CHAPTER 21

Daddy moved one of his old wooden casket boxes into the cellar. With the lid off, it made a perfect crib for a baby lamb. I filled the box with old newspapers, a sheet, and some straw from the barn.

Normally, I hated going down to the cellar when Grandma would send me to fetch some of her canned vegetables. It had low ceilings and smelled like mold. But getting the bed ready for the lamb made me forget I didn’t like being there. I was spreading the straw out when Daddy came down the stairs holding a bundle in a blanket.

He handed the bundle to me, and I heard a soft sound that wasn’t as much of a baa as it was a bleh. Pulling back the blanket, I swear my heart jumped a little.

He was a pile of white wool surrounding a little tan face that had tiny black eyes that looked straight into mine. There was a small patch of black wool that made it look like he had a big circle in the middle of his forehead. He was so small and squirming so much I was afraid I’d drop him.

Or was it her?

“Is it a boy or a girl, Daddy?”

“A little guy—two weeks old. He should be bigger by now. He’s definitely the runt. He’s gonna need lots of milk.”

Then it hit me. “How am I supposed to feed him?”

Daddy smiled. “The same way you feed a baby—with a bottle. I’ll have Grandma rustle up something for him. Guess cow’s milk will have to do.”

As Daddy walked up the stairs, I looked back at the lamb in my arms. He continued to bleat like he was telling me something real important. “Calm down, now. It’s okay,” I said. I tried to whisper soft to him like a mama would whisper to her baby, but he kept wiggling and bleating and looking at me like I didn’t understand.

And I didn’t.

I put him into the coffin box, thinking he might want to get acquainted with his new home on his own. At first, he was all tangled in the blanket he came wrapped in. It took him three tries to stand up straight without falling over.

Finally freeing himself of the blanket, he stood and shivered like he might never get warm again. I swore he was no more than a wool-covered bundle of nerves.

“It’s okay, little guy,” I said, trying to comfort him again. “I know you’re scared. I’ve been scared a lot too. But I’ll take care of you.”

And for one moment, that lamb stopped his shaking and looked me smack-dab in the eyes, like he was saying, Okay, then I won’t be afraid anymore.

That’s when Daddy came back with a bottle, sort of like the ones I’ve seen mamas use to feed their babies, but this one was bigger than those.

“Where’d that come from?” I asked.

“Mr. Grayson—it’s what he used to feed the little guy. Wanna try?”

As much as I tried, though, the lamb didn’t seem to want to cooperate. I held the bottle out to him, and he ran around the box like he was looking for an exit. Bleh! Bleh! Bleh!

“Come on, little lamb.” I paused. “Daddy, what’s his name?”

“He’s a livestock lamb. Doesn’t have a name.”

That wouldn’t do, but first things first. I offered him the bottle again. “Come on, baby. It’s milk.” I tried to reason with him. “It’s warm and good.”

“Try to catch him and squirt some in his mouth,” Daddy suggested.

I leaned over the box to reach him, but he was too fast, slipping out of my hands like he was covered in soap.

“I can’t, Daddy. I don’t know how.” I choked back tears, knowing I was the worst person to ever raise a lamb.

“You’ll get the hang of it. Remember, nobody knows anything . . . till they know it.” And with those words, Daddy went up the cellar stairs, leaving me with a very noisy and very scared lamb.

Each cry of the baby lamb made my heart hurt more than the last. If Charlotte was here, she would surely know what to do, I thought. And of course, thinking of Charlotte made more tears come.

So there I stood, crying in the cellar with my crying baby lamb.

I wiped my tears away on the back of my sleeve, took a deep breath, and decided the least I could do was find the little guy a name.

“Here, Lamby!” That was pretty boring, so I kept going.

“Here, Snowball!”

“Here, Baby!”

“Here, Sweetie!”

But the lamb just kept on running back and forth in the box.

“Calm down, buster!” I pleaded, and all at once he did. I laughed. “You like that one? Buster?”

Again, he looked at me, and I decided to try once more to give him his bottle. I climbed inside the box and sat cross-legged next to him. “It’s okay, Buster. You’ll like this.” I wrapped my free arm around him while my hand with the bottle made another unsuccessful attempt at reaching his mouth. Some of the milk spilled.

He licked up the spilled milk in a hurry, as if someone was going to make him stop. I put the bottle where he was licking and tipped it fast into his mouth. His eyes met mine for one second before he started sucking on that bottle. His little head was bucking up and down, making more milk spill out than end up in him, but we were kind of working it out. When the milk was almost gone, he was calmer and sat down next to me. I noticed my hand was bleeding a little bit where his head had bumped my knuckles into the bottle, but right then I didn’t care if my whole arm fell off.

I petted his head as he lay close. His wool wasn’t as soft as I thought it would be—more like a sweater Granddaddy had that was a little scratchy. But still, I loved the feel of him, and I petted him as his eyes blinked open and shut.

My heart felt squeezed while I was looking at him. He was so little. “It’s okay, little lamb,” I whispered. “I’m sorry your mama wouldn’t take care of you. But don’t worry. I’m here. I don’t have a mama either, so we’ll figure things out together.”