Mulberry Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  A tall guy with light brown hair, gray eyes, and a winning smile, Jack wiped his palm on his white scrub coat and greeted Ben with a handshake. “When I did course work at university to treat birds, I thought I’d probably never need the knowledge.” He laughed and jerked his head toward the lumpy bag on the table. “Living in Mystic Creek proved me dead wrong. I get parrots, canaries, and finches on a regular basis. No chickens, though. Most farmers around here just wring their necks if they get sick.”

  Ben nodded his understanding. “Could it be avian flu?”

  Approaching the table as he pulled on a pair of gloves, Jack went from guy-next-door to professional and businesslike. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Have Ms. Bentley’s chickens been exposed to wild waterfowl?”

  Ben stepped closer. “I don’t think so. There’s that stream from Mystic Creek at the back of her property. I’ve been building her a new coop and run—been working on it for a couple of weeks. I haven’t seen any ducks or geese, and this is the time of year when they’re migrating. I don’t think there’s enough water to attract them.” Ben paused. “A case of avian flu was reported in Crystal Falls. Do you think that’s it?”

  “Well, let me have a look to see what we’re dealing with.”

  * * *

  Tapping her toe, Sissy watched Blackie through the pass-through window as he finished his lunch with painstaking slowness. Ben had texted her to say that the death of her hen hadn’t been her fault, the problem could be treated, and he’d fill her in on the details later. Blackie was the only midday diner left in the café, and she was eager to dash outside. She’d seen Ben’s truck parked near her coop earlier when she’d gone into the storage area, so she knew he had returned from the vet and hopefully could tell her what was wrong with her feathered babies. It took all her self-control not to ask Blackie to hurry.

  After what seemed like weeks, he pushed his dish away and drew out his wallet. His wavy black hair glistened in the overhead light. “That sure was a good burger, Sissy, and I’d love to know your seasoning secret for those fries.”

  Sissy hurried into the service area behind the counter. “I’d love to tell you, Blackie, but I have an emergency out back. Maybe tomorrow?”

  His deep blue eyes filled with concern. “What emergency?”

  “My hens are dying. I’m not sure why. Ben took one of the dead ones to the vet. When he texted me, he didn’t tell me exactly what’s wrong, only that it’s treatable and to get out there to help him as soon as I can. I’m frantic to find out what’s wrong.”

  “Oh, honey. I know how you love those pullets.” He handed her his credit card. “Let me settle up with you, and I’ll go out back, too. I’ve never raised chickens, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to help.”

  Tears burned in Sissy’s eyes. She’d grown so fond of Blackie. Apparently the feeling was mutual.

  “I think I’ll put up my CLOSED sign and lock the door.” Sissy’s voice twanged because her throat had tightened with the urge to cry. For her, tears were a sign of weakness, and she would be mortified if Blackie saw her lose control. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with, but your help will be appreciated.”

  After running Blackie’s credit card, Sissy headed toward the kitchen to put his dishes into the machines. Behind her, she heard him say, “I’ll head on out to see what Ben’s up to.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Sissy called over her shoulder.

  Minutes later when Sissy reached the backyard, she saw that Ben had already dug fourteen holes. The remains of her feathered friends lay in the depressions, as yet not covered with dirt. Ben wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve as he turned to face her. Even with dirty hands and dampness spotting his blue shirt, he looked fabulous, his sharply hewn features shiny with perspiration, his eyes, normally a shimmery amber, darkened with sadness for her.

  “I figured you might want to say some words over each of them or throw the first handfuls of dirt, so we waited to fill in the graves.” He bent his head, which was hatless. Normally he didn’t remove his Stetson. She guessed that he had worked up such a sweat that he’d wanted to protect the felt. “The ground’s frozen right beneath the surface, so it was hard digging and I didn’t go very deep. But the vet says a few inches of dirt over them will do the trick.”

  “He used a pick and dug all the holes by himself,” Blackie inserted.

  Sissy avoided looking closely at the hens. “Thank you, Ben. It was thoughtful of you to wait until I could say good-bye.” In truth, it was so thoughtful that it alarmed her. How could any woman in her right mind resist this guy? “I, um—I’ve been worried half to death. Has anyone else died? What does the vet think it is? And how do we treat it?”

