Page 7 of Call of A Eagle

I glanced at my watch. He should be here by now. He was nearly twenty minutes late. A frown pulled at my lips, but then Granny’s earlier words filled my head and I decided to cut him some slack. After all, he’d only been out here once. Maybe he’d taken a wrong turn.

Twenty minutes wasn’t five hours.

I focused on pulling weeds, trying not to look at my watch again. My focus shifted to the sage thriving in the bed. I touched its oblong, velvety leaves, marveling at their beautiful gray-green color.

The garden had always been my sanctuary, a place where I could connect with the earth and soak in Granny’s wisdom. But today, it felt different—like everything hinged on these plants. I couldn’t afford to suck at this.

Even if Waylen didn’t show up, I’d figure out how to manage this on my own.

I had to.

4

WAYLEN

As I pulled up to the cabin, I glanced at the dashboard clock on my truck. It confirmed what I already knew—I was late.

It was only by a few minutes, but I was late, nonetheless.

As I parked and stepped out of the truck, I caught sight of Lyra standing by the garden, her arms were crossed over her chest and a frown pulled at her lips.

There was no doubt that she was pissed.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, trying to keep my tone light while I smoothed a hand along the back of my neck and flashed her a crooked grin I hoped came off as charming. “My eagle got distracted by a shiny object on the way here.” I’d hoped the joke would diffuse the tension swirling between us, but Lyra’s expression remained unchanged and she didn’t speak.

So much for charming my way out of this one.

“Tools are over there.” She nodded to the shed and then got back to work.

Her message was clear: Less talking, more working. I’d wasted enough of her time.

I felt off my game as I walked to the shed. Usually, my easy-going charm was enough to smooth things over with people. I’d crack a joke, they’d smile, and then we’d all move on. Lyra wasn’t having any of it, though.

It was almost as though the woman was immune.

Which was a first. I’d never met someone unaffected by my charm or comedic ways. Most people either enjoyed my charm and humor or found them irritating, but no one had ever been as unresponsive to both as she was.

I grabbed a pair of loppers from the shed and made my way over to the garden bed where Lyra was working. I’d spent last night studying herbs online, hoping I’d be able to tell what was what and avoid cutting or pulling up something important.

Honestly, it all looked the same.

Setting the loppers down, I started pulling anything that looked like grass or clovers by hand, mimicking what Lyra was doing. The silence between us grew thick, becoming nearly suffocating.

I hated it.

As I cleared away weeds, I stole a glance at her. She was focused on what she was doing, her hands moving methodically, but there was a stiffness in her movements. I wondered then if her irritation wasn’t just about me being late. Maybe something else was bothering her. My eagle bristled, picking up on the tension, and it left me with the uneasy feeling that there was more to this than I was seeing.

Why did getting these beds back in order mean so much to her? Was she living here with her grandmother? Was it by choice or out of necessity?

Curiosity about this woman and her situation filled me.

“Have you always been into gardening?” I asked, trying to break the ice between us. “Or is this more of a ‘saving the family legacy’ kind of thing?”

Lyra lifted her gaze to me briefly before returning her attention to the plants. “A bit of both,” she replied, her tone sounding clipped. “My grandmother taught me everything I know.”

I waited for her to say more, but she remained quiet. It was obvious she wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of frustration at her all-business attitude. Still, despite the brick wall I seemed to be continuously hitting, I found myself drawn to her.

The urge to learn more about the woman gnawed at me.