Chapter Thirty-Five

“Cows are such stupid animals,” Momma declared as we drove through the snow toward Ansel and Velma’s house the next afternoon. She had gone into a tizzy when Velma reported Ansel and JohnScott were ignoring their flu symptoms and braving the weather to feed their small herd, and she hadn’t stopped griping since she got off the phone. “What are they thinking? They’re too sick to work.”

As we parked the hatchback behind the house, I spotted my uncle’s two-tone Silverado protruding from the louvered metal barn, so I headed across the pasture while Momma went in the house to check on Velma.

“Hey, y’all,” I called.

No reply.

Squeezing past the truck, I peered into the shadowy barn expecting to see Ansel and JohnScott, but the only trace of my uncle and cousin was a few bales of hay on the tailgate. The wind whistled through gaps in the sheet metal, and a rank odor swirled around me. I discovered a puddle of vomit near my foot and kicked sand and straw to cover it.

The back door slammed in the distance, and Momma appeared. “All three of them are down. They tried to do chores but couldn’t muster the strength.” She stomped snow from her shoes and glared at the haystack as if it were a demon. “I detest hay.”

My gaze swept the amber tower. I wasn’t crazy about hay either, but we both knew what had to be done. “If I climb to the top, I can push the bales into the back of the truck.” I looked at Momma. “Can you arrange them in the bed?”

She gave a determined nod. “We’ll have to make two trips. One to the home pasture and one down by the pond.”

“Three.” I hated to tell her. “Ansel moved a few head to the back last week. Something about heifers.”

“I detest hay,” she repeated, but she climbed into the truck as I shimmied up the haystack. “We’ll also have to break the ice on the holding tank. Wouldn’t do to go to this much trouble to feed the cattle just to have them die of thirst.”

“Then we’ll have to check the tanks in the pasture, too.” Sliding my fingers under the tightly bound baling wire, I realized I should’ve gotten gloves. I hefted the bale, lifting it a few inches as the metal dug into my fingers, but I managed to drag it to the edge of the stack, positioning it above the truck. I gave it a shove, and it landed in the bed, bounced toward the tailgate, and slid to the barn floor.

Momma lunged for it and cursed.

“Leave it,” I said. “Let me try again.”

I attempted to ease the next bale over the side so it would slide into the truck, but the fingers of my left hand got stuck under the wire, pinching me as the bale fell. “Ouch!” I twisted my hand free, which caused the bale to steer to the side, missing the truck altogether. Then I echoed Momma’s curse.

She climbed down from the truck to retrieve the bales, heaving one to her thigh before shoving it onto the tailgate with her knee. “Why does Ansel have to stock alfalfa? Coastal is so much lighter.”

I kneaded my fingers, which were already bleeding and beginning to swell. “Do you want me to get the other one?”

“No, you stick to your target practice, but let me find you some gloves.”

She rummaged in the cab and produced two filthy leather work gloves, then tossed them up to me, the odor of dirt and sweat coming with them.

I dropped one back down. “I need a left.”

She reached into the truck again and chucked another glove, this one hardened by years of use.

When I slid my fingers under the wires of a bale, the stiff leather folded, rendering my grip useless. It took several tries before I had a good hold, and when I finally maneuvered the bale to send it over the side, one of the gloves sailed with it, still wedged under the wire, but at least the bale stayed in the truck. “Third time’s a charm.”

Momma didn’t comment, just wiped sweat off her forehead and threw the glove back up to me. When I landed two more bales on the ground, I plopped on my bottom and leaned against a bale, with my feet dangling above Momma’s head.

She withered into the bed of the truck, leaning her head on her arm. This was going to take us all day.

We both jumped when we heard a man’s voice calling Ansel’s name, and then Dodd appeared at the barn entry, silhouetted by the snowy brightness behind him. He shut the door of the truck so he could slide past, and Grady followed on the other side of the cab.

I stifled a squeal of relief.

“Ruthie-the-checker-girl? I didn’t know you were a cowhand.”

“Clearly I’m not.”

Dodd nodded to Momma. “Ansel must be worse off than we thought.”

I spoke up, since Momma was trying to figure out how to behave appropriately. “He and JohnScott are both stuck in bed.”

Dodd’s gaze swept my face, my hair, my King Kong–gloved hands, and he puckered his lips to keep from smiling. “Why don’t you let us finish up? Mom’s in the house.”

My eyes shot to Momma, and when I saw her relief, I began my descent down the stack.

“Thank you.” Momma slid from her perch in the truck, landing beside Grady. “Thank you both.” She slipped quickly out of the barn.

Whoa. Momma said thank you. Twice.

I could feel dust and bits of hay embedded in dried sweat on my face and neck, and I still wore the huge gloves. I jerked them off and tossed them to Grady. Most likely my hair resembled a bale of hay, and no telling what I smelled like. By the time I had my feet on the ground, Dodd and Grady had loaded my wayward bales, tightened the others in the truck, and were stacking more. I ducked my head to scurry away.

“Hang on there,” Dodd said as I passed him. He craned his neck toward the house and then reached down from the back of the truck to pull a few straws from my hair. “I knew you were a hard worker, but you’ve surprised me again.” His eyes teased unmercifully, and I shook my head to protest, but before I could speak, he cupped my chin in his hand, lifted my face toward his, and kissed me firmly on the lips. Then he lingered. Not so long my knees got weak, but long enough Grady gave a low whistle.

