Waiting Out the Storm

“Was it good?”

“It was really good,” interjected Skeets, setting forks and knives in random fashion. Sarah re-directed her, showing her where each utensil belonged.

“How did you get there?”

“Drove.” Opening the fridge, Liv pulled out a jug of juice and tipped some into one of the few clean glasses.

Sarah hiked a brow Liv’s way as she set out a fresh green salad. “When did you get your license, Liv?”

“I didn’t drive.” Liv laughed, emphasizing the pronoun. “Shannon Connors did. She got her license in February. They moved into the old Rafferty house.”

“She drove your mother’s car?”

“Sure. Her parents both work and our car just sits here. Mom said it was okay,” she added.

Sarah fought the sigh. No doubt Rita okayed the trip, then promptly forgot she’d given permission for someone to use her car. How long would it take two normal adolescents to realize the advantage they had when their one authority figure lay motionless, hour upon hour?

“She’s a careful driver?”

Liv shrugged her dislike at being questioned. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

Sarah changed the subject. “Supper will be ready in ten minutes. Anybody need help with homework?”

“I don’t have any.” Skeet’s lack of teeth swirled the words together. Sarah smiled.

“Got mine done in study hall,” Brett confirmed, his hand buried in the ruff of Gino’s coat.

“How about you, Liv? Anything I can help you with?”

“For starters, you could stop playing mother.” Her harsh tone brought Brett and Skeeter’s heads up. They stared. “I’m tired of people showing up out of the blue, telling us what to do. We manage on our own.”

Her anger reminded Sarah of herself at a similar age, her mother recently buried, her family divided. Oh, yeah, she had no trouble identifying with Olivia, but she wasn’t big on placating mouthy teens. “Really? That’s good to know. But it would be more convincing if the entire house didn’t resemble a dump.” Sarah cast a look around the kitchen. She’d made some headway. The dishwasher hummed, the counters were clear and the table set. The floor still needed scrubbing, but all in all, the room looked better.

Liv glared. “Maybe we have better things to do than clean up after her.”

“You’re mad that your mother’s sick?”

“She’s not sick, she’s…” Liv hesitated, stumbling over words. “Lazy,” she filled in. “Feeling sorry for herself. Look at this place.” Liv waved her hands, half spinning, half pacing. “It’s gross.”

Sarah opened her mouth, but Liv kept ranting.

“Skeets wet the bed the other night and went to school smelling like pee. Mrs. Besset pulled me aside in the lunch-room and said the elementary school nurse wanted me to make sure Skeets takes a morning shower if she wets at night. I have to be at school at seven-fifteen,” the girl expounded, staring at Sarah. “How am I supposed to make sure Skeets is up and clean for an eight o’clock bus when Brett and I leave an hour before?”

“Who puts Skeeter on the bus?”

“Mom. Or no one.”

Groaning inwardly, Sarah figured the likelihood of no one. Skeeter’s rapt expression said she understood too much. “Brett, can you take Skeeter into the living room while Liv and I finish up?”

“I want to hear the rest of the fight.” He darted a look from his aunt to his sister.

“We’re not fighting,” Sarah corrected. “Your sister needs to vent. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Liv stalked to the door and put the flat of her hand against the warm, cherry tones. Sarah was surprised to note the contrast, how pale Liv’s skin had become. “You’re not some social worker who thinks I’ll work out my aggression by molding a lump of clay for thirty minutes a day. You’re a sheep farmer. A smelly sheep farmer who wasted a good education to clean up animal crap.” She pinched her nose to make her parting shot more pointed as she pushed through the door.

Ouch. Sarah said a silent prayer for patience, then one of gratitude for lack of available weaponry. Strangling one’s niece because she insulted your pungent profession wouldn’t sit well.

Definitely not worth it. Besides, who would watch the sheep?

She turned back to Brett and Skeeter. “Wash up, guys.

Supper’s ready.”

Skeeter sidled up to her. “Aunt Sarah?”

“What, sweetcakes?” Sarah bent down, cradling Skeeter’s cheeks in her hands.

“If Mommy never gets up, can we come live with you?”

Sarah’s heart froze. Brett went still as well, his hands immobile beneath the water. Eyes down, he listened for her answer, just like his little sister.

Rita, get down here. See your children. Feast your eyes. Delight in the gifts of the Lord, your God.

