This Hero for Hire (2 page)

No doubt, Boone could use the money. His grandfather had left a modest bank balance to keep his small farm running, but eventually the financial responsibility would fall on Boone's shoulders. Chickens would still have to be fed, two horses would have to be cared for and fences would have to be mended. The election would be in early November. Could he be a nanny for two months?

“Boone? You there, son?”

The governor's voice brought him back. “Yes, sir. When did you say Susannah would arrive?”

“Couple of days probably. But you never know with her.”

“I won't be able to be out at your place twenty-four hours a day. I have chores, things I have to do...”

“I know about your duties at your grandpa's place, and that's okay. Stickler said when you can't be there, that nice young Officer Menendez in your department can fill in for you. Important thing is for you to be there at night and to guarantee that Susie won't be caught off guard by someone who doesn't have the family's best interests at heart.”

The governor's plan had underlying ramifications that Boone didn't want to think about. How the heck was he supposed to dictate behavior to a member of Georgia's first family? How was he supposed to keep her from saying the wrong thing if a person from the media showed up? Boone thought of his partner, Lila Menendez. He knew she'd hate this detail, too. Lila was a good cop, honest and hard working. But she wouldn't want to take care of a Georgia peach who probably had never even had a bruise on her delicate skin.

After getting a few more details, Boone disconnected and walked into the squad room. He promptly thanked his chief for being part of an ambush that Boone was going to live to regret.

“Sorry, kid, but it was the governor,” Stickler said. “What was I to say?”

“Anything but yes,” Boone answered.

At least, if the governor's timetable were correct, he had a couple of days before his duties would commence. Because there didn't appear to be anything he could do to avoid this assignment, maybe he could at least put himself in the proper mindset.

Two hours later a call came into the station. A citizen was reporting that a truck had gone off the pavement on High River Road. Boone was dispatched to investigate.

Calls to High River were rare and usually involved a couple of old-time farmers bickering over whose cow was whose, or occasionally it was a minor vandalism report from one of the mini mansions belonging to Mount Union's elite population. Of course, the governor's personal residence was out there, too, and right now, that's all Boone could think about.

When he reached the scene, he saw a truck on its side in a ditch. An older model Suburban was parked on the shoulder, perhaps a Good Samaritan who'd stopped to help. The lady who'd phoned in the report, a longtime High River Road resident, had called both the police and EMTs. Boone arrived before an ambulance, but he quickly deduced that one was not going to be necessary. The driver of the truck, a man Boone recognized, was outside the vehicle stomping around in the dust, waving his arms and shouting.

“Anybody need an ambulance?” Boone called to the driver.

“Not yet,” the middle-aged man hollered back. “But if I catch her, she darn well might!”

Who was he referring to? One of the hens he just noticed running around? The truck had been carrying chickens to slaughter, a common sight on Georgia roads. But these lucky broilers had postponed certain death by an odd quirk of fate that had sent their truck off the road. A few crates remained in the bed of the truck, the panicked poultry prisoners squawking and trying to flap their wings in the confined space. This was not how they thought their day would end up.

Not all the birds faced such a frightening scenario. Dozens of the doomed cluckers were right now scurrying over the meadow bordering Route 213. Free as...well, birds, Boone thought, hiding a smile. He watched the scattered hens run in circles in the bright sun.

The truck driver, a Mount Union citizen named Hank Simpson, darted among his escaped birds, trying to nab as many as he could. Grabbing a wild chicken by one leg wasn't a pleasant job at any time, but it was fairly easy if the birds were packed into row houses. Trying to wrap your hand around the spindly appendage in an open meadow was nearly impossible. Boone had no interest in trying to help in a situation that would only make him look considerably less intelligent than a broiler. And necessitate him covering his peck marks with iodine when he got home.

“Give it up, Hank!” Boone hollered. “You'll be lucky to round up a dozen.”

The driver, who'd obviously eaten too much fried chicken in his life, stopped long enough to pant and point a trembling finger at a figure bent down beside the ditch. “Arrest her!” he shouted. “She's releasing hens faster than I can round them up.”

Oh, boy. This wasn't just about Hank's careless driving. The accident had another witness. Crouched in the dirt was a lady whose sole purpose was opening crate doors to let the birds escape.

