The Sowing

6. Cowboy Ken

Meredith 

The smells had my eyes narrowing. 

Butter was missing from his usual post at the side of the bed.

I shrugged into a long sleeve thermal, sniffing the garment before stuffing my legs into the jeans I'd worn the day before. 

I took the stairs two at a time, busting into the kitchen with gusto.

Sebastian was laboring over the stove, trying to slide whatever he'd prepared onto a plate. 

My heart rate decelerated as Butter came trotting over to me, tail wagging.

I squinted at the jolly dog.

Traitor.

Sebastian placed the plate on the dining table next to a cloth napkin outfitted with cutlery, “Good morning.”

I huffed, both relieved and annoyed that I’d slept through Sebastian's entire cooking escapade. I hadn't heard a thing. I'd tossed and turned all night, finally succumbing to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

I plopped down at the bottom of the stairs, pulling on socks and boots as I watched him through the banister. 

“I hope you don't mind – I took the liberty of snagging a few things from the garden. I thought you might enjoy breakfast, you know, as a thank you for… everything,” his voice projected through the otherwise quiet house.

My rebuttal came quick, “You didn't have to do that–”

“I know,” Sebastian spoke matter-of-factly, “I wanted to.”

I approached the kitchen, inspecting the table where he was pouring coffee into two mugs. I glanced at my watch.

4:37 a.m.

I'd slept in. Way in.

“Is there time?”

I looked up at him, lethargically bewildered, “What?”

His eyes were soft as he watched me, “Do we have time to sit down and eat?”

I glanced at my watch again, “Um, yeah. We have a couple minutes.”

With lightning speed and succinct sophistication, Sebastian pulled my chair out.

He flashed a close-lipped smile as he scooted his own out.

Butter sat on his haunches, looking between the two of us. His staring was unnerving.

I tried to make my tone palatable, “Butter, Chickens.”

His head tilted.

My eyebrows raised, “Go ahead. I'll wait for you.”

Dutifully, he trotted off through the doggy door in the kitchen.

Sebastian watched him leave in awe, “He's so… obedient.”

I cleared my throat, “We have a routine.”

Sebastian nodded, content with the answer.

“I was nervous that I'd have to figure out eggs, but you had enough,” he twirled his fork.

“You ever collect eggs before?”

“I haven't had the opportunity, no,” he smiled with an exaggerated expression.

I tried to imagine this Calvin Klein looking man retrieving eggs from the rinky-dink coop out back.

Clearing my throat, I forked a piece of the dish without looking at it.