  Ben nodded, which didn’t tell her much because she didn’t know which question he was addressing. Then he cleared his throat. “When I checked a few minutes ago, no other chickens were dead, but a couple look mighty sick. It’s a lice infestation, Sissy, the worst Jack’s ever seen.”

  Her heart jerked. “Lice? But I try to keep the coop clean. It was my fault, wasn’t it? Did they get it from overcrowding?”

  “It was nothing you did. For now, can you just hold on to that thought and let me give you the details later? We’ve got to thoroughly dust all sixty-six remaining chickens with lice powder, and also treat their coop and run. It’s going to be one hell of a job.”

  Blackie, standing just behind Ben, angled his neck to meet Sissy’s gaze. “I’ll help.” He scratched behind his ear. Then he raked his nails back and forth over his scalp. “It’s usually slow at my place now. People don’t drop by to pawn anything until they get off work.” He shrugged. “I planned to watch the Ducks game I recorded this weekend, but it’ll wait.”

  Blackie was such a huge fan of the Oregon Ducks that he often wore hats and coats bearing the team’s logo. Sissy forced a smile. “I hope they win.”

  Blackie scowled. “They didn’t. Charlie Bogart came in and told me the score. He knows I have to record the games because I’m busy on weekends and that telling me who won always ruins it for me when I watch a game, but he does it every chance he gets! I wish I could gag him.”

  Ben laughed and then sobered, flashing Sissy an apologetic look. “Charlie does love football. Maybe that’s why he started a sporting goods store.”

  Normally Sissy feigned an interest in football so Blackie could enjoy telling her about the plays, good or bad, made by his favorite team. But today she could muster no enthusiasm. “Ben, did the vet say that all of my hens are—in danger of dying?”

  Ben bent his head and kicked the dirt with the toe of his scuffed boot. He usually looked straight at her when he spoke, and that he wasn’t doing so now warned her of what was coming. “The lice suck blood, and all the hens are severely anemic. A lot more of them could die. Maybe even all of them. The sooner we get these dead ones buried and start dusting hens, the better.”

  Sissy nodded and stepped over to the row of graves. She wanted to tell each hen good-bye and make up a silent prayer, but worry over her surviving pullets pressed her to hurry.

  She felt a big hand settle over her shoulder. Warmth seeped through her shirt to penetrate her skin. She knew without looking that it was Ben who touched her. Ben, whose phone number she’d intended to throw away. Ben, who hadn’t laughed when she told him about her ghost. Ben, who had worked so hard to create a proper home for her chickens. Tears filled her eyes. She decided one must have slipped over onto her cheek, because the grip of his fingers tightened a little, not enough to hurt, but just enough to say, I’m here. I understand.

  “They’re only chickens,” she pushed out. “It’s dumb to make a big fuss over this when the others need treatment. Just cover them with dirt.”

  “They were your pets,” he replied, his voice gone gruff with what she suspected was emotion, not because he had loved the birds, but because he knew she had. “We at le
ast need to say something over them. That won’t take long.”

  Sissy had never learned to pray. Her father was agnostic or atheist. Her mom was a believer, but she’d never stood up to her husband and insisted on going to church. Sissy had never attended a single worship service. “I, um, don’t have a clue what to say.”

  Ben kept his left hand on her shoulder and placed his other palm over his chest. “That’s fine. I’ll do it for you.” He cleared his throat. “God, we know you love all the creatures you created, and Sissy particularly loved these birds. They had names, and they were her friends.” He coughed, which made Sissy want to laugh and cry both at once. How many guys would try to pull off a reverent burial for a bunch of chickens? “Anyway, it’s really hard for her to say good-bye. But we know there’ll be a wonderful place for them in heaven where they can enjoy free range and lots of sunshine. And someday, when Sissy passes over, please let them be waiting for her at that—um—bridge. The bridge where pets wait for the people they love.”