“Hey, you there! Stop that,” he called.

The truck driver raced toward the woman, but she quickly outmaneuvered him and began working furiously on another set of crates. More chickens ran into the sweet late summer afternoon.

She wasn't so lucky avoiding Boone. He grasped her arm and hauled her upright. “What do you think you're doing?”

She breathed heavily as she struggled against his grip. She looked familiar. She was about five foot five, slim, dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt. Well, it might have been pink, just like her hair might have been blond, if the woman hadn't been covered head to toe in chicken feathers. A noxious odor that any boy raised in the chicken farming area of Georgia would know rose from her clothes and clogged his nose. He jerked his head away from her. “Phew!”

She made a half-hearted effort to pick a few feathers off her shirt. “You could offer to help, you know. Think how these birds must feel. They have to breathe this rotten air every day of their lives.”

That voice! He remembered it from high school.
I just wanted to do that
. No. This couldn't be happening. Boone didn't have time to contemplate the identity of this chicken savior, not with flashing lights from an approaching ambulance demanding his attention and the huffing, shouting Hank Simpson bearing down on them. “You didn't answer my question,” he said. “What did you think you were doing letting all these birds out of the crates.”

“Are you gonna arrest her, Boone?” Simpson demanded.

Boone held up his hand, an attempt to calm the man long enough to get the facts. He continued staring at the woman. Maybe he was wrong, and she wasn't Susannah. “Well?”

“I was saving their lives,” she said. “This truck practically rolled over. Most of the crates have fallen out and some slipped into the creek bed. If I hadn't opened the doors, the birds would have drowned.”

“That's hogwash,” the driver said. “I would have gotten the crates out of the water in time, and they would still have been full of chickens!”

“I don't see how, Hank,” Boone said, taking in the number of crates that had landed in the creek. “I think the lady might be right about the chickens dying.”

“Of course, I'm right,” she said. “Now will you let go of me?”

“Don't take off,” he warned. “What you did is still illegal.” He let go of her arm. “You can't just go around tampering with other people's property.”

“Even if that property consists of living, breathing creatures that can't take care of themselves?” She stared with disgust at the old truck, which had obviously made many trips to the slaughterhouse in its years on the road. “What you see here, Sheriff...”

“Officer,” he corrected.

“Whatever. What you see is abusive treatment of the worst kind.”

“Ma'am, this is the way all broilers are taken to slaughter. Hank wasn't doing anything that isn't done on a weekly basis around these parts.”

“That,
Officer
, does not make it right. The way those poor poultry were stuffed into the boxes is abominable. Did you know that a quarter of them would have been dead by the time they reached Augusta? And many of those still alive would have suffered severe injuries.”

Boone scratched the back of his neck. “I'm really not up on my chicken statistics, ma'am, but I feel the need to point out the most relevant detail here. These chickens were destined for a fate much worse than being injured anyway.”

She stared off into the distance, where hens were scampering over the meadow. And she smiled. “There's a right way and a wrong way to do a job,” she said.

“And a legal and illegal way,” Boone replied.

The ambulance came to a stop. Boone asked the woman if she had been in the accident and if she needed medical attention.

“No. I'm fine. And I had nothing to do with the truck ending up in the creek. Your buddy here...” She pointed to the driver. “He took that last curve with a bit too much enthusiasm.”

Boone dismissed the ambulance and went to his vehicle to get the standard incident report and a clipboard. When he returned, he said, “These birds are the property of Mr. Sam Jonas, and his driver here, Hank, was just doing his job.”

Hank pounded his fist into his opposite hand. “And someone's got to pay for the loss of income this crazy woman caused today.”

“Maybe you should start by explaining to your employer that you can't drive a truck!” she said.

Hank stepped forward, and Boone placed his palm on the man's chest. “Let's all calm down now. We're obviously not going to get those chickens back.”

“Then do your job and arrest this woman,” Hank said.

“I intend to.”

“What?” The woman crossed her feather-covered arms over her chest and glared at him. “This would have been a massacre if I hadn't come along when I did.”

Boone didn't quite consider the loss of a few chickens going to slaughter as a definitive example of a massacre, but he knew better than to say that out loud.

