house, of course. Take your pick of five bedrooms.”
This was going too far. Boone had his own apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was his. And he was custodian of his grandfather’s land. He had obligations he couldn’t walk away from just because a high-brow politician decided he wanted to hire someone to keep his pampered offspring out of trouble. And that’s what this was about, Boone had decided. Boone was supposed to keep darling Susannah from causing a commotion that might cost her daddy the election. This was not what Boone had trained for.
He didn’t want to insult the governor, so he stalled. “Let me think this over, sir. I’ll get back to you.”
Rhodes repeated his self-deprecating chuckle. “I don’t know how to put this exactly, Boone, but there isn’t much to think over. Stickler suggested you. He praised your abilities on the force. And when he brought up your name, I recognized it right off. You’re a hometown boy, and that’s what I want—someone who knows the Rhodes family and how important this election is and will do his best to see that Susie’s homecoming is as smooth as glass.”
Boone stood and stared into the squad room. Chief Stickler was pretending to go over some reports, but he looked up when Boone let out a deep sigh. He cut a sheepish grin at Boone and raised his hands as if to say, “Nothing I could do.” Stickler then raised two fingers in the air and mouthed the words, “Two months, that’s all.” He followed the gesture with another one—the universal sign of greed, thumb rubbing against fingertips.
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
