by Ellen Riggs
“Don’t say it.” I held up my hand. “I know people think I’m too soft, but Runaway Farm is an escape from practicalities.”
“Well, here’s a practicality you need to consider, Ivy,” Senna said. “Can you handle the work of bottle feeding with the inn opening?”
“No,” Jilly said. “She can’t.”
“What about Heidi?” I asked, looking toward the pasture with the two cows, and finding them looking back. “Her milk hasn’t dried up. Wouldn’t she welcome a wee one?”
Senna tipped her head thoughtfully. “Grafting a calf sometimes works with easygoing cows. Heidi’s a bit feisty.”
“She’s just young and spirited,” I said. “A baby will calm her down.”
Senna laughed. “Probably the opposite. But let’s give it a try. I’ll need some molasses.”
“I’ll run up to the house,” Jilly said, looking happy for an excuse to get out of the barn.
Still kneeling beside the calf, Senna said, “I’ll give Archie his shots, and then he’ll need to lose his manhood.”
I was aghast. “Already? He’s a newborn.”
“The sooner the better,” Senna said. “You don’t want a two thousand pound bull around here. There are few more dangerous animals on a farm.”
Archie looked up with one big brown eye as if pleading to keep his parts, and Keats circled us all anxiously.
“So you need to knock him out?” I asked.
“It’ll be fast and he’ll get a painkiller. You don’t want to know how most farmers handle castration.” She got up and walked out to her Land Rover. “Maybe you should go up to the house while I take care of Archie.”
“I don’t like this,” I called after her, and Keats whined in agreement.
She came back in with her big silver kit. “Do you trust me, Ivy?” Her voice was calming, like a sedative slipping into my own bloodstream. “It’s just neutering, like you did to Keats, I’m sure.”
Keats tucked his tail between his legs and we both laughed. He was a master of reading tone and body language.
When Jilly got back with the molasses, Senna pulled on a latex glove, poured the sticky black fluid into her hand and smeared it on the calf’s back. She led him out to the cow pasture, and then hopped over the fence to apply molasses to Heidi’s udder. Finally, after letting Heidi sniff the calf through the fence for a few minutes, she opened the gate and Keats escorted Archie inside. Heidi gave a few gusty snorts as she examined the calf. I held my breath, worried she’d hurt the sweet baby. The molasses was sweeter, however, and she started licking the calf so hard he almost fell over. He still managed to squirm toward the business end and find his molasses incentive. His tail began twitching happily and Heidi didn’t seem fazed at all when he latched on.
“It worked,” I said. “He’s grafted!”
“It’s good start,” Senna said. “If you see any distress in Heidi or the calf, separate them and repeat the molasses.”
“Can we leave the castration for another day, Senna? Please?”
“Go on up to the house,” she said. “Keats can supervise.”
My dog directed his honey-brown eye my way. The rumble in his throat said, “I got this.”
Jilly tugged on my arm and I followed.
“Thank goodness we still have a few hours to ourselves,” I said, when we reached the front stairs.
Jilly squeezed my arm harder as plaintive bawling drifted up from the barn. “Focus, Ivy. What we have is a long list of chores before the Flordale people get here.”
“I notice you’ve dropped the term ‘vipers,’” I said.
“I’ll be professional until they leave. How much you want to bet we both get bitten at some point?”
Down the lane there was the crunch of tires on gravel and we both turned. “Grab your anti-venom,” I said. “Because they’re here early.”
Chapter Two
I’d expected Wilf Darby, the vice president of human resources, to pilot the extra-long white van. He wasn’t the type to leave such an important task in the hands of his staff. But when the driver’s door opened, Ben Miller stepped out. He was six foot six and heavy set, a veritable giant of a man. I’d been his manager for nearly three years and he was a sweetheart—one of my more successful hires as an HR director. I’d feared he wouldn’t last long in the pool with the Flordale sharks, but perhaps his size and good looks helped keep him afloat.
He swept me into a bear hug. I didn’t resist, although I wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection and being squished into a colleague’s midriff just felt wrong.