No gentle footfall answered her prayer. No warm motherly presence brightened the dark corners of the room. Sarah pulled Skeeter in for a hug. “Farms do get stinky. Sheep aren’t the freshest smelling animals I’ve ever met.” Sharing a wink with Skeeter, she rose and guided the little girl to the table. “But there’s always room for you guys.”

“Even if I wet the bed?”

Sarah made a mental note to buy protective mattress covers for the twin beds in the room adjoining hers.

“Everybody wets the bed when they’re little,” she comforted. Turning slightly, she noted Brett’s stance. Silent. Still. “If your Mom needs extra help, of course you can stay with me.”

“But you live in a different district.” Brett turned, eyes wary. The faucet gurgled behind him.

“I can get you back and forth if need be, Brett. I promise.”

Hopefully a promise she wouldn’t need to keep. Come on, Rita. Enough’s enough. These guys need you. They’ve already lost one parent. Let’s not make it two.

Fear stabbed her. The look of Rita upstairs, clutching her pillow instead of her faith, seeking total solace. What would be more complete than to end it all, like Tom did? Unsure what to do, Sarah pushed down the frustration, made heavier by the events of the day. Gino’s painful confrontation with a sharp-quilled beast, Craig Macklin’s disdain and Rita’s loss of control.

Shoving it all aside, Sarah drew a deep breath and mustered a smile. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”

Chapter Three

The ginormous “Welcome to Doyletown” banner waved in the early spring breeze as Craig angled his SUV into a parking spot at the elementary school. Deceased for nearly a decade, Myra Doyle had created the Doyletown concept when Craig was a boy, and the Potsdam district continued the event in her honor. Children picked a pretend identity and profession, then approached a similar local professional to spend the day and talk about their work. Honored to be chosen by his nephew Kyle, Craig blinked back nostalgia as he approached the entrance.

He remembered his Doyletowns like they were yesterday, and having Kyle request his presence today? Sweet.

He walked into the huge gymnasium and paused, taking in the spectacle of cardboard and balsa wood storefronts, the smell of kid paint and craft glue tunneling him back.

He grinned, caught Kyle’s eye, waved and threaded his way through various exhibits. “Uncle Craig!”

“I’m here, bud.” Craig noogied the boy’s head, laughed at the expected reaction, turned and looked straight into the chocolate-brown eyes of Sarah Slocum.

A waif of a girl clutched Sarah’s fingers. The child eyed Craig, wary, and slid further into Sarah’s side. Her actions went beyond normal shyness, her gaze almost furtive, as if she’d rather be any other place in the world.

“I’ve assigned groups,” the classroom teacher called out, drawing their collective attention. “Our class will do morning exhibit tours first, followed by lunch in the cafeteria, then professional presentations from our invited guests, then play time.”

Talking briskly, she announced each group followed by six names. Kyle Macklin was followed in quick succession by Braden Lassiter, Glynna McGinnis, Jacob Wyatt, Carly Arend and Aleta Slocum.

Kyle groaned. “Not her. She smells.”

“Kyle,” Craig scolded, embarrassed. He turned, wishing he didn’t have to, knowing he had no choice. “Apologize. Now.”

Sarah’s expression appraised him, one hand cradling the girl’s dank hair, cuddling her, trying to assuage the hurt. “Sorry.”

Craig cringed inside. The sad awareness on the little girl’s face broke his heart, regardless of her last name. Determined, he stepped forward and thrust out a hand, wishing he could undo the last three minutes. But if he possessed those powers he’d have hit reverse a long time ago and erased the adolescently stupid financial advice he’d given his grandfather a decade back. Maybe then…

Craig bit back a large ball of angst. There were no do-overs, unfortunately. Not in real life. The best he could do was set a better example for his nephew. He bent to the child’s level. “Nice to meet you, Aleta.”

She shrank back.

Determined, he stood and met Sarah’s gaze. “Sarah.”

“Dr. Macklin.” Cool disdain colored her tone and Craig realized it looked like the apple didn’t fall very far from the family tree, an assessment that bore some accuracy at the moment. Kyle grabbed his hand and tugged.

“It’s almost our turn.”

Chagrined, Craig dropped his gaze. “Kyle, you’re being rude.”

The boy’s face crumpled, but Craig refused to cave. No time like the present to offer a show of good manners. He turned back toward Sarah. “Are you presenting today?”

“Yes.”

“About?”

“Farming.”

