Spirit of Love

by Duncan, Alice

  Ash shook his head. This should be a show. If she couldn’t even churn butter, he’d like to know what the hell she thought she could do to get a chicken away from a bean bush.

  Georgina wasn’t sure she should have relinquished the butter chum without more of a fight. Yet Aunt Vernice needed her. Blast that Ashley Barrett. If he hadn’t come along, she could have helped her aunt and then finished making the butter.

  As she ran toward the vegetable garden, she glanced at her hands. What a mess. Well, that was neither here nor there. She was going to conquer these new aspects of her life or die trying.

  “Oh, help me get them, dear. Please! They’re going to make such a mess of things.”

  “Of course,” Georgina said, feeling game. She could catch a chicken. She knew she could. She made a swipe for one and it danced away, clucking up a storm. Blast. She didn’t know chickens could move so, fast. She reached for it again and got it without dislodging more than a few feathers. Her feeling of satisfaction lasted long enough for her to carry the chicken away from the garden and put it down. It headed right back to the bean bushes. Fiddlesticks.

  “You have to put them to sleep, dear,” Vernice told her. “Then they’ll stay put while you gather the rest of them.”

  “Put them to sleep?” Georgina hadn’t felt this ignorant since she was in grade school.

  “Yes. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Georgina watched, fascinated, as Vernice stalked a Rhode Island Red hen—Georgina knew it was a Rhode Island red because Vernice had shown her the differences between the buff orpingtons, Rhode Island reds, and white leghorns. She swept it up, quickly tucked its head under its wing, held it out in front of her and then, very slowly, circled her arms. Good heavens, did that put a chicken to sleep?

  Evidently it did. Either that, or the circling motion made it so sick to its stomach it couldn’t move. Whatever sensation prevailed in its chickenish body, when Vernice set it down outside the garden, it stayed there, its head tucked beneath its wing, and gave every indication of being asleep.

  “My goodness.” Georgina was terribly impressed.

  Eager to practice this new and unusual skill, she tiptoed up on a buff orpington pecking like mad at a bean plant. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she muttered, and swooped. The chicken gave a big cluck as she lifted it, and pecked at her wrist. The sharp, pointy beak hurt, but Georgina remained undaunted. Doing her best to imitate her aunt, she tried to jam the chicken’s head under its wing. It didn’t want to go, so she forced it. She heard a snap. The chicken went limp

  “Oh, no!” She stared, horrified, at the dead chicken in her hands.

  “That’s all right, dear. We needed a chicken for dinner. In fact, I’ll kill another one right now, and then we won’t have to do it later.”

  And with that, Vernice yanked a white leghorn up by its head, gave it one swift swing, and broke its neck. Georgina swallowed. Mercy sakes, but life on a farm could be a violent affair without half trying, couldn’t it? She’d had no idea.

  She laid her dead chicken down next to the one Vernice had killed, and went back to stalking the rest of the bean peckers. It wasn’t long before she had the hang of it. What you needed to do was be soft and gentle with them. Until it came to breaking their necks on purpose, of course. Georgina shivered, and despised herself for it.

  After the last chicken had been put to sleep, she and Vernice carried them back to the chicken coop, as easy as you please. Georgina felt an odd sensation of victory. It might not be much, but by gracious, she’d been of assistance. She’d conquered the pecking chicken—and, what’s more, she’d learned two new skills. She could now put a chicken to sleep, either temporarily or forever.

  “Oh, I see what happened.” Vernice’s glum voice interrupted Georgina’s thoughts. Her aunt was standing there, her hands on her hips, contemplating the screened-in chicken house.

  “You do?” Georgina didn’t see a single thing amiss, which figured. All right, so learning to be a true western woman took time.

  “Indeed. It looks as though we had a chicken thief last night.”

  “My goodness.” This sounded serious. She wondered if chicken thievery was a misdemeanor crime or if it was considered a felony out here where chickens mattered so much. Sort of like horse theft. “How can you tell?”

  “There’s a hole in the fence.” Vernice pointed.

  “Oh, yes. I see it. Georgina was surprised she hadn’t noticed the spot where the chicken wire was scrunched up around a big hole earlier. She chalked up her lack of perception to her city upbringing, and renewed her vow to learn the ways of the West.