“You caused a loss to one of our citizens, ma'am,” he said. “Hank's right that someone's got to pay, either for the loss of his chickens or by spending some time in jail—or both.” He swept his arm toward his squad car. “Sooo...if you'll just follow me.”

“You're taking me to jail?”

“For now, yes, I am.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” She looked across the road, where the large, weathered SUV was parked. “What about my car?”

“I'll make sure it's towed into town,” Boone said. “And I'll call another tow to get you out of the ditch, Hank.”

He scratched the SUV's license plate number on his report and stopped short. He hadn't been wrong. The blond hair, the voice, the governor's mention of Oregon. This day was only getting worse. “You're from Oregon?” he said.

“Yes, so?”

“What's your name?”

“Susannah Rhodes. Does the name Rhodes mean anything to you, Officer?”

Did it ever. It meant he had to tell this woman's father that he'd put his worrisome little princess, covered in chicken dung, in jail. But on the other hand, it also meant he might have found a way out of this ridiculous assignment. Surely Albee wouldn't want him for this detail now.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HIS
 
WAS
 
INCREDIBLY
 
not good. Sitting in the police cruiser with the so far nice but ultra lawful police officer, Susannah could almost hear her father's voice. “In town less than an hour and already you're in the back of a police car.”

It would be impossible to keep him from hearing about this incident. The Chief of Police would call him even if she didn't. And there was no way to keep him from being disappointed in her—again. She was going to jail for destruction of property! Whereas she believed she deserved a medal for humanitarian actions. Well maybe not that exactly, but the simple truth was, she didn't have time for jail.

She stared out the window at the Georgia farmland. Green, lush meadows and fields, animals grazing peacefully on hillsides under towering oaks and fragrant magnolias. Seventeen years ago she couldn't wait to leave a place where no one seemed to want her. In the past few days, though, she'd actually been looking forward to coming back.

Not that she expected her relationship with her dad to be a quick fix. During her infrequent weekend visits over the years she and her father had been like strangers, each frightened of saying the wrong thing. They had too much history between them, too many times in her youth when he'd confronted her with that scowl on his face.

But helping on his campaign could be the start of healing old resentments. As long as he didn't find out her other motive for returning to Georgia. And as long as he realized she wasn't the same girl who'd left all those years ago.

“Are you okay?”

She snapped her attention to the back of the officer's head. So he'd decided to speak to her in a tone far more mellow than his official one. Okay. Perhaps conversation would make the man feel more lenient toward her.

“I'd like to put the window down if that's all right,” she said.

His alert eyes, so mesmerizingly green that she could see the color in the rearview mirror, stared at her. “Sorry. Those windows must be kept locked at all times. Safety regulations.”

“For whom? If you're concerned for my safety, then roll them down. As you pointed out, I'm giving off a rather noxious odor, and I'm about to asphyxiate.”

He considered his answer for a moment. “Okay, I guess I can roll one of them down, the one opposite from where you're sitting. By the way, those chickens were escaping at top speed, so how did you manage to get so covered by feathers and...other things?”

“Chickens molt when they're scared, and these were terrified. They didn't know I was letting them loose. They just reacted to a human.”

Blessed fresh air rushed in the open window, and Susannah took a deep breath. “That's better. Thanks. And, by the way, in case I didn't say it, thank you for not handcuffing my wrists together. I feel a bit anxious in situations of confinement.”

“No problem. You've been handcuffed before?” he asked.

Well, there was that one time back in college during the sit-in, but she didn't need to tell him that. “I just know I wouldn't like it.”

He smiled. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“A girl's got to have her secrets,” she said. “And I appreciate you letting me get my purse from the Suburban and locking the vehicle. I have lots of supplies in the back and it would be a shame if they were stolen.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it's not good to steal someone else's property.”

Another jab at the chicken incident. She began plucking feathers off her clothes, careful not to get crusty bits of chicken poop under her fingernails. When she tried blowing the feathers out the window, they only sailed back at her face. So she began making a pile of down next to her on the seat. “Are you going to put me in a cell?” she asked after a moment.

“We have paperwork to do first. And I'll give you a chance to clean up in the ladies' room. After that, it's a real possibility. You might want to contact an attorney. I know Sam Jonas, and I'm betting he will file criminal charges.”

