Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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