This Hero for Hire. Cynthia Thomason
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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