Duh.

She offered no help in the conversational court, but he deserved that. And more, no doubt. “Bring any sheep?” He swept the room a searching glance.

A ghost of a smile softened seal-brown eyes, the irises dusk-tinged. No hints of ivory or gold softened the deep tone, but the hinted smile brightened the depths from within.

Tiny laugh lines crinkled, then smoothed as she regained control. “I did.”

Craig let his arched brow note their absence, then he bent low, catching Aleta’s eye. “Do you see any sheep?”

A tiny grin eased the earlier discomfort. “No.”

Craig slanted his gaze up to Sarah. “I think Bo Peep here has got herself a little bitty problem.”

Aleta giggled. The laugh offered a glimpse of the pretty little girl hidden beneath a rumpled surface.

Sarah’s expression softened, noting the girl’s more relaxed countenance, but when she turned his way, her look flattened. “Live exhibits are penned out back.”

“Ah.”

The teacher’s direction interrupted them and for the better part of an hour, Craig found himself on one side of the tour group while Sarah and her niece were on the other. Intentional on her part?

Most assuredly. Somehow he knew Sarah could command a situation as needed. Like any good strategist, she flanked the outer edges, skirting the perimeter, maintaining her distance.

Until lunchtime seating put them side by side.

Resigned, she stared at the small placard as if willing it to read something besides his name.

No such luck.

Craig pulled out her chair for her.

Her immediate reaction was half dismay, half surprise with a sprinkling of pleasure.

A very small sprinkling.

But it was a step in the right direction. After all, this young woman wasn’t responsible for Grams’ current circumstance, despite Sarah’s family ties. And the fact that Tom’s little girl sat alongside them, her innocent face shadowed by affairs beyond her control, piqued Craig’s protective instincts.

“The wolf will live with the lamb, and a little child will lead them…” Snips of Isaiah’s verse nudged Craig’s conscience. No doubt he’d remember them better if he got to church more regularly, but on-call weekends interfered with all kinds of things, including church attendance. Hadn’t his mother tweaked him about that very thing last week?

Aleta eyed the box lunch offered as part of the day’s program. An instant frown morphed to a practiced pout. “I don’t like this, Aunt Sarah.”

“You don’t even know what it is, Skeets,” Sarah replied.

“I only like peanut butter and jelly and apple pancakes,” Aleta whined.

“Have you looked in your box?”

“No.”

“You might be surprised,” Sarah noted. Opening hers, she pulled out a chicken salad sandwich. The little girl pretended to gag.

Sarah frowned. “Open your box and see what you have, please.”

“PBJ” marked the top of Aleta’s box, but Craig appreciated Sarah’s attempt to encourage the child’s independence. Scowling, she lifted the lid and peered inside. “Peanut butter and jelly!”

“Yes.” Sarah pointed to the box top. “Those initials mean peanut butter and jelly.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Aleta demanded.

Zing. Craig’s protective instincts rose, surprising him. Why in the name of all that’s good and holy would he want to protect Sarah from a six-year-old’s onslaught?

And yet he did.

Sarah maintained a patient expression and tone. “You need to look beyond your feelings and see the things around you, Skeets. You make too many assumptions. Trying new things is good for you.”

The kid didn’t look like she bought the theory, but she stopped arguing long enough to eat, a concept Craig understood. Food ranked pretty high on his list of desirables, too.

Kyle chatted with Braden while they ate, a momentary peace established.

Craig should have known it was too good to be true.

Sarah sat alongside Skeeter on the bleachers, watching as various professionals fielded audience questions. People rambled in and out, picking which speakers intrigued them.

There was no small number of cute, female elementary school teachers in the room when Craig Macklin spoke. Surprise, surprise. They reacted like eighth-grade schoolgirls—exchanged looks, little giggles, smirks of appreciation.

Please. He was just a guy. A really cute guy, if Sarah was being completely honest with herself. With great hands, a firm jaw and a quick smile.

But that smile…

Too practiced, too glib, too smooth. Oh, Sarah was privy to the chick chat regarding Craig Macklin. Not only did the “doctor” title enhance his standing with the feminine contingent, his good looks and quick humor sent ripples of anticipation through a three-county area. But Sarah had been around long enough to recognize Craig’s preferences. Fashion-doll pretty and dressed to kill. Since Sarah was a plain-Jane-in-barn-clothes girl, it mattered little. She’d take her small level of satisfaction in his more pleasant demeanor that morning and call it enough.