  “I suspect a coyote.” Vernice frowned at the hole in the fence.

  “You mean a coyote made that hole?” Coyotes didn’t have hands, did they? How could a coyote make a hole like that?

  “They’re devilish creatures, coyotes. Completely awful pests.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll fix that fence for you, Miss Vernice.”

  Georgina whirled around when the deep, drawly voice came at her back. Ashley Barrett stood there, gazing at the hole, his hands stuffed into his back pockets. He didn’t seem as tall this morning. Georgina wondered what that meant. Nothing good, she was sure.

  She sniffed. “I’ll get back to churning the butter.” She turned to walk back to the porch.

  “No need.” Ash sounded smug.

  Georgina frowned at him. “Why not?”

  “It’s all finished.”

  Drat the man. It couldn’t have taken him more than a minute or two to finish the job she’d ruined her hands over. Georgina sniffed again. “I’ll take the butter into Grandmother then,” she said, and left Vernice and Ash Barrett in the chicken coop.

  Which is exactly where he belonged.

  The butter crock was as heavy as lead. Georgina hefted it and staggered to the door, only to realize she should have propped the door open first. Compressing her lips, she told herself not to be discouraged. She’d get the hang of this. It only took time, patience, and practice. She set the churn down with a grunt and a clunk.

  “Here, let me do that for you.”

  It was Ash Barrett, who must have flown from the chicken house to the porch. “I thought you were mending the fence.” It wasn’t gracious, but Georgina didn’t feel any too gracious at the moment. She was exhausted, out of breath, her arms ached, her hands were blistered, and she disliked this man.

  He smirked at her. “Got to get some tools from inside the house.”

  “Oh.” Because she didn’t want him to know how much he disconcerted her, Georgina ground out a testy, “Thank you.”

  He picked up the butter churn as if it weighed no more than a bit of fluff. “My pleasure.” He gave her a smile she knew was meant to annoy her.

  It succeeded. Georgina pushed the door open and stood aside, wishing she could kick Mr. High-and-Mighty Ashley Barrett in his extremely well-shaped rear end as he passed.

  She also wished she hadn’t noticed his rear end. But honestly, how could she help but notice? Gentlemen in New York never wore their trousers tight like that. Georgina did not condone the wearing of such trousers. They were immodest and distracting.

  On the other hand, as she’d had cause to note before, Ashley Barrett was no gentleman. She felt minimally better after she’d cleared up that point in her head.

  She heard her grandmother’s grating cackle before she reached the kitchen.

  “Ha! Did that granddaughter of mine give up and make you finish churning the butter, Ash?”

  Then she laughed, sounding exactly like Georgina expected a dozen witches might sound if they were all cackling together.

  Georgina, who had been taught as a very young girl that it was impolite to flounce, flounced into the kitchen and glowered at her grandmother. “I did not give up!”

  Ash set the churn down on the big kitchen table and turned to grin at her. Maybelle looked up from her peaches. She grinned as well. Georgina felt silly. “Well, I didn’t. I lef
t off churning butter to help Aunt Vernice get the chickens out of the garden.”

  “That’s true, Miss Maybelle. She didn’t give up. Not without a fight.” He removed his hat, plucked a bandanna out of his back pocket, and wiped his brow.

  Georgina was pleased to see this evidence of his humanity.

  The butter churn clearly did not weigh as little as he’d led her to believe, the deceitful wretch.

  Thank goodness. That meant Georgina wasn’t as weak as she’d feared she was.

  “And I only killed one of the chickens by accident in the process.”

  Ash Barrett stared at her. A grim sense of satisfaction filled Georgina He hadn’t expected her to admit to the homicide, had he? He’d been planning to tell her grandmother himself, and watch Georgina squirm. Well, he’d learn how wrong he was about her.

  She continued, with vigor, “Which was perfectly all right, as we were going to kill two chickens for supper anyway. And Aunt Vernice taught me the proper way to wring a chicken’s neck.” She refused to allow her internal shudder to show, and was proud of herself.

  The sheriff nodded slowly. “That’s the truth, Miss Maybelle. She was putting those chickens to sleep as if she’d been doing it all her life after the first couple.”

