Our sweet Paige? I’m not her anything. I open my mouth to say so, but Mom beats me to it. “That’s a wonderful idea. Paige, could you show Miss Dolly and Mr. Ferro around?”
I sigh. Well, I suppose it’s better to keep an eye on them. “Sure.”
Mom opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but Miss Dolly’s already leading Mr. Ferro off across the yard toward to toolshed. Then Miss Dolly calls over her shoulder, “Come along, Paige. Let’s start over here.”
As soon as they leave, Mom shrinks in on herself, her thin arms folded tight against her chest as if that could shield her from whatever changes Miss Dolly has planned. When Dad was here, she lit up a room—the sun to his moon—but now she almost hides in plain sight.
I glare at the shed where Miss Dolly’s voice titters on about this and that, each of her words cheerfully snipping away at the strings that keep Mom upright.
With a sigh, Mom starts for the house, and Scotty turns to follow, but I touch his shoulder. “I think we need to give that guy a real welcome to the farm. Don’t you think?”
“Welcome him? Why would . . .”
With a hard stare, I pretend to dump out a jar, then point a finger at the Dodge’s open window.
Scotty’s mouth forms a little O, and he grins. “I’ll get them!”
“Don’t let Mom see you. I’ll stall Dolly and the spy.”
He hares up the porch steps, and I catch up to the intruders just as the breeze picks up like it does almost every afternoon.
“Are all these tools still in use?” The spy gazes at Dad’s tool wall.
“Heavens, no.” Dolly laughs. “These relics? Look how old they are.”
“We do use them.” I ease into the doorway. “Grandpa uses every one of them, and Dad showed us how. They’re not relics; they’re useful.”
“All of them?” Miss Dolly steps back and scans the wall.
Mr. Ferro watches me from under his silly hat and points to a pair of sheers on the wall. “You know how to use this?”
Was he serious? “Course I do. It’s for sheering sheep.”
“What about this one?” He taps a metal spike with a wooden handle at the top.
“It’s a punch, an awl—you know, for poking holes in wood or leather.” Was this a test?
“Ah, I see.” His gaze travels down the length of the wall. “And you know how to use them all?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
“Actually, no.” He shrugs. “I wish I did. I grew up in the city. If we needed repairs, we called maintenance. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“The twelve-year-old kids I know wouldn’t know what to do with all this any more than I do. Now cell phones and apps, on the other hand . . .”
“Then maybe they should spend more time on a farm and learn.” What good are workin’ hands if you don’t know how to use them?
“Maybe.”
“Trust me, a new owner could call a repairman out here whenever they wanted. It’s nothing to worry about. Excuse me, dear.” Miss Dolly wiggles her fingers to shoo me out of the toolshed. “To each their own, I suppose. Heavens, I thought all those belonged in a museum.”
“A person should know how to fix things on their own farm.” I back out of the way.
“I agree,” Mr. Ferro says at the same time Miss Dolly says, “If it’s still a farm.”
I stand as tall as I can. “It is a farm. It’s our farm.”
Miss Dolly smiles. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got your family’s best interest at heart. Trust me. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you need a break, I can show Asher around.”
Her voice is so sweet, I half expect honey to start dripping out of thin air between us, but she’s not foolin’ me. She just wants to get rid of me so she can sneak around doing who knows what to our place.
“I’m stayin’.”
“Wonderful. Lead on.” Dark stubble frames Mr. Ferro’s white-toothed grin, and I’m pretty sure I detect a little smolder mixed up in that smile of his, but a fox can ooze charm all day long and it still won’t make him a rabbit.
I lead them to a small outbuilding and slide the wooden bolt on the door before shoving it open. A single unlit bulb dangles in the center of the dusty cement room. As Dolly and her spy darken the doorframe, I lead the way inside to a raised wooden platform and heave open a trapdoor.
“This here’s the pump house, where all the well water comes from. Every time the water has a problem, we gotta climb down there to shut off the water valve before we can fix it.” I jab my thumb at the black hole. “Just gotta get past the spiders first.”
