Her scoff is smothered -- two cows, a horse, and fewer than a couple dozen chickens does not a ranch make, and if anyone knows, it's the woman standing beside him -- and Willa shrugs, her eyebrows raised. "Up to you," she answers. "I think you should keep 'em alive, run 'em outdoors in the day and build a coop in here to keep the old rooster quieter, come dawn. Let 'em give you eggs, and chicks to start new flocks, and when the girls are older and can't produce anymore, then you'll raffle them off to one of the people who've lent a hand in the minding. Raise enough in a year or so, and you can feed your men on fried eggs and roast chicken rather than canned soup and dehydrated meal packs. Feed them like kings," she concluded, hoping that the point wasn't lost, or too over the top.
In the limited conversation they've had so far, the both of them have stuck to amicable banter and the kind of flirtation Willa suspects is more about bravado and power dynamics than any real intent to fuck. Now she's showing him a hand; maybe not the sort on which you go all in to win, but the kind that lets your fellows know what sort of player you have the potential to be. "I think we can spare one to celebrate, if it's kept quiet. Or if you're not interested, just open the doors, shoo 'em all outside and I expect the rest will take care of itself." As if to emphasize the point, Sweet Melissa licks away the drool that has built up on her chops, prompting Willa to laugh.