The Chicken Farmer

It's 1875 and Analise Higgins had never thought of herself as the linchpin of a town, but in Coyote Hollow, she may as well have been mayor, councilwoman, and court jester all in one. Her general store, a squat wooden building at the far end of Main, was the first and last stop for every local with a need and a nickel. From sunrise to closing bell, Analise hustled behind the counter, fielding requests for everything from penny candy and fence wire to herbal remedies and denture cream. She kept her shelves full and her ears open, dispensing homegrown wisdom along with her canned peaches. Living alone above the store, Analise took solace in her tidy apartment and the small backyard that doubled as her chicken kingdom. The coop, painted robin's egg blue and built by her own hands, was renowned for housing the happiest, healthiest birds in Del Norte County. Analise named each hen after famous suffragettes and poets—her favorite, Dickinson, laid extra-large speckled eggs with a tenacity that bordered on the poetic. Word of Analise's egg production spread far beyond the Hollow, and when customers came for a dozen, they often left with practical advice about proper bedding or how to treat a sluggish pullet. It was on a Wednesday—storm rolling in, wind pricking the skin—when Caleb Turner first stepped into the store. He was taller than most men in town, the crown of his hat brushing the lintel, and he wore the weather on his boots and hands. Analise noticed the worry in his eyes before he even spoke.