Rules of Protection(34)

Floss put eggshells and wet coffee grinds into a bowl. She asked Jake to dump them on the compost pile while he showed me around the farm. Then she handed me a pair of mud boots. Guess I wasn’t taking a nap.

Though it was early, the day was already heating up. The bright sun forced me to squint until my eyes adjusted, and the warm breeze touched my skin, leaving a slight sheen of perspiration behind.

I walked behind Jake, following him to the back of the house. The weeds got taller, and the air got smellier the closer we came to the compost bin near the fence line.

“Keep an eye out for snakes,” Jake warned. “Bird farms attract a lot of them. If you smell something similar to watermelon, stop moving.”

“Why?” I asked, releasing the hold I had on my nose.

“Water moccasins are known for the scent. If you smell it, then chances are, one is nearby.”

I stopped moving. “I’ll wait right here for you.”

Jake kept walking. From a short distance, I watched him dump the bowl of scraps into a large bin before he headed back. Leading the way back through the tall grass, I hoped he’d clear the path of any lurking watermelon mines.

Hank and Floss stood outside the pole barn, where a lot of banging was going on. When we joined them, Jake handed her the empty scraps bowl.

“What’s that noise?” Jake asked Hank.

“Our palomino colt. Come on and you can take a look.”

We followed Hank into the barn, where I got my first up-close-and-personal whiff of horseshit. The pungent odor wafted up from the floor. I made an airtight seal over my nose with my shirt and fingers. Too bad horses don’t smell like watermelon.

A lively white colt with bright blue eyes and wearing a red halter stood at attention, watching us warily. He stamped his hooves into the spongy ground and ran back and forth in his stall. He pawed the gate, but when it didn’t accomplish anything, he kicked his back hooves against the wall, rattling the tin.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“He’s spirited and wild at heart. Had to separate him from his momma. She’s due to foal again, and he refuses to wean. He’s nothing but a momma’s boy, but he makes an awful ruckus, doesn’t he?”

“You plan on selling him?” Jake asked.

“I wanted to keep him, but the bastard’s destroying the stall,” Hank said over the loud beating and banging. “I need to move him to the back pasture, away from his momma. That way I can clean out his stall and replace the tin without getting kicked. Maybe you can help me, Jake.”

“Sure. No problem,” Jake said. “Emily, you might want to stand back when I lead him out.”

Floss and I stepped away, leaning against a wood post near the hay storage. We watched Jake open the gate with a lead rope in hand. When Jake entered the stall, he was out of my field of vision briefly, but long enough for my palms to sweat. I breathed easier once Jake came out of the gate with the lead attached to the colt.

Jake led him toward the back pasture. They walked easily together most of the way, though Jake had to steady him a couple of times before he got the wiry colt through the back gate and released him.

Hank led another palomino, a large stallion with a flaxen mane and a calm demeanor, out of a stall nearby and passed him off to Jake. “This is his daddy. Put him in the same pasture,” Hank said. “That should calm the colt down.”

“Is that your trusty steed?” I asked, grinning.

“About as trusty as they come,” Hank answered. “He reminds me a lot of Jake, strong and steadfast.”

Jake released the stallion into the back pasture. He rubbed his hand slowly over the stallion’s smooth neck, whispered sweet nothings to soothe him, and patted him roughly on his hindquarters to turn him loose. Then Jake turned, and our eyes met and held for several seconds.

Damn. Leave it to me to be envious of a horse.

When he got back to the barn, Jake slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed a wheelbarrow and a shovel, and pushed them into the colt’s stall.

“I think they could use some lemonade,” Floss said. “I have some upstairs in the fridge. Want to help me bring it down?”

“Sure, Mrs. Mill—” I stopped mid-word and wondered if she’d threaten to bend me over her knee. She was smaller than I was, though. I thought I could probably take her.

“Now, Emily, I don’t call you Miss Foster. I expect you to return the favor,” she said, walking casually toward the house. “If you refuse to call me Floss, then I’ll refuse to feed you supper.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said meekly. She turned to glare at me, until I corrected myself. “I mean, Floss.” Yep. No doubt about it. That was definitely a verbal spanking.

I followed her into the kitchen and soaked up the air conditioning. The cool air was a relief to my senses, though Floss didn’t seem to notice the difference. It would take me awhile to get used to this heat. Of course, that’s assuming I’d ever get used to it.

“Is Floss your real name?” I asked her as she pulled out the lemonade.

“No, but Hank’s called me Floss long enough, I don’t much answer to Florence anymore. He always said I was skinny enough he could floss his teeth with me. Now, everyone calls me that. I reckon it’s what they’ll chisel on my headstone when I die.”