Riding Shotgun. Joanna Wayne
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“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.
The hen on the nest cackled loudly. Then she left the nest and marched back into the yard. One more egg for the basket that was almost full.
Grace walked to the gate, the basket full of eggs hanging over her arm. She undid the latch and reached into her pocket for the corn. Maybe she wouldn’t run. The chickens seemed harmless enough.
She grabbed a handful of kernels and tossed them into the dirt. Chickens came running from every corner of their fenced pen. They quickly gobbled up the corn but didn’t bother her.
She took a few steps away from the gate and was about to scatter the rest when she noticed a giant rooster heading right for her.
His neck was bobbing. His spurs were twice as big as the hens’ and looked like they should be classified as deadly weapons. The bright red comb on his head and the loose skin at his neck seemed like he was waving a warning flag.
He stopped between her and the gate and made a tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck sound. Not good. Probably a call for attack. He jumped toward her.
Grace started to run. The rooster stayed right behind her. The eggs she’d so carefully gathered began to tumble from her basket.
Throw the corn. Quick. Toss it as far as you can and make a run for the gate.
She slowed to grab a handful of kernels. Her foot slipped and she went sliding, landing on her butt right in the middle of a mud puddle.
Finally, she threw the corn as far as she could. The rooster and all the hens followed the food. By now half of the eggs were on the ground, cracked. She was covered in mud. And the crazy wig had slid down so that it practically covered her eyes.
This couldn’t possibly get any worse.
She started to get up and slipped again. Muddy water splattered her face and the lens of her glasses.
And then she heard laughter. Hardy, deep, full-throated laughter. She looked up and into the face of one of the hunkiest, most gorgeous men she’d ever seen.
She’d been wrong. Things had just gotten a lot worse.
Pierce struggled to squelch his laughter as he hurried over to see if he could help. He wasn’t laughing at the fall, though thankfully she didn’t appear to be hurt.
It was the image of her sloshing through the mud with a rooster and half the chickens in the pen chasing after her for their corn. It was the eggs tumbling from her basket like jumping beans. And that ugly, lopsided wig.
As he opened the gate, the laughter escaped again.
“It wasn’t that funny,” she quipped as he approached her.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed, but...”
Damn, he couldn’t help himself. He tried to swallow the chuckle that didn’t want to let go of him. “Actually, it was pretty funny from my viewpoint,” he admitted.
“If you videotaped it for YouTube, I’ll kill you.”
“No pictures, I swear.”
She was a lot younger than he’d thought from a distance. And the brown hair that had escaped the wig was shiny, nothing like the frizzy black wig.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Just my pride.” She wiped the mud from her right