Dodd plucked still more hay from my hair, then winked at me.

I hurried to the house with mixed emotions. Dodd produced a gentle flurry of happiness around my heart, but Momma and Milla created a swell of panic that made me sick with apprehension. There was no telling what cheeky things Momma might say to Milla, warping whatever good impression I may have made on Dodd’s mother. And to make matters worse, I had no way of knowing if Milla would mention I had been in her home, a tiny fact that would put Momma into a tizzy.

I washed my hands and face in the sink in the mudroom, then stumbled into the living area, where I found both of them. Together. It struck me as peculiar not only to see them in the same room but in a place as warm and cozy as Velma’s kitchen. Milla stirred a bubbling pot on the stove, filling the room with the scent of chicken and vegetables, while Momma leaned against the refrigerator, fiddling with a cup towel.

“She brought soup.” Momma’s skill at small talk lacked finesse, but at least it appeared she was trying, and my panic subsided slightly. Maybe she wouldn’t make a scene.

“Smells wonderful.”

“I hope it helps.” Milla gave me a lingering look. “My bunch had a round of flu last year, and a friend brought this over. It revived us. Got us through the worst of it.” She laughed. “But now when I make it, we remember the sickness, and it doesn’t taste as good.”

My nerves settled slightly as Milla and I filled three bowls and roused the patients enough for them to sit up in bed and feed themselves, and then I fixed each of them a glass of Sprite to leave at their bedsides.

While we tended them, Momma scrubbed the bathrooms. She spent more time cleaning those two rooms than she had spent cleaning our house all year, but she accomplished her dual purposes—to rid the house of influenza germs and to avoid Milla Cunningham.

Dodd’s mother showed no indication of unease despite the sights and odors of illness. “Ruthie, would you like some hot tea? I think I’ll take some out to Dodd and Grady now that they’re back.”

“I’m not normally a hot-tea drinker,” I said, “but the heater is out at our house, and Momma and I need to absorb as much warmth as possible.” I started to mention she could find the tea bags in the cabinet by the oven, but she was already reaching for them.

“This is a terrible time for your heat to go out. Is the repairman scheduled to come soon?”

“The repairman is laid up in the master bedroom.” I laughed. “Tonight will be better, though, since we’re snitching the last of Uncle Ansel’s woodpile. It’ll be like camping.”

Momma finished the bathrooms and flopped on the couch as Milla picked up three mugs with one hand.

“Let me help you,” I said quickly, partly because I wanted to see Dodd again and partly because I didn’t want to be alone with Momma, giving her the opportunity to squawk about the Cunninghams.

But Milla waved me away. “I used to wait tables.” Then she maneuvered through the mudroom and out into the snow.

After shutting the door behind her, I joined Momma on the couch, handing her a cup of tea. “They’re pretty sick, aren’t they?”

“Ansel and Velma are on the upswing, but JohnScott’s still in the thick of it. He’ll be down a while longer.”

“Do you think Uncle Ansel will be able to feed the cattle tomorrow?” I asked.

“Maybe, but he’ll have to move slowly so he won’t get overtired.”

With nothing left to say, I sipped my tea, waiting for the spiteful words I knew would come. Bitter phrases that sprang from Momma’s mouth every time she came in contact with Christians.

But she only gazed down at her cup as though she were startled by its contents. Her eyebrows gently pulled together, but other than that, her face remained unusually void of emotion.

A few minutes later, Milla came in and placed the mugs in the sink. “We’re heading back to town.”

“We’ll be going too.” Momma reached for a broom on the way out so she could dust snow from Ansel’s woodpile, and each of us gathered an armful of firewood while Dodd and Grady transferred the remainder into our trunk.

The awkwardness of being with Momma and the Cunninghams wore on me, and I realized with surprise that I wanted to get away as much as she did.

“Thank you again.” She didn’t look at any of them. “We’d better be going, Ruth Ann.”

Dodd followed us to the car, and my pulse beat like a bass drum. Surely he wouldn’t do something stupid.

“We’ll check on Ansel tomorrow,” he said, “to make sure he’s able to get the feeding done. If not, Grady and I will take care of it.”

Momma’s graciousness was beginning to give way to her normal curt tone. “No need, Mr. Cunningham. I’m sure he’ll be all right by then.”

Her ill-mannered remark shamed me, and as I pulled the door closed, I glanced at Dodd and mouthed, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

My boldness surprised me, and I felt like a rebellious teenager going against Momma’s wishes with her right there next to me in the hatchback, but I had lost the ability, the need, the reason to be unpleasant like her.

We eased down the snow-covered highway, the short trip taking twice as long as usual. Momma fell silent with a puzzled expression.

I wondered what she was thinking, so I probed.

“That was real nice of the Cunninghams, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

Irritation prickled my skin along with the hay in the fleece of my sweatshirt. “You suppose?”

“Oh, Ruth Ann, come on.” She suddenly spewed a few clipped words that seemed to release the tension she had stifled during the past hour. “Those people are only being nice because JohnScott is one of them now.”

I gazed out the front windshield, weary of the snow-covered landscape and weary of the helter-skelter ride of my careening emotions. As we pulled under our carport and darkness filled my mind, I thought I recognized God in the Cunninghams’ actions.

But maybe Momma was right.

Maybe it was only churchiness.