The Littlest Cowboy (30 page)

In comparison to Lash’s measly nine years of age, they were practically grown-ups. They didn’t act that way, though. Lash still had sore ribs from the minor beating they’d given him last week, when Zane ordered Lash to do his share of the chores, and Lash was foolish enough to refuse. He’d ended up doing Zane’s chores anyway, only doing them while hurting like crazy. Next time he’d just agree right off the bat.

But he had a feeling that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Zane. He thought Zane
liked
tormenting him.

It was as this thought entered Lash’s mind that he first felt the itching, creeping sensation around his ankles and calves...and then higher. He dropped one hand to scratch his leg, all the while keeping his eyes respectfully focused on the preacher. But the itch didn’t go away. In fact, it spread higher. And then, all of a sudden, it became a pinching feeling. Lash slapped hard at his legs, jerking his gaze floorward at the same moment. Oddly, he noticed several other members of the congregation itching and slapping themselves, too.

And then he saw them. Ants. There must have been a million of ‘em. It looked as if someone had scattered handfuls of them across the floor near the front pew. A hundred of the shiny black buggers—some the size of guinea pigs, Lash noted with alarm—were swarming over his shoes and disappearing beneath the hem of his pant legs. He jumped to his feet, howling out loud and hopping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean, slapping his legs as if they were on fire. And he barely noticed at least six other people doing a similar jig. They looked like Indians from a John Wayne movie doing a war dance before the big shoot-‘em-up scene. Mrs. Potter threw her walker so high and so hard that it formed a perfect arch in the air before coming down hard on the three people in the pew behind her. Sally Kenyon was standing in her seat, screaming at the top of her lungs and tugging on her blond ringlets. Girls. Sheesh, did she really think all that fussin’ was going to help anything? Old Leroy LaRue just stood there, stooped as always, nailing ants one by one with his walking stick, just lifting it up and jamming it down, again and again. With his snow-white hair sticking up and his beak of a nose crinkling, he grinned toothlessly. “Gotcha, ya sneaky little buggers!”
Bam, bam, bam.
“There! Ha! Gotcha!”
Bam-bam!
“An’ you, too! I see ya sneaking away!”
Bam-bam-bam-bam.

Lash would’ve laughed at Leroy’s counterattack if he hadn’t been so busy trying to shake the entire ant army out of his pant legs. He managed to kick off his shoes in a frenzied effort to rid himself of the biting little demons. The shoes flew forward, and one hit the Reverend Mr. Stanton square dead center of his forehead. The second one landed on the podium, no doubt leaving a dirty mark all over the fire-and-brimstone sermon the preacher had spent all week composing. Lash barely noticed that the fire and brimstone from the sermon was becoming apparent in the Reverend Stanton’s face. He was too busy hopping on one foot to peel off the other sock and then reversing the procedure.

It was only as Lash accomplished this and danced his bare feet away from the platoon of ants trooping over the church floor, that he noticed Zane, sitting safely two rows back. He was doubled over, clutching his spare-tire belly and laughing so hard his face was beet red and tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.

And then Lash’s view was blocked by the members of the congregation, all rising and making their way toward the exits, to avoid being attacked by Zane’s killer ants.

Safe for the moment, Lash stood there shaking his head. And then a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder from behind, and he knew full well whose hand it was. And he also knew he was in major trouble. Because of all the boys in the preacher’s household, Lash was the only one with an ant farm. And even if he denied responsibility for this, it wouldn’t hold water when Zane and Jack and Peter gave their version of things. They’d make sure their stories matched, and they’d make sure Lash was implicated. They always did.

“I think,” said the Reverend Mr. Stanton, “that you are going to have some new Bible verses to memorize.

Lash glanced up at the preacher, and he could have sworn that behind that weathered, stern face, the preacher was battling against the urge to grin. But he couldn’t be, Lash reasoned. The preacher was too up-standing to find any of this funny. Still, Lash found himself awfully glad that memorizing Bible verses was the most severe punishment in the man’s collection. It wouldn’t be so bad.

“How many this time, sir?” Lash asked.

