Ruth Herne - Waiting Out the Storm

“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.

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.