“You have to climb down there?” Miss Dolly peers over my shoulder at the trapdoor.
“You bet.” I smile sweet as can be. “You can climb down if you want—you know, for the real personal tour.”
“Ah, thank you, but I’m not dressed for it.” Miss Dolly lifts one of her high heels. “I’ll be better prepared next time. I ran straight here from the office today.”
“Do you have trouble with the water often?” Mr. Ferro asks me.
“Oh, yes. Loads.” At least twice that I can remember. That counts, right? “And the only way to turn off the valve is down there. It’s not so bad if you brush the spiderwebs out of the way before you crawl through them. Course, there might be black widows. You never know. But their webs feel different—kinda stickier.”
“Black widows?” Dolly squeaks, and I fight to keep the smile off my face.
“Sometimes. Mostly other spiders though. There’s not too many, only a few dozen—Oh! Look at the size of that one crawling up here now. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen one that big before.”
I point to a cat-faced spider spinning threads in the center of the hole. “That one’s so fat, I bet she’s just bursting with eggs. Another couple weeks and we’ll have hundreds of tiny spiders. Maybe thousands. It’ll be like a spider hotel in here with little eight-legged babies running everywhere.”
“Thousands?” The color drains out of Dolly’s face so quick, it’s like she’s sprung a leak.
“Yep.” I spy a knot of webbing overhead in the rafters and point. “There’s gobs of spiders in those webs, and probably loads more wandering around without webs, like jumping spiders—they’re my favorite. You know, the real hairy spiders that follow you with their beady little eyes whenever you walk by.”
Dolly ducks and covers her hair like there’s a whole swarm of bats overhead. “I’m really not good with spiders. I think maybe—”
“You might not be good with ’em, but I am.” I grab a stick and reach toward the cat-faced spider. “If you want a closer look, I can get it for you. She’ll have her web rebuilt in no time if I just—”
Dolly drops her clipboard, bolts for the door, and stops in the middle of the grass, shivering like a spooked colt.
“Let’s not disturb it.” Mr. Ferro touches my shoulder. “I think we can see well enough from here.”
He flicks on his phone’s flashlight and shines it into the hole.
Past the shimmering spider threads, pipes with shut-off valves sprout from large blue holding tanks in the bottom of the cement room. The light hovers right over the spider resting with her banded legs sprawled out in the middle of the web. Her tan, enormous butt curves up into two little points on either side like little ears on a kitty’s head. Scotty likes to remind me that it’s not actually a butt, it’s an abdomen, but whatever.
“He doesn’t look hairy.” Mr. Nosey-Spy-Man inspects my spider.
“She.” I gently close the trapdoor so I don’t hurt her. “Boys are smaller. It’s the girls that are huge. And cat faces aren’t hairy.”
“I see.” He picks up Miss Dolly’s clipboard and hands it to her when we join her outside.
Her voice squeaks, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Ah, I think we�
�ve seen enough of the pump house for one day. Shall we move on?”
“You bet.” I almost skip as we leave the building. “Follow me.”
Maybe running these intruders off won’t be near as hard as I thought. Mr. Ferro kept his cool, but fancy Miss Dolly doesn’t seem to like my pump house spiders very much at all. Fact is, I bet she never wants to step foot in there again.
A sharp edge tugs on my smile.
Perfect!
Chapter Twelve
It’s a little weird to be walking across my barnyard with two city ducklings on my heels, but Scotty’s depending on me to stall, so I’ll be the best dang tour guide ever.
“Do you use the well water for the fields?” Mr. Ferro asks.
“Some farms do, but we got canals for that.” I lead them around the barn and up a slope, where a soft hiss teases our ears, rising from a shhhhhh to a roar as we near the culvert junction. Falling water breaks the canal’s mirror surface, spilling over the top of a concrete wall into white, churning froth below. Headgates jut up from the start of three new canals like underwater sliding doors guarding their tunnel entrances.
