Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan
moments.
Sarah cast a wistful glance around the warming room of her weathered bungalow and refused to sigh, despite the late hour. Most women would come home, stoke the fire, shower and go to bed. An appealing thought.
Her gaze fell on the dusty spinning wheel to the left of the wood stove, unused, untouched. She longed for peaceful evenings of spinning yarn, her fingers guiding the carded wool while her foot rocked the treadle. Someday there would be time for such pleasures again.
But first, the farm. Its success depended on her efforts. Long evenings spent crunching figures for area businesses left no time for spinning and knitting. She gave the wheel one last, long glance. Someday.
Stoic, she left the inviting flames, donned farm boots and headed to the near barn. As she trudged across the drive, Gino kept pace, head up, attentive. Maremmas were great night guardians. Perfect for her, a shepherd alone. With them on guard, Sarah could actually sleep. Mostly.
But lambing loomed. With the front barn full of soon-to-deliver ewes, a turn around the lambing quarters was essential. While she’d specifically chosen a Dorsett/Finn cross breed because of their less seasonal cycles, Sarah still engineered a strong spring lambing. Her January lambies were being marketed now for the Easter trade. This new batch would be sold in Albany and New York City come late spring and early summer, where eastern European immigrants celebrated love and marriage with roasted lamb, much as their Biblical forebears.
Sarah flicked the barn light switch then paused, her eyes adjusting, her ears tuned to out-of-sync noises.
All was calm.
Walking through, she found a new set of twins. The sloe-eyed ewe must have delivered late afternoon. Both babies strong and healthy, the caring mother uttered soft bleats of comfort to her offspring. The number of animals provided plenty of heat in this foremost barn, even in the bitter cold. Regardless of the calendar date, night temps could drop on the heels of a Canadian Clipper, a steep down surge of the jet stream. Tonight promised to be one of those. The wind blew intemperate, but the barn was snug. Secure. She’d made sure of that when she first considered this parcel. A cozy barn, good pastureland, large hayfields. Essentials to a northern shepherd on an accelerated breeding program.
And a house that needed cleaning. Cleaning she didn’t have time or energy for most days. Satisfied with the scene before her, she retreated, closing the door with a firm hand, ready for a cleansing shower and a warm bed.
Baaaaaah.
Sarah turned, ears perked, drawing her coat closer.
A sharp wind chilled her neck. She eyed the dark field, knowing the next group of expectant mothers huddled in the second pasture. Not due for six to eight weeks, they should drop late-spring lambs that would be market-ready mid- to late summer, in time for the ethnic festival season in New York City.
As she turned back toward the house, the bleat sounded once more, followed by a bark, sharp and commanding.
Gritting her teeth, Sarah headed to the pickup, wondering why she ever thought sheep were cute.
Hours later, she was still unsure. The tiny lambs born in the cold meadow were taking their own sweet time to warm up. Sarah was sure she’d hit every rut in the farm lane as she traversed the pasture’s edge in the pitch-black. An early-waxing crescent moon had dipped below the horizon long ago. Starlight did little to pierce the woods-edged fields and her long-handled flashlight kept blinking out.
She loaded the new family eventually, tempting the mother up the ramp by tucking the half-frozen triplets at the end of it. Then she prodded and prayed.
“It’s a good thing Jesus liked you guys well enough to put you in His stories,” she grumbled to the three newborns flanking the woodstove. At the moment, Sarah didn’t find them all that appealing as she massaged the shoulder she’d wrenched during loading. She loved Christ’s soft spot for shepherds, the parables and analogies. He kept it simple, and that worked for her. You couldn’t get much more mundane than shepherds and fishermen.
Exhausted, she lounged her head against the worn cushion, the lambs snug in a garage sale playpen. Clutching an afghan to her chest, Sarah watched as the heat of the stove gradually chased the chill from the fragile bodies. Since the newborns needed to re-acclimate with their mother, she set the alarm for a two-hour nap, dozing with them, their quick-pace heartbeats offset by the strength and steadiness of hers.
The phone shrilled as Sarah adjusted the angle of the Pritchard teat to feed lamb number three the next morning. The others had rejoined Mama with little fuss, but the ewe butted this one away repeatedly. Frustrated and frantic, the hungry lamb needed food and reassurance. Frowning, Sarah let the machine pick up, knowing these first feedings were crucial. Hearing the message, she dropped the retrofitted soda bottle and snatched up the phone.
“This is Sarah.”
“Sarah, it’s Cade Macklin.”
“I know. I heard your voice. I was busy with a newborn lamb.” She inhaled nice and long, slowing her anxiety. “What’s happened?”
“There’s a petition regarding Rita and the kids. Someone turned her in for neglect. They want the children removed. Livvie’s last prank opened a few eyes.”
Liv and some friends had decorated the school superintendent’s office with graphic posters when news broke that the administrator was cheating on his wife with the middle-school principal. Their little gambit caricatured the administrators with complex artwork, employing a parody on the superintendent’s theme for the year: Ethics in Education. An eye-opener, for sure.
Oh, man. Where were these people when her sister-in-law needed help? When kids needed rides, or trips to the dentist? Nowhere to be found. But let a teenager step out of line and she was marked for life. At least if her last name was Slocum and she lived in a Podunk little…
Sarah choked down a sigh. “What happens now?”
“Social Services sent someone by Rita’s, found it lacking in supervision, and will request the court place the children in foster care.”
“Over my dead body.”
Cade’s voice deepened. “Can you take them? Judge Hicks won’t grant guardianship to your father or Ed. Rita’s people are in Albany, and you know how kids are about being moved around.”
“Why are you doing this, Cade?” She didn’t mean to sound blunt. Blame it on lack of sleep. Total surprise. The Macklin family owed the Slocums nothing. Zip. Zilch.
“Because Rita and those kids have suffered enough.” The police chief’s voice firmed. “They did nothing wrong, Sarah. Nor did you. And I can’t see how sending those kids away will help a woman who’s fighting depression. Maybe even suicidal.”
Sarah thought quickly. “What about school? I’m not in their district.” Sarah’s farm lay mostly in the Canton school district, although a small portion of her land crossed the border into Grasse Bend. Rita’s house was north, in Potsdam.
“We can get that okayed by the board. They’re good people. It might be tricky to arrange transportation for the next couple of days, but between the two districts it’s doable in the long run. I’ll work it out. That way the kids can finish the year in Potsdam. Maybe summer will be Rita’s turning point. If summer ever gets here.”
Since the winter had been cold and gray with little sun, the entire region would welcome warmth. Sarah agreed. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Cade. This house isn’t all that big, but I can stretch it.”
“Good.” Relief thickened his voice. “I’ll talk to the caseworker and the child advocate. They’ll probably come see you.”
“Great.” Sarah’s living space longed for time and effort she didn’t have right now, a touch she’d give it if she weren’t constantly working on either sheep or business accounts or helping Rita. Her degree in business accounting kept her tending books at night for a growing number of local farms and small businesses, the steady funds helping