The preacher’s bushy brows rose. “For this? Oh, I’d say...a hundred might be sufficient.”

“A hundred!”

The preacher nodded. “You may recite them before the entire congregation next Sunday—after you’ve delivered your apology to them, of course.”

With a heavy sigh, Lash nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I swear, Lash, I’ve never come upon a boy with such a love of mischief-making as you. But I’m bound to reform you, son. Or die trying.” His hand, leathery and firm, gave Lash’s shoulder a squeeze.

He’d
die trying, Lash thought. Lord, but
he
wasn’t the one who was supposed to learn a hundred Bible verses in one week’s time.
He
wasn’t the one who’d be embarrassed right to the roots of his teeth getting up in front of all these people, who’d probably still be itching from their ant bites, to apologize and recite all those verses. Lash was. But Lash
wasn’t
the one who’d orchestrated this whole fiasco in the first place.

He met Zane’s triumphant beady little eyes across the room. An ant bit hard, and Lash jumped and slapped at his leg, and when he did, that pretty gray-blue cat’s eye marble he’d been trying to win for a month popped right out of his pocket, rolled under the pew behind him and kept on rolling. And before he could get hold of it again, pudgy Zane with his ugly mug was knocking people out of the way to wedge himself under a pew two rows back. When he got up again, he held that marble between his thumb and forefinger and admired it, just to be sure Lash would see. Then he dropped it into his own pocket, and turned to saunter out of the church, acting like he wasn’t even aware of all the hopping and slapping and shouting going on around him.

Silently Lash vowed that he would never, never for the rest of his life, want to be plunked down into the middle of a huge family. Especially one with so many older, bigger, meaner brothers! Never!

He made his way out of the church, and on the way, he caught the pale gaze of Olive Stanton, his foster mom, and he knew just by looking at her that she’d seen what Zane had just done. She knew that Lash wasn’t the one responsible for all of this. Heck, as far as brains went, she had twice as many as her husband, even if he
was
a preacher and all.

But all Missus Stanton did was shake her head sadly and send a reproachful look toward Zane’s retreating back. She wouldn’t say anything. The woman didn’t have any backbone at all when it came to telling her husband—or anyone else, for that matter—that they were wrong. She’d sooner be hung by her toes than disagree with anyone, and she never raised her voice above a whisper. Lash wasn’t sure if that was because she appreciated all their coddling so much she didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or if she just didn’t have a lick of courage. But he did know he didn’t want to be around females who got themselves used to being waited on. It made them soft and yellow, as far as he was concerned. Nope. Once Lash grew up and moved away from the Stantons of Maplewood, Illinois, he was going to keep himself clear of coddled girls, big families and older brothers for the rest of his life...and maybe even longer than that!

He didn’t like having chores to do, Bible verses to memorize. He didn’t like having to answer to the Reverend Mr. Stanton. He detested having to wait on Missus Olive. He just plain hated having to watch his every step in case he crossed those bullies he was forced to live with.

When he grew up, Lash was never going to have to answer to anybody. He’d be free as a bird. Why, when he got tired of living in one place, he’d just throw his stuff in a bag and head off to someplace new and different. Every trip would be a brand-new adventure. Life was going to be fun and carefree, not an endless cycle of rules to be followed and orders to be obeyed. Not for Lash.

He was kinda hoping he could look up his real brother, Jimmy, who was in Texas now, and talk him into going along with this plan. They’d be drifters. Free and happy. No women or families allowed.

Meanwhile...Lash picked up his Bible, riffled the pages to be sure no ants were waiting in ambush inside, and then opened it to see if he could find a hundred verses the preacher hadn’t already made him memorize. As often as he got himself into trouble—with plenty of help from Zane and Petey the beef prince—he kinda doubted he’d find that many.

J
essica Brand caught hold of the calf’s slippery, translucent front hooves and pulled as the cow strained. The animal was a first-calf heifer. She’d never been through this ordeal before, and she might not make it through this time. The cow was small, dammit. Jessi’s brothers never should have kept her as breeding stock.