“Good to see you, Ben,” I said, extricating myself. “Welcome to Runaway Farm and Inn. I’m excited to have all of you here.”
The others were hopping out of the van one by one like baby ducks plopping off a log into a pond. A few noses wrinkled as they took in the fine farm bouquet.
“Wow, it really is a farm,” said Nellie Cassios, dark brows furrowing. “I thought that was just a marketing thing.”
She was wearing stretchy leather-look pants, a tank top with a fair bit of sparkle and black suede stiletto boots. Jilly and I exchanged a quick glance about Nellie’s outfit. She looked ready for clubbing and Clover Grove didn’t have any nightlife to offer. It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about Nellie’s judgement. We’d had a memorable closed-door discussion about whether casual Friday attire encompassed tube tops and yoga pants.
“It’s not a full working farm,” I said. “Just a hobby farm with a few rescue animals.” Jilly cleared her throat and I added, “Quite a few, if you count the chickens.”
“They’re all rescues?” The question came from the department’s administrative assistant, Paulette Woodcrest, a silver-haired woman in her early 60s who’d mothered me through many a professional crisis, and covered my butt a few times, too. Seeing her friendly face reminded me that I didn’t hate absolutely everything about Flordale. Those I’d personally hired were good people, and they’d managed to hold onto their souls despite a “survival of the fittest” corporate culture.
“Most, yes,” I said, moving on to offer my hand to Keri Browning, my former second in command and now successor. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale and her hair hadn’t been highlighted for some time—telltale signs of wear and tear. “People abandon animals here all the time,” I continued. “The vet is down at the barn now caring for a calf someone dumped this morning.”
“That’s terrible,” Keri said, pushing my hand away and going in for a hug. She smelled like the big city: perfume and hair product, with a vague hint of pollution. I wondered how I smelled to her. I’d been planning a shower before they arrived and mucking out stalls wouldn’t have added to my bouquet.
“You look wonderful,” she said, shoving me back to arm’s length to scan me from my ponytail, past my overalls, and down to my heavy boots. “Country life’s been good to you.”
I laughed. “It has its moments. Sometimes it kicks my butt hard.”
The last two women were standing beside the van virtually motionless. They were both tall and thin with perfectly highlighted blonde bobs. One had blue eyes and one brown but otherwise, they were so similar that people mistook them for each other all the time. Their precise movements and sharp expressions reminded me of birds of prey. Jilly and I called them “the Raptors,” and though I’d never caught them in anything underhanded, I figured it was just a matter of time.
“Macy and Kate,” I said, shaking each delicate hand in turn. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” they said as one. It was uncanny how they did that, really.
Nellie shook back her shiny, dark, flat-ironed hair. Her features were too uneven to be pretty, but she was very striking. “I’ve never seen you without makeup before, Ivy.”
“True. And you wouldn’t have today, either, but you’re five hours earlier than expected.” I turned to Ben. “Traffic was that good?”
He laughed. “Keri was excited. She wanted to surprise you.”
“We
ll, it worked,” I said. “Come on inside and get settled. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes for the grand tour while Jilly rustles up something for lunch.” My best friend was circulating and distributing hugs like they cost nothing. She had referred several of them from her headhunting agency, including Ben and Keri. Her flush told me she was embarrassed to be caught unprepared, whereas I was actually glad they’d found the new me before I could change back into the old me.
Just then the van disgorged a slight man with fine brown hair and an arty beard that screamed “trying too hard” to me. It was Neal Fife, the department’s technology expert.
He didn’t bother to offer his hand. “Hey Ivy. Where’s this famous dog of yours?”
I hadn’t been impressed enough by Neal, Nellie or the Raptors to hire them myself but Wilf Darby had overruled my decisions and brought them on board. None had the special spark of kindness that had always sealed the deal for me.
“Keats is at the barn overseeing the vet’s work,” I said. “He’s promoted himself to farm manager. Nothing happens without his approval.”
“Funny,” Nellie said. “You didn’t used to be so witty.”