“Great. You should know I'm not a habitual lawbreaker.”

“I didn't think you were. And if you don't have a criminal record, you should be able to post bail pretty quickly, I imagine.”

“I just have a hard time not reacting when I see unethical treatment of animals.”

His eyes cut to her again. “You one of those animal activists?”

“I believe in the fair treatment of all animals, yes. But I don't consider it my life's mission. I'm a nonviolent person. I don't throw paint on fur coats or anything.”

He didn't comment, so she tried a different subject. “I used to live here, you know.”

“Yes, I remember you. We were in high school at the same time.”

She leaned forward and slipped her fingertips through the metal mesh separating the front seat from the back. “Really? I only went to Mount Union High my sophomore year. I went away to school after that.”

She studied what she could see of his face in the mirror; she hadn't gotten a really good look at his features at the accident site. Maybe they'd been friends. She hoped his memories of her weren't negative.

He'd removed his ball cap, giving her a view of medium-length, slightly mussed, light brown hair. His eyebrows, darker than his hair, were thick and even. And those eyes, so serious, so intense. He'd smiled at her a couple of times, once back by the truck, when she'd sneezed, releasing feathers into the air. She'd found his smile so charming, she thought she might make an ally of him. So far, other than a couple of minor kindnesses, there was no sign that this guy was anything but by-the-book. But he did look familiar. She wished he would turn toward her so she could see his entire face. Even so, she was certain they'd had brief contact at one time.

“Did we know each other?” she asked after her scrutiny had become obvious.

“Not well. I was a senior when you were a sophomore.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Sure. It's Boone Braddock.” His gaze stayed on her face for a couple of seconds, as if he expected a reaction.

She steeled herself not to give him one. Boone Braddock! He was the good-looking senior she'd coaxed into the gym equipment room. She'd had such a futile crush on him. After she'd kissed him, he'd just stood there as if it were the worst moment of his life. She couldn't get out of the gym fast enough.

But if this man was a Braddock, maybe fate might be on her side after all. She'd try talking to him without bringing up the gym incident. Judging from how he behaved at the time, he probably didn't remember the kiss anyway. He may not have even known her name that day.

“Boone, of course! Your family lives out on Glenville Road, and your grandfather has that nice level piece of property there.”

He glanced back at her. “You remember my grandfather's land?”

Be careful not to give too much away, Susannah
. She didn't know how much Cyrus Braddock had told his grandson. “I just remember driving past and thinking it was a lovely piece of property.”

“Well, that's us.”

Of all the people she could have run into her first day in town, she meets up with one of the Braddocks, a family member of the very man she'd come to do business with. It was time to convince this hometown boy that she was not a criminal, but instead a modern woman who cared about the environment and the future of current and coming generations.

She asked a couple of leading questions and learned that Boone's older brother, Jared, lived in Atlanta, and his parents were traveling the country in a motor home. She refrained from asking about Cyrus Braddock, Boone's grandfather. She didn't want to appear too curious about the man she'd come to see, at least not until she'd straightened out any misconceptions this cop had about her. She'd made positive strides with Cyrus in their correspondence, but the trust they'd established could be broken if his grandson influenced him.

Right now she should concentrate on getting herself out of an uncomfortable situation. The cop was going to book her. Her father was going to want to kill her. And her friends were in Oregon.

When they were near the town limits, she reopened conversation with the intent of raising Boone's opinion of her. Maybe he didn't know about her deal with Cyrus. Maybe he didn't remember the kiss. “You Braddocks weren't into chicken farming, were you?”

“No. My grandfather has a few chickens on his land, but they're layers, and mostly we just take the eggs to the shelter over in Libertyville.”

“Now, see?” she said. “That's very noble. And I'll bet you let your chickens run free.”

He eyed her again in the mirror. “We do, but like I said, we aren't breeders. I don't have anything against the folks around here who raise chickens for profit. It's an important industry in this state. A lot of people depend on the income from their broilers, including Sam Jonas.”