  “The Rainbow Bridge,” Blackie supplied from behind them. “It’s a real place, honey. Those chickens will be waiting there, mark my words. Just don’t take off to meet them anytime soon. I’d miss your cheeseburgers something fierce.”

  Sissy did laugh then, even through tears. “Good-bye, little friends. Be happy until I get there.” For Blackie, she added, “But that won’t happen for a long, long time.”

  Ben and Blackie, manning shovels, filled in the small graves with dirt. Sissy stood at the end of the row, wishing she knew the words to a prayer. Instead, her silent plea was, Please, God, love them for me. They were sweet little hens.

  * * *

  Sissy checked to make sure she’d locked the front door of the café. Then she rushed upstairs to change into a long-sleeve cotton shirt that would protect her arms from the insecticide dust. When she went back outside, Ben and Blackie, with the sleeves of their shirts rolled down and buttoned, already wore white dust masks, which she guessed Ben had purchased somewhere. On the dropped tailgate of his pickup sat numerous white containers.

  Blackie seemed nervous. He kept rubbing his shoulder or arm. Then he’d scratch his head. Ben apparently noticed it as well. “Blackie, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you these lice don’t stay on humans. Jack Palmer says we don’t have to worry.”

  Blackie released a whoosh of breath that made his mask billow. “Now you tell me.”

  Ben turned and met Sissy’s gaze as he handed her a mask. With the lower half of his face covered by the band of pleated white, his eyes seemed even more intense without his handsome features to detract from them. As she started to loop the elastic bands over her head, he added, “Cinch it in tight and make sure you squeeze the metal band over the bridge of your nose. The less of this dust we breathe, the better.”

  Sissy had never dusted chickens, and she felt certain that Blackie hadn’t, but Ben, shooing chickens back from the door, led the way into the coop and set the white containers on the floor. He turned to give them both instructions. Holding a container of dusting powder, he grabbed an unsuspecting hen from the uppermost roost and flipped her upside down. She shrieked and cackled. This sent every other hen in the front section airborne.

  Blackie ducked and cried, “Holy shit!”

  Sissy barely missed getting struck in the face by a terrified, feathery missile. Plumage flew as alarmed hens began squawking to one another about the invasion of two-legged marauders intent on committing murder and mayhem.

  “It isn’t going to be a walk in the park,” Ben yelled, trying to be heard over the raucous cries. “But this is how it’s done.” He gave a quick demonstration.

  Blackie, still dodging chickens in flight, was dropping f-bombs as rapidly as a crazed fighter pilot during World War II. “How are we gonna know which ones we’ve dusted? We got lots of the same colors here.”

  “They’ll look powdery,” Ben yelled back. “When in doubt, dust again!”

  Sissy led the way into the back wing, where countless other birds had flown into a panic. Ben had warned that dusting the hens wouldn’t be easy, but Sissy had not envisioned a game of football tackle. The frightened chickens flapped. They squawked. They tried to hide. Blackie sprawled on his belly twice to catch his first two, and Sissy wasn’t sure for whom she was more concerned: the man or the poor birds he was attacking.

  Then she forgot everything but the job, catching and dusting her little friends in an attempt to save their lives.

  She made a grab for Gizmo and missed. Gizmo sped for the other section of the coop with Sissy in hot pursuit. As she charged through the archway after her, Ben stepped into Gizmo’s escape path. Sissy missed grabbing the chicken by the legs and rammed her head into Ben’s belly. He went oof. The impact knocked Sissy to her knees. She lost her grip on the dust can, and it rolled across the floor to be lost in the floor-to-ceiling fog.

  “Are you all right?” Ben grasped her shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Stunned by the collision, Sissy couldn’t focus on the question and instead found herself marveling over his strength. He’d plucked her up as if she weighed no more than the feathers floating in the air. “Sissy, talk to me. Did you hurt your neck? That was a hard hit.”

  She blinked, trying to see him. She knew his face had to be up there somewhere. All she saw at first were impact stars, and then dust and floating feathers. When she finally located his features, she smiled behind her mask. He was white. Even his hair was covered. He looked like a snow sculpture of a cowboy who’d lost his hat.

