Riding Shotgun. Joanna Wayne

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      “No, Charlie and I never had kids. We wanted ’em. It just never worked out for us to have them. Closest thing to family we had were the Lawrence boys. They lived with us for ten months a few years back. My, did we love those boys. But they’re all grown up now, scattered around the world and busy with their own lives. Sure would be nice if you could stay through Christmas.”

      Grace hated to turn down such a simple request when she had nowhere to go. But staying there meant continuously lying to a woman who trusted her. And there was always a chance it could put Esther in danger.

      But if Grace didn’t leave the ranch, how could anyone know she was there? On the surface it seemed a great place to go unnoticed.

      “If you can’t do it, I understand,” Esther said. “It was just a thought.”

      “Not a bad thought,” Grace admitted.

      Not that she was ever in the best of moods at Christmas herself. She usually spent the holiday in pajamas, watching old Christmas movies and crying.

      “I can’t promise I can stay through Christmas,” Grace said. She could never make promises. “But I’ll stay another day. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

      “It’s gonna go good,” Esther said. “It’s gonna go real good. I can feel it in my bones.”

      “But no talk of money,” Grace stressed. “I consider us friends now and I want to help.”

      “You don’t know what this means to me.”

      “Just don’t count on my being here for Christmas. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go search for the cane?”

      “I hate to keep making you work,” Esther said, “but it would sure be nice if you’d gather the eggs from the henhouse.”

      Gather eggs. Grace had done that many times as a kid—at Easter with no chickens directly involved. That was obviously not what Esther meant.

      “I have some rubber boots you can wear so you don’t get your shoes all muddy after last night’s storm.”

      “I’ll be glad to help, but I’ll need a bit more instruction.”

      “Are you telling me you’ve never gathered fresh hen eggs?” Esther’s shock showed.

      “Never.”

      “Then you’re in for a real treat.” Esther smiled conspiratorially and motioned to Grace to come sit down on the sofa by her. “You’re not afraid of chickens, are you?”

      “Should I be?”

      “Not if you want eggs to eat. I have a large basket sitting on the work shelf in the mudroom. Just take it with you to the chicken coop. You can’t miss the henhouse. Step inside it and you’ll see two rows of straw-filled nests. Just reach in the nests and take the eggs.”

      It sounded simple enough. “The chickens don’t mind?”

      “They’re used to it. If there’s a chicken sitting in the nest, don’t disturb her. She’ll cackle and move on when she’s done. Then you can go back to that nest.”

      “So I just reach in the nests and collect the eggs?”

      “That’s it. I refilled their water containers yesterday, so you don’t have to worry with that. They’ll probably be drinking out of the mud puddles today anyway.”

      “Is that safe?”

      “It is if you’re a chicken.”

      “What about feed?”

      “There will still be some mush in the automatic feeder. But stop at the woodshed on your way to the chicken yard.”

      “The woodshed?”

      “Yes, it’s right behind where I fell last night. Be sure you latch the shed when you leave. Otherwise, the door will blow open and the deer will make short work of the corn and feed stored in there.”

      “I can handle that.”

      “You’ll see a metal container in the shed—on the shelf above a pail of whole kernel corn. Fill the container with the kernels or you can just drop a few handfuls into your jacket pockets.”

      “What do I do with the corn?”

      “Toss it around the chicken pen and the chickens will come running.”

      Chickens running at her. Better than cows or bulls, but the image wasn’t comforting.

      “Is it too late to change my mind about my offer of help?” Grace teased.

      “Yes, but don’t worry. Gathering the eggs is fun. You’ll miss it when you do leave.”

      Grace seriously doubted that.

      “Okay, basket by the back door. Corn in the woodshed. Now, where are these chickens?”

      “Take the path behind the woodshed and you’ll run right into the chicken pen. Can’t miss it. You’ll hear the clucking before you get there.”

      “Is the pen locked?”

      Esther laughed. “No need, neither the chickens nor the foxes can work the latch.”

      “There are foxes out there?”

      “Foxes, coyotes, hawks, an occasional bobcat. They love chicken. But they’re not fond of humans, so you won’t see any of them. Oh, and there’s a big red barn off to the left of the pen. If you see someone out there, don’t worry. It’ll be Buck. He’s supposed to haul some hay out to the north pasture today.”

      A few minutes later, Grace was heading for the chicken pens, woven basket in hand, pockets full of corn. She was feeling more confident by the minute.

      How difficult could gathering eggs be?

      When she reached the coop, she unlatched and opened the wire gate. Several hens came running at her. She stood her ground. But she’d wait to scatter the corn until she’d gathered the eggs. Then she could toss the kernels and make a fast getaway before all of the hens were advancing on her.

      The basket firmly in hand, Grace stepped inside the red-roofed coop. Sure enough there were two rows of nests, lined with hay.

      Several hens were scratching around on the ground beneath the nests. One beautiful red hen sat on a nest like a queen on her throne.

      “I’m not messing with you, sister,” Grace said calmly. “You just go about your business.”

      The hen ignored her. Grace moved down the line and began to gather eggs, careful not to break them. For some reason she’d expected them all to be the same color even though the chickens weren’t. The eggs ranged from snowy white to a speckled brown.

      By the time her basket was full, she was feeling pretty proud of herself. Gathering eggs. Nothing to it.

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