Chapter 8

Molly contemplated the chickens. She snatched a basket from the wall and approached the nearest hen. She’d never gathered eggs before. Her parents owned a mansion, not a farm. They have a cook. Her mother had always kept her close, tried to teach her how to become a lady of society. So she was never taught how to get an egg out from underneath a chicken. But how hard could it be?

She approached slowly, cautiously, hand outstretched, mind focused on taking shallow breaths through her mouth and thinking of nothing but the chicken. The instant she touched feathers, the hen pecked her hard enough to draw blood.

“Ouch!” She jumped back, bumped the nesting boxes on the other side, and caused a small, cackling riot, which sent feathers shooting in every direction.

When the hens quieted, she tried again, with similar results. Annoyed, frustrated, furious, she refused to give up. One thing Molly had never been short on was stubbornness.

Ten minutes later, her hands were bleeding, her hair was full of feathers and her basket was still empty.

John waited and then he waited some more. How long did it take to grab an egg or two? He hauled himself to his feet and headed for the chicken coop.

He heard the ruckus as soon as he stepped out of the house. The door wide open, feathers sputtered out along with furious squawks.

John peeked inside just as Molly crept toward a hen already fluffed to twice its size with outrage. John could almost see that chicken brain at work. There is no way this amateur is going to get my hard-laid egg!

“You’re not doing it right,” he said.

Molly gasped and spun around. Her hair was white with feathers, and her hands ran rivulets of blood. His amusement faded at the sight. He raised his gaze to her face, and the tear tracks made him take a step toward her. Had she been crying because of the chickens or despite them?

“Forget the damn eggs,” he snapped. “They’re not worth bleeding over.”

“If I don’t get them, who will?”

“Red.”

“Uh-uh. No way! He’s taking care of the farm work and your morning routine already. What am I doing wrong?” Molly demanded, cutting him a sideways glare.

He hesitated. If he refused to tell her, would she give up and go inside? The set of her mouth and the narrowing of her eyes told him that wasn’t likely. She was going to do this with or without his help. John sighed.

“Don’t bother to be polite,” he directed. “Just dart in. Grab the egg and get out from under before she knows what hit her. From the looks of your hand, you’re giving them too much time to think.”

“Chickens think?”

“They’ve outsmarted you.”

Molly pressed her lips together but said nothing. She took a deep breath. “Okay, here I go.”