sheep. If you take care of the birds, I can get my work done more quickly.”
“I can do that.” Watching her hack away at the meat, I finally worked up the courage to ask, “Is that for dinner?”
She laughed. “No, it’s for my dogs.”
“Oh.”
“They stay out with the chickens and the sheep all night to keep them safe from predators. Only my whelping bitches and puppies stay in the house.”
Thinking of how I had been traipsing around the countryside alone, I asked, “Are there a lot of predators around here?”
“The kind of predators that go after chickens or the kind that go after beautiful young tourists?”
I blanched. “Both, I guess.”
“Chickens, yes. Young Americans? No.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“It’s very safe around here.”
“To be honest, I was a little nervous when I set out for Albania because there are so many wild stories on the internet about how dangerous it is. That hasn’t been my experience at all. Honestly, I think I’m safer here than I was in London.”
“I know you are,” she said, throwing the chunks of bloody meat into a metal bowl. “Don’t forget I grew up there.” She washed her hands in the sink and grabbed a dish towel. “Get your jacket. You can borrow an extra pair of my rain boots.”
After returning the puppies to their mother, I grabbed my jacket and slipped into the dark green rubber boots Agnesa had set out for me. They fit perfectly and slipped over my jeans almost to the knees. Dressed for the weather, I followed Agnesa outside.
Three shepherd dogs bounded toward us, and she talked sweetly to them while doling out meat. Two of the dogs didn’t seem the least bit interested in me. The male sniffed my hands and tried to shove his nose between my legs before I gently pushed his wet nose away and offered him some meat instead. He seemed happy enough to have breakfast and wagged his tail while gnawing on the slimy, meaty bone.
“Come on. This way.” She led me on a quick tour of the barn and the shed where she kept feed for the chickens, geese and ducks. She showed me how to feed, water, gather eggs and then tidy up the nesting boxes and floor of the coop. When I was confident I could manage that, she gave me a similar rundown for the other fowl.
“When you finish with the chickens, do the ducks next and then the geese. Be careful around the geese,” she warned, frowning at the noisy birds flapping their wings at us. “The big one? He’s a real asshole.”
I snorted. “He’s just a big fluffy bird!”
“It’s all a ruse. He pretends he’s nice to lure you close enough to bite.”
“Geese bite?” I recoiled with shock. “Like with teeth? Or just their beaks?”
“Teeth,” she said, taking the metal bowl of meat from me. “I’m going to feed the rest of the dogs and then take the cows and goats to the milking shed. Come find me when you’re done.”
Left alone with the chickens, I scattered feed in the area Agnesa had indicated and watched as dozens of chickens rushed toward their breakfast. I checked and refilled the water bins and then lived out my cottagecore fantasies by collecting fresh eggs in a happy little woven basket lined with floral fabric. I couldn’t help but wish I had internet access or a better cell signal. This was the most Instagram worthy moment of my life!
Once I had gathered all of the eggs, I did the grosser chore of cleaning out the dirty straw and shavings and droppings. This part was definitely not Instagram worthy. I wrinkled my nose as I swept up the last of the mess and dumped it in the bin. After I added more straw and shavings to the nesting boxes, I backed out of the coop and made my way toward the ducks.
I smiled at the silly way they flapped and waddled after me, following me around and making sure I knew they didn’t approve of me in their space. “Sorry, duckies! I’m your substitute duck mama today.”
They quacked and fluttered their wings, showing their mistrust even as I scattered feed. One of the louder ducks snapped its feathers against leg, warning me to get back, and I quickly complied. Deciding they weren’t as friendly as the chickens, I let them be and completed the tasks for their area.