As Craig finished his spiel, Sarah’s sheep were brought forward by two high school helpers. Sarah passed Craig without making eye contact, focusing on the two ewes and three lambs being herded into the circle’s center. With the high school volunteers monitoring the sheep’s antics, Sarah faced the audience.

“As you probably guessed, I work on a farm.”

A chorus of “ohs” followed that statement.

Sarah nodded Craig’s way as he retook his seat next to Kyle. “Because I work with animals all the time, I sometimes use veterinarians like Dr. Macklin to help me. Animals get sick, just like people and when they get sick, they need a special doctor. An animal doctor.” Allowing a pause, she met Craig’s eye in challenge, a silent reminder that he made himself singularly unavailable to sheep farmers in general and her in particular. He squirmed.

She smiled.

“Sheep are wonderful creatures,” she instructed, moving to the small flock. “They’re dependable and docile. Very easy to manage. I brought two ewes, or ‘mama’ sheep, that just had babies. This sheep,” she indicated the shorn ewe with a wave of her hand, “has been sheared. We shave their wool in the spring and sell the fleece to be made into thread for blankets and coats.”

“People wear sheep?” asked a little boy, perplexed.

Sarah smiled his way. “Not with the animal attached,” she promised. One of her teenage helpers hoisted an exhibit board while the other raised a blanket in one hand and a wool coat in the other. “Sheep products go beyond meat,” Sarah explained.

“You…eat…them?” A middle-school girl’s voice took a tone of pure, unmitigated disgust. “You actually eat your pets?”

A chorus of “eeeewwwwws” met her question.

The teacher reminded the group of hand-raising protocol, then shifted Sarah’s way, awaiting an answer.

Sarah met the girl’s gaze. “These sheep aren’t pets,” she corrected. “Meat comes from animals. Every time you grab a chicken nugget, you’re eating a bird. Hamburgers and steaks come from cows. Spare ribs and pork chops from pigs. And since protein is an important part of a daily diet, someone has to raise the meat you buy in the grocery store. I’m one of those people.”

The girl looked freaked out, so Sarah switched her attention to the younger kids. “Baby sheep are called lambs. Aren’t they cute?”

“Do you eat them, too?”

Obviously this girl wasn’t about to give it up, and Sarah had no intention of lying. “Many cultures use lamb as food, yes.”

The girl half stood. “You’re kidding, right? You eat babies?”

Could this get worse?

Oh, yes. At that moment someone bent to drink from the water fountain at the back of the gym. The full-coated ewe heard the sound of running water and charged the fountain, eluding the teenager’s hold and threading her way unceremoniously through the crowd. Pushing up, the ewe balanced on strong back legs while she licked the water basin, obviously thirsty.

Cameras clicked. Kids shrieked. Some parents laughed, some groaned, while others looked dismayed at sheep tongue fouling a water basin.

Pandemonium threatened until Craig Macklin crossed the room, commandeered the thirsty sheep by her collar and led her outside.

The circus scene squelched the rest of Sarah’s presentation. Her antagonistic young questioner looked smug. Sarah swallowed the temptation to wipe the self-satisfied expression from the youngster’s face, and realized she’d voiced what so many people felt.

As long as meat came without legs and a tail, modern society embraced the concept. Add a dose of reality? Big round eyes? Round wooly ears? Instant vegetarians.

Sarah didn’t buy that mind-set, but now wasn’t the time to weigh pros and cons of meat production. Embarrassed that she needed another rescue by Craig Macklin, she kissed Skeeter goodbye and herded the remaining sheep into the penned school yard, chin down, gaze straight. She didn’t need to see the humor in his eyes to feed her mortification.

Ignoring everyone and everything, Sarah loaded the errant sheep into her scuffed-up animal trailer and headed home, eager for the peace and quiet of her small farm.

Chapter Four

Craig watched Sarah as she ably loaded the five sheep into the small animal trailer hitched to the back of her worn tan pickup truck, her head down, looking neither left nor right.

Her tight jaw and stiff hands were the only indicators of her inner feelings, but Craig had little difficulty reading the body language. Downright mad.

But handling it well. Weighing choices, he considered offering help.

Her capable moves proved she didn’t need it.

Or he could offer commiseration that would be unwelcome and more than a little in-your-face. Hadn’t he professed the lack of intelligence in sheep loud and long?