Was he going to keep intimidating her with the name Sam Jonas? She knew she was in trouble. And did Boone actually admire Jonas's approach to raising chickens? It wasn't her place to educate this cop about ethical treatment, especially when she wanted to make a good impression on him. But she'd never been one to play it safe when simple human decency was involved.

She cleared her throat. “I understand that raising chickens is a big industry in this state, but you have to agree that the way those birds were being transported back there was in no way humane. Besides being crammed into crates so tight they couldn't even spread their wings, the chickens had no protection against the elements.”

Boone looked up through his windshield. “Susannah, it's sunny and seventy-five degrees today. I don't think any chickens suffered from frostbite.”

“Have you ever been to a chicken farm, Boone?”

“Of course. It's not pleasant, but the majority of poultry is raised for human consumption. The birds have very short life spans, so comfort isn't the main concern for the breeders.”

“I'm not talking about comfort. I'm talking about conditions that border on extreme cruelty.” She was preaching again and toned down her approach with unemotional facts. “Did you know that chickens are the only animals not protected by ethical treatment laws? From the time a chick is born, it never sees the sun. It's drugged and overfed and lives in filth in cramped quarters. That might not be so bad except the only contact they have with humans is when the catchers come to grab them by one leg to stick them in another even more cramped crate for transport to slaughter.”

She checked the rearview mirror and tried to find at least a hint of compassion in Boone's eyes, but his features were hidden in shadow. “How would you like to be held upside down by one leg by a creature twenty times your size?” she added.

He glanced over the seat at her. “I think we ought to keep this discussion within the realm of reality.”

“Okay, fine. But here's another fact for you. By the time the chickens arrive at their destination, nearly half are already dead from exposure or stress.”

“Really?” Boone rubbed his hand over his chin. “Makes me glad I wasn't born a chicken.”

She gulped back a gasp. “Is this a joke to you?”

“I'm a country fella, Susannah. I see lots of chickens. I eat lots of chickens.” He wrinkled his nose. “Lately I've smelled lots of chickens. I don't spend a whole lot of time worrying about their living quarters.”

“Or anything else that is medieval about our treatment of farm animals,” she said under her breath.

“What's that?”

“I said I need to use my cell phone. Can I take it out of my purse, please? I'd like to call my father.” She figured he would allow a call to the governor, but she was lying about
liking
to make it.
Dreading
was the more appropriate word.

Boone stopped at one of the four traffic lights in Mount Union. He turned ninety degrees to see her clearly. Oh, yes, she remembered that face. Remembered it very well.

“I think that's a good idea,” he said. “You're going to need the governor's help. You won't find too many people in this town who are sympathetic to your version of this incident.”

Including the governor. Susannah had no doubt that Boone was right. Mount Union, Georgia, had never been a center of environmental progress or fair breeding and farming techniques. Here, farming was carried out the way it always had been, with farmers using the cheapest or most efficient methods to ensure the highest profit. And because Boone Braddock was as much a product of the region as those chickens back there, Susannah didn't expect any sympathy from him. Still, he had that nice smile she'd never quite forgotten...

And he'd been fair with her. She had broken the law, she supposed, though she'd upheld principles that should be important to everyone. Plus, she hadn't counted on being caught. She was practically a stranger in this area, so she hadn't been worried about being recognized. She would have gotten away with “The Great Escape Caper” too, if some passing motorist hadn't called in the accident. She could have freed the chicks and jumped in her Suburban before the truck driver had the presence of mind to write down her license plate number.

“Just so you know,” she said. “I didn't come here to rescue chickens.”

“Gosh, I'd hate to think what you'd do if you really were involved in rescuing something.”

Ignoring his jibe, she said, “I am involved in a cause, though. I came to manage my father's campaign in this part of the state. He thinks I can be a big help in his reelection.”

Boone's eyes widened. “You could be, I suppose. But then he doesn't know about your interference in chicken transport yet.”

Susannah cringed. Her father was going to be furious with her. Because her father never tried to change anything about farming techniques, except for maybe getting more revenue from the federal government, the local farmers had overwhelmingly supported him in the last election, and now she'd royally pissed one off. Ironically, she really was here to help his campaign, though that was a secondary goal. Albee Rhodes was a good man and wanted the best for Georgians, maybe not in the same way that Susannah did, but he was every bit as sincere with his intentions.