Jessi tightened her grip on the calf’s tiny forefeet and tugged, but her hands slipped. She flew backward, landing butt first on the barn’s concrete floor and cussing as those tiny feet vanished back into the haven of its mother. The cow bellowed loud enough to wake the dead.

“Hush, cow! The last thing I need is my brothers out here worrying I might break a nail. I’m a veterinarian now. And I could’ve handled this even without my brand-new license. Now be quiet and
push.”

She shoved herself to her feet, using her elbows instead of her hands. She didn’t want germs all over the latex gloves. Bracing one forearm across the cow’s rump, she delved into the birth canal with her free hand, found those tiny cloven hooves and began pulling again.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” The deep voice came from the open front doors, and Jessi turned quickly, sighing in relief when she saw Lash lounging there grimacing at her. Better him than one of her oversize, overprotective brothers.

Of course, it couldn’t have been one of her brothers. Any of
them
would have rushed her by now, shouting at her for standing close enough to be kicked, scolding that she wasn’t strong enough to pull a stubborn calf into the world, yelling at her for even being out in the barn all alone in the middle of the night. She rolled her eyes at the thought of it. Thank God it wasn’t them.

It was almost irritating, though, that Lash did none of those things. He just stood there, not so much as offering to lift a finger.

“Get in here and close the door,” she told him. “If my brothers see the barn lights on, they’ll be swarming all over this place.”

“So what? If they swarm, then you get to hand this mess over to them. Seems like an appealing prospect, from where I’m standing.”

“If I wanted to hand it all over to them, Lash, I would have just yelled for ‘em in the first place. Now close the door.”

With a slight frown and a glance over his shoulder, toward the house, Lash complied. Then he moved closer, but the look of distaste on his face only grew more and more pronounced.

“You’re just a big fraud, aren’t you, Lash?” Jessi said as she pulled, tugged and turned the calf slightly, trying to work him free before he suffocated. “You’re no ranch hand.”

“Never claimed to be,” he said. “I told you before, I’m a firefighter. Or I was, till I came down here.” He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “I hate like hell to ask, but is there…something I can do to help?”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing sideways at him, seeing the alarm flash in his pale blue eyes. Those eyes of his reminded her of an arctic wolf’s. Alarmingly at odds with his silky sable hair. Hair she’d fantasized about running her fingers through...

“Jessi?”

She dragged her gaze from his hair and blinked. “Hmm?”

“You were gonna tell me how I could help?” he said, then glanced at where her hands were and made a face.

She laughed at him. “Don’t worry. I want you on the other end. Stroke this big girl’s head, or talk to her, or something. Scratch her ears. She’s so damn tensed up she’s gonna crush the calf instead of birthing him.”

Nodding hard, Lash hurried around to the front of the cow and proceeded to stroke her head and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. The cow relaxed slightly. Jessi didn’t blame her. That man could melt butter. Well, he could melt
her,
anyway. Jessi smiled when the cow relaxed still more. She could see the calf’s wet pink nose now. “You’re good at that,” she said.

“I’m fair with animals. That’s why I offered to stay on and help out while Garrett and Chelsea took their honeymoon.” He glanced over the top of the cow to meet her gaze. “Never volunteered for that end of things, though.”

Jessi smiled at him. “Well, now that I’m a full-fledged vet, I suppose I’ll have to get used to this end of things.”

He shook his head. “Makes me feel ancient. A kid like you is barely old enough to know what that end of things is for,” he quipped, and went back to stroking the cow’s face, calming her. Too bad he had the opposite effect on Jessi. She felt her face heating, and battled the urge to peel off her latex gloves and slap his face with them. Kid, indeed.

Then she was distracted by the animal actually pushing for once. The calf’s head cleared so far she could see the closed eyes and pale lashes. “That’s good,” she called. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it”

She got a better grip on the newborn’s forelegs, and waited. This time, when the cow pushed, Jessi was ready, and she pulled in sync. The calf’s entire head emerged, and Jessi immediately cleared its airways, relieved when the tiny animal made wheezing sounds. But the calf was now hung up at the shoulders. This was the toughest part for the mother, she knew, and she used her hands again, wincing at the viselike pressure on her fingers as she probed. But she had to be sure the calf could emerge.