No, he’d be the last person she’d want help from right now, and since she was just about set, he walked back into the gymnasium to rejoin Kyle for the last minutes of the day.

But he couldn’t shove aside the look of her, the dusk-toned skin, big brown eyes, dark mass of hair threading down her back, softly arched brows. She had an earthy beauty that probably rarely saw makeup and didn’t need it in any case. Breathing deeply, he remembered the scent of her at lunch, the soft, sweet smell of wildflowers on a summer’s day, the sun shining warm on a field of heather.

But mostly he remembered her look of chagrin as the sheep charged the water fountain, a fairly smart move for a thirsty animal. He might have to rethink parts of his opinions on sheep. At least this one was smart enough to drink when thirsty. Didn’t he know people who got dehydrated every summer because they weren’t smart enough to grab a glass of water?

Today’s situation had embarrassed Sarah and he felt bad about that, but there was little he could do. She’d mistrust his sympathy and reject his help if offered. He knew that.

Still, inner guilt rose because he didn’t offer.

Kyle spotted him and charged forward, redrawing Craig’s attention to the day’s festivities. He glanced around for Aleta but didn’t see her. Maybe just as well. Neither of those Slocum girls needed any more embarrassing moments.

Sarah cast a wistful glance around the warming room of her weathered bungalow and refused to sigh, despite the late hour. Most women would come home, stoke the fire, shower and go to bed. An appealing thought.

Her gaze fell on the dusty spinning wheel to the left of the wood stove, unused, untouched. She longed for peaceful evenings of spinning yarn, her fingers guiding the carded wool while her foot rocked the treadle. Someday there would be time for such pleasures again.

But first, the farm. Its success depended on her efforts. Long evenings spent crunching figures for area businesses left no time for spinning and knitting. She gave the wheel one last, long glance. Someday.

Stoic, she left the inviting flames, donned farm boots and headed to the near barn. As she trudged across the drive, Gino kept pace, head up, attentive. Maremmas were great night guardians. Perfect for her, a shepherd alone. With them on guard, Sarah could actually sleep. Mostly.

But lambing loomed. With the front barn full of soon-to-deliver ewes, a turn around the lambing quarters was essential. While she’d specifically chosen a Dorsett/Finn cross breed because of their less seasonal cycles, Sarah still engineered a strong spring lambing. Her January lambies were being marketed now for the Easter trade. This new batch would be sold in Albany and New York City come late spring and early summer, where eastern European immigrants celebrated love and marriage with roasted lamb, much as their Biblical forebears.

Sarah flicked the barn light switch then paused, her eyes adjusting, her ears tuned to out-of-sync noises.

All was calm.

Walking through, she found a new set of twins. The sloe-eyed ewe must have delivered late afternoon. Both babies strong and healthy, the caring mother uttered soft bleats of comfort to her offspring. The number of animals provided plenty of heat in this foremost barn, even in the bitter cold. Regardless of the calendar date, night temps could drop on the heels of a Canadian Clipper, a steep down surge of the jet stream. Tonight promised to be one of those. The wind blew intemperate, but the barn was snug. Secure. She’d made sure of that when she first considered this parcel. A cozy barn, good pastureland, large hayfields. Essentials to a northern shepherd on an accelerated breeding program.

And a house that needed cleaning. Cleaning she didn’t have time or energy for most days. Satisfied with the scene before her, she retreated, closing the door with a firm hand, ready for a cleansing shower and a warm bed.

Baaaaaah.

Sarah turned, ears perked, drawing her coat closer.

A sharp wind chilled her neck. She eyed the dark field, knowing the next group of expectant mothers huddled in the second pasture. Not due for six to eight weeks, they should drop late-spring lambs that would be market-ready mid- to late summer, in time for the ethnic festival season in New York City.

As she turned back toward the house, the bleat sounded once more, followed by a bark, sharp and commanding.

Gritting her teeth, Sarah headed to the pickup, wondering why she ever thought sheep were cute.

Hours later, she was still unsure. The tiny lambs born in the cold meadow were taking their own sweet time to warm up. Sarah was sure she’d hit every rut in the farm lane as she traversed the pasture’s edge in the pitch-black. An early-waxing crescent moon had dipped below the horizon long ago. Starlight did little to pierce the woods-edged fields and her long-handled flashlight kept blinking out.