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!