Beth
A calico cat perched on the rail of the goat pen. I leaned my rake against the wall and extended one finger for her to sniff. She hissed briefly and then, apparently deciding I wasn’t worth even that much effort, ignored me.
“She’ll come around,” Dan said. “Once she gets used to you.”
We were cleaning out the barn while the goats were at pasture. Straw dust tickled my nose.
“I can be patient.” I had plenty of time these days. I glanced at him over my shoulder. “We always had barn cats growing up. People dump them by the road. They think because we’re a farm, their pets can fend for themselves. But they can’t.”
“We put out food and water,” he said.
I remembered the story he told, about the herdsman walking his goats along the road. Whatever happens, the animals needed to be fed. I smiled. “I’m sure the cat earns her keep.”
It was hard to tell behind the beard, but I thought he smiled back. “She’s got a family to provide for.”
“A... Oh!” The calico stood and stretched, revealing herself as a working mom. “She has kittens?”
He nodded, a smile breaking through his camouflage. “Showed up pregnant about a month ago. Want to see?”
The cat followed us into the feed room, where he’d fixed up a box lined with old towels. I peeked into the carton as the calico jumped in. Her babies swarmed over her. Dan reached down, stroking one big finger lightly along the top of a tiny head. My heart tugged in response.
“I used to bring kittens into the house,” I said.
“You and your ma. Always trying to save somebody.”
“I wish I was more like my mother.” Strong. Competent. In control.
“You do all right,” he said.
The quiet-voiced compliment was almost believable. “Iama farm girl.” I waited for him to make some crack about pigtails.
“You more than your sisters,” he said.
“Meg is a big help with the books. And Jo always worked in the barn. But they were already in high school when we moved to the farm.”
“You the youngest?”
“No, that would be Amy. But she never liked outside chores.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice.
“What about you?” I asked shyly. “Where did you grow up?”
“Around. I was a city kid. Sure never saw myself in a place like this. When your ma hired me, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Gah. What a stupid thing to say. “I’m sorry. I mean, of course you didn’t die. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too. There’s plenty of death on a farm. Animals are born. Animals die. You can’t get away from it. But there’s always life, if you look for it. Life wins on a farm.”
I wondered what deaths he struggled to get away from or over. How he managed to be so accepting.
A rasping sound vibrated from the box—the calico, purring, as her pink-toed kittens scrambled over one another.
“The Curtises—my mother’s people—aren’t a first family like the Marches. Or big landowners like the Laurences. But we’ve been here a long time. We stick, Momma says.”
“But you left.”
