The Stillwater Girls(10)

“Thank you,” she says, her voice breathy as she moves her cart out of the way.

Coconut flour.

That’s what I needed.

I grab a one-pound bag off a shelf and make my way to the meat counter to check a few more items off my list before I head home, start dinner, and do my best to pretend everything is fine and that I’m not slowly unraveling.

One thread pull, and I’d be bare.

And I’m not quite sure what that would mean, but it can’t possibly be good for either of us.





CHAPTER 7

WREN

The snow lasted all of twenty-four hours before melting like it was never there at all. I suppose the ground was too warm to sustain it. I’m normally not sorry to see it go, but in this case, we’ve lost our only ability to know if that man comes back here again.

Wrapped in my jacket and laced boots, I tuck the shotgun under my arm and head to the chicken coop. As far as I can tell, there aren’t any new tracks or anything out of place or amiss.

Doesn’t keep my heart from drumming or my breaths from turning shallow.

Heading into the henhouse, I lean the gun against one of the walls and stop in my tracks when I find one of our Rhode Island Reds lying motionless on the ground. Dropping to her level, I place my hand on her feathered wing.

She’s still warm.

I try to move her, gently rocking her back and forth, but her eyes stay closed. The two remaining hens, two White Leghorns that we’ve had the longest, cluck around me, flapping their wings as if they know something is wrong.

Placing my palm along her body again, I determine she isn’t breathing.

My lip begins to quiver, but I bite it until I taste blood and the threat of tears goes away. Mama always warned us about getting attached to livestock, but I loved this silly little hen. She was the friendliest of the bunch, and when we’d let them out to roam, she’d follow me like a second shadow. She’d even eat out of my hand if I offered.

I’d never told anyone, but I named her Ruby.

It was our little secret.

Scooping her into my arms, I carry her outside and place her body next to a leafless shade tree before heading to the garden shed to grab a shovel. The earth will be hard and cold, but I need to bury her body so we don’t attract any predators.

If she hadn’t died from an unknown illness, we could eat her, and then she wouldn’t have died for nothing, but it isn’t safe for us.

A half hour later, I’ve scooped the final mound of dirt over Ruby, prickles of sweat tickling my skin beneath my layers of clothing. My fingertips are ice and my body is fire, and despite the fact that I’ve only been up an hour, I would give anything to go back to bed already.

With shaky arms, I lean the shovel against the tree and stumble inside, closing the door and taking a second to rest against it as I catch my breath and let the heat of the fire warm the ice-cold tip of my nose.

“What’s wrong?” Sage asks. “And where are the eggs?”

Peeling my coat from my shoulders, I hang it on the hook before bending down to tug on the lace of my left boot. “We lost another one.”

Sage says nothing. She knows there’s nothing we can do to stop it if we don’t know what’s causing it. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen if we lose one more. Our hens each lay an egg a day, and we need those eggs.

“Wren?” Sage asks, her big eyes flicking to mine.

“Yeah?”

“Will you play checkers with me?”

I begin to protest but stop. We used to play checkers all the time, and now I can’t remember the last time we played anything. Besides, I don’t think Sage is wanting to play checkers so much as she’s wanting a moment for things to feel normal again.

Grabbing the box off the shelf in the corner, I take it to the kitchen table and flash a smile. My sister jumps up from her chair and meets me at the table, sliding into her seat with a grin on her face.

“I’m red,” she says, helping me set up the board, “so you can go first.”

Pushing a black checker to a new square, I sit back and watch my sister contemplate her next move. It isn’t until my next turn that I realize I’ve bitten my nails to the quick, and I have no recollection of doing so.

“Your turn,” I say, tucking my ugly hands out of sight.

Sage stares out the window beside us, her body motionless, like one of those Greek statues I’ve seen in Mama’s book of Greek art and archaeology.

“Do you hear that, Wren?” Her voice is the softest whisper.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end despite the fact that I don’t hear a thing but the howl of the wind and the occasional bleat of a goat.

“What’s it sound li—”

“Shh!” Sage lifts a finger, her gaze shifting as she scans the section of land visible from here.

The snap of twigs and footsteps shuffling through soggy dead leaves outside our cabin force the two of us to lock gazes and hold our breath.

“Wren. The gun . . .” Sage points to the empty rack above the door, and my heart sinks.

“I left it in the henhouse,” I whisper.

Three swift raps on the door echo through our cabin. Sage claps her hands over her nose and mouth, and I don’t move a muscle. The only kind of weapons we have in here are kitchen utensils, and last I checked, our butcher knives were in dire need of sharpening.