  Triumph surged in Georgina’s breast. She turned around and headed for the pump at the sink so he wouldn’t see it.

  “I’m glad the girl has some backbone to her.” Maybelle’s small black bird-of-prey eyes glittered. “I didn’t expect it.”

  Georgina tried not to resent her. “I aim to be of help to you and Aunt Vernice, Grandmother.”

  Ash knew it was unreasonable, but he felt a touch of pride in Miss Prissy Witherspoon. Her voice held a whole lot of spirit, considering it was her own grandmother who was treating her like rubbish. Maybe he’d underestimated her. Probably not.

  “And I won’t,” Georgina continued, “be intimidated by you.” As she passed, she poked Maybelle in the upper arm with a blistered finger, astonishing Ash, who wouldn’t have pegged her for possessing such humor, persistence, or pluck in so trying a situation.

  The old lady cackled again, as if she were pleased with her granddaughter’s spunk.

  “And now I have to wash my hands and get some lanolin on my blisters. There’s lots of work yet to do, and I’m going to do my share.” She shot a mean look at Ash. “No matter what some people might want to believe of me.”

  May belle Murphy chortled again.

  He had to hand it to her. As strange as it seemed—and it seemed exceedingly strange—Miss Georgina Witherspoon, from New York City, was winning Maybelle over to her side.

  The sheriff stayed for supper. After he mended the chicken house fence, he fixed a board on the porch that had started to sag; poured kerosene on a nest of yellow jackets, and set fire to it in order to get rid of the pests; shored up the pigpen where the pigs had loosened a couple of nails by butting against it; and fashioned a screen door out of some old chicken wire and lumber that Devlin had left in the barn.

  It had been a productive day, and supper was delicious. Fried chicken, biscuits, and peach pie. Miss Georgina Witherspoon rolled out the crust herself, and it wasn’t very tough at all. She said with a laugh that she’d get the hang of piecrusts one of these days, and Ash actually believed her, even though he didn’t want to.

  In fact, he was impressed. He rode home after dark, his way lit by the full moon, his belly full of good food, and his ideas about city girls having suffered a severe setback.

  Georgina’s hands hurt so much she could scarcely braid her hair for bed. They were blistered beyond repair, although the lanolin ointment Vernice had given her seemed to help some. She tied clean rags around them so the lanolin wouldn’t get on the sheets and into her hair and make everything all greasy.

  After she got her hair braided—into one braid tonight, as she couldn’t bear to fuss with it long enough to make two—she sat on the edge of her bed, sighed deeply, and took stock of her day. She was purely exhausted, but she’d comported herself with good sense and fortitude, which was something she could be proud of.

  “It’s a hard life,” she muttered at the candle flickering in its holder on the bedside table. Accustomed as she was to living with electric lights in her parents’ New York home, having to rely on candles for light was a new and interesting experience for her. She hoped she wouldn’t spill wax or set anything on fire.

  Wondering if she had energy enough to pull back the quilt and crawl under the covers, she murmured, “I’m not really surprised to find that hardship has turned Grandmother Murphy into a mean old crone.”

  “Ah, child, she’s not a mean old crone. Not a bit of it.”

  Georgina gasped and jumped up from her bed. There was a man in her room!

  Ashley Barrett. She knew it was he, even though it didn’t sound like him. He was using a ruse, disguising his voice. The bounder! The cad! The filthy, disgusting reprobate! Georgina snatched up her hairbrush and wielded it like a bat, darting her gaze around the room in a frenzy of discomposure.

  “Go away!” She squinted into the dark corners of her room and didn’t see a thing. Where could he be hiding? Oh, why hadn’t electricity come to the territory yet?

  Under the bed! Quick as a wink, Georgina fell to her knees, every muscle in her body protesting, and pulled up the counterpane. It was dark as a pit under there.

  Nothing was there, not even a dust ball. She jumped to her feet again and looked around wildly. “Where are you? Who are you?”

  “Child, child, ‘tis only me, Devlin O’Rourke, come to meet you. You’re a pretty thing, you are. The spit of your darlin’ grandmother when she was a girl, except you’ve not got her wild red Irish hair.”