  “I’m fine.” She drew back a step. “Did I hurt you?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, making shadowed creases in the powder. She knew without seeing his mouth that he was grinning. “Not a bit.” A bird flapped past his shoulder. “I’m just thinking that now I know how you’ll look when you get old and your hair turns white.”

  He would think of something like that. She probably looked like Whistler’s mother’s mother. “Oh, yeah? How will I look?”

  “Absolutely beautiful.”

  * * *

  After the chickens had been dusted, Sissy, with all her muscles aching, sat between her two helpers in the shade of a sturdy ponderosa. They had removed their masks, exposing the only flesh tones left on them, except for under their clothes. As comical as they looked, Sissy, dragging in fresh drafts of clean air, figured that she probably looked just as funny.

  “So, tell me something,” Ben said. “Did you buy any used feeders that came from someone else’s coop?”

  “Yes,” Sissy replied. “I got a used grain tub and some feeders on Craigslist. Why do you ask?”

  “Because the vet says a flock of chickens from a hatchery almost never get infested with lice unless they’re introduced.”

  Sissy’s muscles tensed. “So it was my fault, after all.”

  “No,” Ben said. “You had no way of knowing the equipment was contaminated.”

  Blackie, who had apparently gotten his second wind, pushed to his feet. “Well, my friends, the fun’s over. I’m headed home to shower. I think I’ve got that danged dust on my tonsils.”

  “Be sure to throw every stitch of your clothes in the washer,” Ben advised, “and cycle them on hot to kill the lice and larvae.”

  Blackie laughed. “I got a better idea. I’m sealing them in a garbage bag and throwing them out. Right now, I’m a walking, talking lice killer covered with all this crap.”

  “Yes,” Ben agreed, “but we want to stop these lice dead in their tracks. The larvae in Sissy’s coop and run will hatch in about ten days, and we’ll have to dust all her chickens again.”

  Blackie scratched his white head. Dust filtered upward. Winking at Sissy, he walked away, calling over his shoulder, “I may be busy in ten days.”

  Ben chuckled. “I’d make sure of it if I were you.”

  Sissy gazed after her older friend as he vanished around the corne
r of Marilyn’s building. What a thoroughly good and decent man he was.

  “I can’t go home like this, Sissy. I could infect my chickens with lice.”

  Sissy’s danger radar went on immediate red alert. “What’re you saying?”

  He met and held her gaze. “Jack Palmer says we have to strip off in front of the washing machine, throw all our clothes in, and wash them in piping-hot water while we jump in the shower and scrub ourselves from head to toe.”

  Was it her imagination, or had he put the slightest emphasis on the word we? He was interested in her, but she didn’t feel that way in return. Well, okay, she did, but she’d learned from experience not to let her feelings overrule her common sense. Besides, she had only one shower, and that was in her upstairs bathroom. Surely he wasn’t suggesting that they strip off and race upstairs naked together. Only, she had a very bad feeling that he was. No way, mister, she thought. No freaking way, no matter how much help you gave me.

  “That isn’t happening,” she said firmly. “You can go home and do your stripping at your house.”

  A twinkle of devilment slipped into his hazel eyes. “No can do. If I go home like this, I may drop larvae inside the cab, and Finn could get them on him. If I take that larvae to my farm, all my chickens will be in danger of getting infested. Before I knew it was lice, I already went to the farm and got in my truck. Doing it again doubles the risk.”

  An image of her coop and dead chickens danced across her mental TV screen. Sissy would go to almost any length to prevent Ben’s flock from getting infested, but getting naked and showering with him wasn’t one of them. Think, girl, she ordered herself, and think fast, and it had better be good because I have a hunch he’s going to do everything he can to outmaneuver you.

  Chapter Nine

  Standing with Ben in the laundry room, which was sectioned off from the storage area, Sissy scrabbled for inspiration. What should she do? Did he really expect her to shuck off her clothes with him standing three feet away? Not happening, Mr. Sterling, no matter how persuasive you are. She had a hunch he understood the conflict raging within her. His dimple flashed as he bit back a smile. With the mask gone, he resembled a very handsome clown who’d forgotten to stick a red ball on his nose.