When The Clock Turns Over

"Rent"

Chickens are bastards. And you told them that all the time. Sunlight burned the back of your neck as you ran around helplessly, chasing Mortimer, who happened to be the biggest dick of all your chickens.

For an easy Saturday afternoon, you sure felt like you were working quite a bit as Mortimer finally ran back into the coop to all his ladies and you finally slumped down against the side. Sweat pooled down your brow and you wondered when you had gotten so out of shape. You looked at the shadow your body cast and guessed it was about noon which meant your guests should be arriving soon. A nervous twinge ran up your body like snakes. Besides being a small egg and herb farm as you called it, Breezy Canyon Ranch was also the occasional bed and breakfast.

When winter starts to hit and you can't grow anymore rosemary, tourists would stay for a weekend and enjoy the landscape. Strawberry was only a half hour's ride from the Ranch and a day's journey from Lake Owanjila. The ranch had originally come with a two-room cabin, a coop, and a roomy green house. You had actually fallen in love with the place specifically BECAUSE of the greenhouse. It had always been your dream to convert it into a studio or maybe a little library, but when plans fell through and sales dropped, you converted it into a one room cabin and hand painted a sign that read "for rent" on the front porch. People came and went but never stayed more than a week or so, however, these next two were finally taking you up on the offer.

***

The whole arrangement was honestly kind of fishy and made your mind race in more ways than one. Yesterday, when collecting the mail, the station clerk asked you if your room was still up for rent. When you asked why he gave you the name of a gentleman and his room number at the strawberry hotel. A few errands later, you had reached the front desk and asked for room 2C.

When you knocked no one answered so you called out.

"Hello? I heard you're interested in a room at Breezy Canyon Ranch?"

The door unlocked and your breath caught in your throat.

The man standing there was tall and rugged with bags under his eyes like he had never known the bliss of sleep. He was scruffy and yawned as he ran a large hand threw his dirty blonde hair.

"Yea, that would be us." He slurred. His voice had a deep drawl to it and blood rushed to your head.

"Us?" you asked.

"Uh yeah, me and Charles there," He sighed and moved to the side. A broad, native man

with long, dark hair sat on a chair by the bed. He too was very visibly tired, more so than the

other man if possible.

"So, you're the Rancher?" Charles asked. His voice was low and smooth like leather.

"Indeed," You smiled politely. Your brain took a moment to process what came out next,

"So y'all are looking to rent the cabin down there?"

The other man simply nodded. And you waited for one of them to speak.

"Long term that is," Charles finally said breaking the awkward silence, "I'm

Charles Smith, this is my good friend Arthur Morgan."

"Ahh," you replied simply, "how long is long term exactly?"

"Two, maybe three months, maybe less," Arthur mumbled, and he took a seat on the bed.

You took a second before sitting down at the small table across the room from them. Your hands found each other in your lap fiddling softly.

"And you're aware of the payment system and rules?" You asked cautiously.

"No," Charles sighed.

"Weekly rate or work as rent, I only provide firewood and a room not food, so that falls on y'all. If you work in the gardens or the hen house, you can have some of that. You're not