I caught the fleeting glance between Nellie, Neal and the Raptors and realized that what I’d said was being taken as proof I was still “off.” The concussion I’d suffered while rescuing Keats had rattled my brain hard, and I’d made some ill-advised comments to the press. Flordale management had amputated me swiftly with a pittance of a payout despite a decade of excellent service. I wanted to leave anyway, but it still hurt, and it left me with only a small nest egg. In fact, if I’d gotten the payout I deserved, these people wouldn’t be guests in my home.
“Right again, Nellie,” I said. “When I was your boss, my nickname was the grim reaper. You don’t fire as many people as I did and joke around.” I walked around the van to help Ben pull out the luggage. “Where’s Wilf? I expected him to be driving.”
“He wanted his own wheels. Probably got a later start.” Ben gave me a significant look I didn’t have enough context to understand. “We’ll have time to catch up before he gets here.”
It didn’t work out that way. A cloud of dust in the lane dispersed to reveal a red Corvette as it roared toward us. The sports car cut directly in front of the parked van and sent us scattering. The window rolled down and Wilf Darby blew out a hearty laugh. “Just cutting the flock,” he said. “Gotta keep you sheep on your toes.”
“Hooves,” I said, with what I hoped was a civil smile to the man who’d exploited and bullied me back in my “suit” days. “We sheep have cloven hooves.”
Wilf’s big entrance would have been more impressive had he leapt out of the car in a single bound. But the Corvette was low slung and at 54 he wasn’t the athletic high school heartthrob he probably once was. Maybe he’d stiffened up after the long drive, too, because his flashy exit became an awkward scrabble. Ben hurried around the car to offer his hand, which Wilf slapped away.
Finally my former boss was on his feet, red-faced, either from exertion or embarrassment. Either way, I knew someone would have to pay. Hopefully it wouldn’t be me.
“Get my bags, Stretch,” he said. Everyone had a nickname. It was Wilf’s way of keeping people in their place. Coming toward me with outstretched arms, he said, “Killer! You look… Well, less like the shark we know and love.”
“I left my fins in Boston,” I said, dodging his hug and shaking his hand instead. It was bone-crushing, but I didn’t wince. “Welcome to Runaway Farm and Inn.”
Regardless of the circumstances, I enjoyed saying that and would never tire of it.
Wilf scanned the house and property with small eyes that reminded me of Wilma’s, the resident pig. She was one sly sow, always on the lookout for an escape or free food. Keats stayed on high alert with Wilma, and that’s how I felt about Wilf.
“You did well for yourself,” he said, sounding almost sincere.
He studied the beautifully renovated century-old red farmhouse and wide, white front porch, and the vast property. The fields were turning brown now, but the leaves on the trees already had flares of color. October in Clover Grove crept in softly and began blazing later in the month. It had been my favorite time of year when I was growing up, although on principle I’d hated almost everything about the town. Most small-town teens probably felt the same way.
“She did do well, didn’t she?” Jilly said, stepping up to run interference. She hated Wilf with the passion of a best friend. He’d pressured me until I’d basically cracked from the strain and then burned me. Jilly’s headhunting firm had severed ties with Flordale as a result.
“Why, Jilly Blackwood, I’m surprised to see you,” he said. “You’re recruiting farmworkers now?”
“My company’s thriving in Boston while I pursue my dream here,” she said, turning up the wattage of her dazzling smile. “I’m an aspiring chef and I’ll be cooking for you over the next few days.”
Wilf ran a hand through his sparse fair hair, looking as if he might just melt under the force of her smile. Then he shook it off. “Anyone can grill steak,” he said.
There was a shout from the barn. “Ivy! Can you come down here?” Senna called.
“I’ll take everyone inside,” Jilly said, turning.
“I’m coming to the barn,” Wilf said, marching down the path ahead of me. “I want to milk a cow.”
Ben and Neal joined us, and soon I was sandwiched, feeling suddenly small. I wished Charlie had been working today, because he’d have put the men in their place. I still had a long way to go in learning how to channel my authoritative alpha handler.