Tapping one of the tall, threaded rods rising up from the center of each headgate wheel, I touch the square metal frame with a toe as I explain. “When it’s our water turn, we come out here in the middle of the night, step out over the dark water onto the frame like this, and grab the wheel to crank open the headgates.”
“In the dark?” Dolly asks. “Why so late?”
“’Cause when there’s frost, we gotta turn on the pump and run the sprinklers to keep the garden from freezing. It’s real spooky at night. Can’t see hardly anything. Real easy to fall in if you’re not careful.”
“Where’s the water from?” Mr. Ferro leans against a headgate and peers back along the ribbon of water.
“Somewhere way upstream this connects to the Snake River. That’s where our water comes from.” I could say that Kimana’s dad told me the river’s real Shoshone name is Biagaweit, that the river begins in Yellowstone National Park, and that all these water skippers coulda floated by herds of buffalo on their way here.
But I don’t.
The only thing I want him to know is how much people like him don’t belong here.
Miss Dolly and Mr. Ferro talk about water rights and whatever while I watch a water skipper row its little heart out at the crest of the waterfall, trying not to go over. Ten bucks says he’s drop-dead tired, but he keeps swimming, because what else is there for him to do but try?
I know what that’s like.
Mr. Ferro leans over the pit of roiling water, peeking down inside the culverts. “I’ve been to farms in countries where they barely get rain. They’d think water like this is a miracle.”
“Shouldn’t lean out like that. One slip and you’d be down in the junction. Get stuck against one of them headgates underwater with all that suction, and you’re a goner. A whole tractor couldn’t pull you loose before you drown.”
“Right.” Mr. Ferro pats the square metal frame and backs away.
“Yep. It’d be just you and the leeches till they shut the water off somewhere up there.”
“Leeches?” Miss Dolly eyes the canal.
“Sure! Have you ever seen a leech? They’re all slimy and dark. If you lie on your belly and put your arm in the water, you might could catch one. I could hold your clipboard for you, if you wanna try.” Not that I’ve ever actually seen leeches in the canals—usually just crawdads and water skippers—but the water’s all murky today, so who knows? There might even be piranhas and alligators in there.
Not really, but the idea makes me smile anyway.
Miss Dolly’s phone buzzes. “I’m afraid I need to take this, but please, continue.”
While she talks, I lead them over to the silo. “Stuff out here is real dangerous. If you climb up into one of these and the grain shifts, it’s a death trap.”
“Trap like trapdoor, or . . . ?” he asks.
“Like quicksand. One second you’re standing on top, and then something gives inside and woosh! A thousand pounds of grain’s over your head with no space for breathing.”
“Sounds dangerous.” He looks the silo up and down, but doesn’t seem near worried enough.
“It is. You should stay away from silos. Like, way away. Better just stay off the farm altogether to make sure you’re safe.”
He’s still as calm as a dandelion seed floating on the breeze, so I push a bit more. “All this stuff is dangerous. You could get stepped on by a thousand-pound bull, or squished by a tractor, or get caught in machinery—especially if you’re wearing some floofy loose thing around your neck.” I stab a thumb at Dolly’s frilly scarf. “You’d lose your head farming with somethin’ like that on.”
“I doubt she’d wear that to actually farm here.”
Miss Dolly sets her phone on her clipboard and smooths her dress with her other hand. “Very true. As I said, I came straight from the office—in my office clothes. I’m a professional.”
“So am I.” I might not look like much in my jeans and shirt next to her pretty black dress, but my clothes were made for workin’. Hers belong behind glass.
“Do you know what all this equipment is?” Mr. Ferro asks.
“Sure.” I stuck to Dad tighter than his own shadow. “I know every machine, what it’s for, and when we use it.” It was kind of a game: to puzzle out the next tool Dad needed and have it in hand before he could ask for it. Sometimes doctor shows on TV are like that, with the nurse handing the doctor one tool after another, but instead of wounds, we have repairs—with grease instead of blood.