  Georgina’s mouth fell open. She sank onto her bed and stared, appalled, as a medium-sized, elderly, extremely handsome, gray-haired man with a bushy gray mustache materialized in front of her eyes

  Chapter Four

  Not ten minutes later, Georgina was kneeling on her aunt’s bedroom floor, weeping into Vernice’s lap while Vernice stroked her hair and made soothing noises.

  “It’s all right, Georgina. Truly, it is. There’s nothing amiss.’’

  “Nothing amiss?” Georgina lifted her head and stared at her aunt’s placid face, wobbly now through the film of Georgina’s tears. “But I saw a ghost!”

  “Of course you did, dear. It’s all right.”

  “Oh, Aunt Vernice, I know you’re trying to be kind, but it’s too awful! I saw a ghost! Ghosts don’t exist! I must be crazy! Just like Grandmother! Oh, whatever will my poor, poor parents say? What will they do?” She buried her face in Vernice’s bathrobe again. “To think I came all this way to be of help to you, and no sooner do I get here than I succumb to the family curse, too. Oh, oh, oh!”

  Vernice tutted. “Now, now, Georgina. You’re just a bit overwrought. Mr. O’Rourke is like that. He had no right to spring himself on you so suddenly.”

  Georgina jerked her head up again. Vernice didn’t sound at all the way Georgina thought a proper aunt should sound when learning of her only niece’s incipient lunacy. She wiped the back of her hand—her scratched hand—across her cheek. The salt stung the wound, and Georgina frowned at it. Good Lord. Mad grandmothers, mad cats, and now a mad her. Maybe there was something in the water. “What—what do you mean?”

  “You’re not crazy, dear. I know it’s disconcerting at first, but there’s nothing innately insane about seeing Mr. O’Rourke. My goodness gracious, I see him all the time, and I’m certainly not a lunatic.”

  Georgina sprang to her feet. Oh, no, Aunt Vernice was crazy, too! She’d suspected it when Vernice had first chatted with her about the ghost in such an ordinary way. Georgina wasn’t sure she could bear it. “You—you mean you see him, too?”

  “Of course I do.” Vernice laughed gaily. “It’s very annoying, but there you go. At first I believed Mother was mad, just as you did. Then, after I met Mr. O’Rourke’s ghost, I understood that sh
e’s merely angry with him for haunting her the way he’s been doing. It’s disconcerting, always having a ghost popping up at inopportune times.”

  “Oh.” Georgina backed away from Vernice. Thus far, Vernice didn’t seem to possess her grandmother’s violent tendencies, but Georgina didn’t aim to take any chances. Crazy people could be unpredictable. At least, she’d always read that they could be.

  Oh, Lord, did that mean she was going to be unpredictable? Was she, Georgina Marie Witherspoon, going to start throwing shoes at people? The notion was too much for her. She collapsed into Vernice’s rocking chair with a low moan and covered her face with her hands, shaking her head and wishing she’d never boarded that train at Grand Central Station. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. An adventure and all that.

  Some kind of an adventure this was. Seeing ghosts. Going crazy. “Oh, dear heavens.”

  “Don’t carry on so, dear; although I do know how you feel. I felt the same way the first time I saw him. I nearly fainted dead away. He’s a terrible fellow to go about frightening gently bred females the way he does.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t mean to frighten anyone,” a lilting Irish-accented voice said.

  Georgina gasped and jerked forward in the rocking chair, almost toppling it over on its runners.

  “Mr. O’Rourke.” Vernice’s voice was more severe than Georgina had thus far heard it. “Do you see what you’ve done to our dear Georgina here? You had no business appearing to her without warning and terrifying her this way.”

  Georgina groaned. There he was. All five feet, eight inches of him: handsome, mustachioed, gray-haired, dapper—and transparent. She shut her eyes, but felt even more uncomfortable not being able to see him than she did when she had been, so she opened them and groaned again. “I don’t believe in you.”

  “Fine, but you’d better get used to me, dearie, because I don’t intend to go away until your grandmother comes to her senses. This was my home for twenty-five years, love, and I can’t, abandon it until I know your grandmother is over being mad at me. I can’t go to my eternal rest while she bears me a grudge.”