Wilf strode into the barn like it was a boardroom and demanded, “What’s going on?”
I winced as he stood on the exact spot where I’d been nearly strangled not long ago. Most of the time I passed in and out of the barn without thinking about it, because there was always something else to think about. The trauma ambushed me now, possibly because Wilf brought back terrible memories, too.
“Calf castration,” Senna said, kicking her medical instruments aside so no one would trip. “I just put Heidi and Archie back outside.”
“Every farm needs a bull,” Wilf said, wincing himself. “Sounds shortsighted to me.”
“No farm needs a bull anymore,” Senna said. “They’re dangerous. We use artificial insemination for breeding.”
Wilf rolled his eyes at the other men. “Women rule the world, even in farm country.”
“You got that right,” Senna said, bending to collect her things.
Heading toward the back door of the barn, Wilf asked, “Where are these cows?”
I rushed to catch up and he stuck out an elbow at precisely the right moment to shove me into a fresh cow flap still steaming in the cool air. My brother used to prank me like that and I should have been more alert. Instead, I planted a boot squarely in the manure, skidded and fell backward in a tailbone-crunching pratfall. My butt landed squarely on the pile with a squelching sound. Although I had smelled far worse, the strange warmth under my butt was revolting.
Wilf turned, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Oops. Sorry about that, Killer. You still haven’t learned how to watch your step.”
“Oh, Wilf,” I said, letting Ben grab my hands and hoist me to my feet. “You should see what I can do with a baseball bat when I’m upset.”
“Was that story really true?” Ben asked. “About how you rescued the dog from a criminal? I thought the press exaggerated that.”
“Some of it was true.” I shook my butt to loosen the manure. “Not all of it.”
“You look like a duck waggling its backside,” Wilf said, laughing harder as he headed for the cow pasture. “Watch it, Killer. You’re becoming your setting.”
Keats was sitting beside the gate to the cow pasture, tilting his head this way and that to observe the Flordale men with his blue eye. I got his attention and signaled for him to monitor Wilf. The dog immediately got up and started herding my for
mer boss away from the cows—so subtly that Wilf didn’t seem to notice he’d been redirected to the goat pasture.
Meanwhile I had more pressing matters to deal with because Neal had circled the barn to head for Wilma’s enclosure.
“Neal, don’t!” I called as he took a running leap at the fence and hopped over. He was nimbler than I’d expected for an IT guy who looked like he didn’t see much daylight. “Wilma’s unpredictable. She almost drowned me in a swamp a few weeks ago.”
“It’s just bacon,” he called back. “Here, piggy-piggy.”
“She’s a rescue and this isn’t a petting zoo,” I said, grabbing a long wooden pole with an iron hook on the end. I never entered Wilma’s pen without it because she was smart and slick, and quite happy to plow people down if they stood between her and freedom. Opening the gate, I said, “Out. Now, Neal. She’ll crush you in the mud without a second thought. Is that how you want to go?”
He sauntered out ahead of me as I alternately brandished the pig poker at him and at Wilma. “I hope you have insurance,” he said.
“You bet I do, and it’s a good thing since you boys are into playground antics.” I had barely got the gate latched when Keats summoned me with a sharp bark. Turning, I saw my former boss with his loafer on the bottom rung of the fence holding the alpaca and llamas. “Wilf, no! Get away from there.”
I should have known better. Wilf hated being told what to do and it always caused the opposite reaction. Now he hastened to clamber over the fence before I could get there. Neal filmed the awkward ascent, laughing so hard the phone shook visibly. Without treads on his loafers, Wilf slipped on the the top rung, straddling the fence. I gasped, thinking we were about to have our second castration of the day. But something of his old athleticism surfaced in his moment of desperation and he managed to push up and over. He landed inside and fell over with a thump that made the rest of us cringe. I dropped the pig poker, scaled the fence and jumped in after him. Then I snapped my fingers at Ben, who handed me the poker over the fence.