“Let’s keep going, shall we?” Miss Dolly strides toward Milkshake’s barn, but I run ahead and spread my arms wide in front of them both.
“My cow is getting ready to calve in there.”
“Oh, we’re not interested in the cow. Just the building. Right, Asher?”
“If it’s part of her family’s life, I’m interested.”
The last thing Milkshake needs is a bunch of people gawking at her. “It’s better if you don’t. You could stress her.”
“Alright, how about in there?” She points at the chicken barn, but I shake my head. I don’t want these guys anywhere near Royal.
“Better not. The chickens stir up a bunch of dust and feathers that would wreck your dress. Besides, it’s just a building same as the others.”
The spy peers into the gloom of the chicken barn but stays put. “What sorts of birds do you see around here? Any pheasants or quail?”
“Loads.” I inch toward the house, hoping with all my heart that Scotty’s got the job done.
Mr. Ferro scans the barns and equipment again, eyes lingering on rooflines and treetops. “What about peacocks?”
My body zings like I touched a hot wire. Why would he even ask that? The only way he could know about Royal is if he really, truly was a spy. I clear my throat and think hard and fast. “Um, peacocks are not native to this area.”
“But have you seen any? Maybe one flying by?”
I hate being cornered into a lie, so I sidestep it all together. “I’m pretty sure I’d know the difference between a peacock and a chicken. And chickens don’t fly.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He looks like he’s gonna say more, but Miss Dolly beats him to it.
“I’ve been told the interior of the chicken barn is in excellent condition. It’ll be better once the animals are gone, of course. A picturesque example of country living.”
They take a step forward, but I slide into their path again and mash a fake smile on. “If you really want to, I can show you, but skunks love it in there. There’s probably one in there right now. They eat eggs, you know, and young chickens. Even bees, sometimes. Skunks are murder on Mom’s hives. I usually stay away from ’em, but if you really want to go see, we c
an.”
“Wait, you have skunks inside?” Dolly stops.
“Oh, yes. Loads and loads of skunks have been in here.”
“You’re pulling our leg.” Mr. Ferro gives me a sideways look, but I lift my chin.
“Am not. We got a huge ninja-skunk who springs live traps and eats the bait eggs without getting caught. He’s super sneaky, but he stinks bad enough to make your eyes water. We call him Reeker.”
“But he’s not a pet.” Dolly’s fingers tighten around her silver scarf.
“Nope. He’s wild. Liable to spray at anything that comes close.” I wave my hand back and forth in front of my face. “Oh boy, does he smell. It lingers forever. Just walking into a building that’s been skunked is enough to make your clothes stink. Half the time we can hardly breathe out here because the smell’s so bad. Fresh skunk smells worse than burnt rubber.” I look Mr. Ferro straight in the eye. “You ever smelled something so bad, it makes burnt rubber smell good?”
“Uhh . . .” He hesitates.
“That cloud of stink oil? It’ll never come out of those fancy clothes of yours. Skunk lasts forever.”
“Maybe you can show us the corrals instead?” Dolly asks.
“You bet.” I make sure to point out every smelly, dirty thing we pass all the way to the house.
Mr. Ferro crouches down to look at something in the grass, but is up again quick, one hand in his pocket, the other on the rim of his worthless hat. “Are you sure there’s not another reason you don’t want us in there?”
What kind of a question is that? “Sure, I’m sure.”
“Well, Miss Paige. It’s been enlightening. I look forward to our next visit.”
Next visit? No thank you. “I’ve got loads more spots full of skunks, poop, and compost to show you. Real smelly.”
They keep to the path on their way to the cars, so I slip around the other side of the house to beat them to the front. I look for Scotty, but he’s nowhere.
Dolly and her spy almost make it to the front yard when Mom comes out onto the porch, a tray of glasses in hand. “Would you like some water?”
The Wish and the Peacock Page 9