Free Allie's Moon by Alexis Harrington Page A

felt
completely different. Barbers were heavier-handed. They cinched a
striped bib around a man’s neck and pushed his head this way and
that, making quick, decisive moves. This was a woman’s touch,
lighter and infinitely more gentle. Now and then he felt her
clothing brush against his bare back and wondered idly if perhaps
it was her breast beneath the fabric. And she smelled good, like
starch and clothes hung out to dry in the sun.
    “ Will anyone in town be missing you
while you’re here?”
    “ No, ma’am.”
    “ Your wife knows where you are,
then?”
    Jeff’s eyes snapped back into focus. “I don’t
have a wife,” he answered stiffly, his muscles tensing again. Was
it clever sarcasm that she aimed at him? Nobody in town could have
missed Sally’s desertion.
    “ Oh, that’s good—” The teeth of the
comb paused on his scalp. “I mean, it’s good that you haven’t left
anyone alone.” Jeff couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded
unsure and as innocent as a girl’s. He relaxed again.
    “ Who looks after your stock?” He
thought it wise to change the subject just in case she got curious
and wanted to ask more questions.
    “ We don’t have animals anymore. After
my father took sick, and with my sister Olivia to see to, tending
the stock was more than I could handle alone. And I wouldn’t go
into the b-barn anyway.”
    “ Why not?”
    Her hands fell still. “I-I haven’t been in
there in years. I’ll never go in there— I can’t—” She broke off so
abruptly that he turned to look at her. She suddenly looked very
young and very frightened.
    “ Ma’am?”
    She took a deep breath and made a circular
motion with her hand to turn him back to his original position. The
snipping started again. “I sold the livestock a few years ago.”
    “ What do you do for meat and butter and
such?” he asked.
    “ I made an arrangement with Wickwire’s
to have fresh provisions sent out a couple of times a week. I used
to buy from the Smithfields’ farm but, well, that was a while back.
At any rate, Mr. Wickwire has my standing order in his store. I
imagine I’ll have to send him a note to increase our order while
you’re here. Of course, I put up my own vegetables and fruit. The
pear tree always gives me a good crop.” She went on cutting his
hair without another word. Finally she ran the comb over his whole
head with light strokes, then walked a slow circle around him to
survey her handiwork. “That’s much better. You can finish up with
the razor I brought you. Then you can get on with patching the
roof.”
    Disappointed that the barbering session was
over, Jeff stood up. “I don’t think I’m ready to shave—”
    Althea Ford drew herself to her full
height—all of five feet and maybe three or four inches at most,
Jeff figured—all businessy and bossy again. “I’ll be having none of
that, Mr. Hicks. Believe me, you are more than ready. We agreed
yesterday that you would clean up, and so you will. In the
meantime, I’ll fix your breakfast. It will be ready by the time
your finished.”
    She walked back to the house, her auburn head
held high, and her skirts swaying as she went. Goddamn it, but she
was a fussy, demanding woman. And she had a way of saying “Mr.
Hicks” that sounded as if she’d been sucking a lemon. Jeff glanced
at the contents of the basket she’d left for him. An old
ivory-handled razor lay in the bottom and he stretched out a
shaking hand to pick it up.
    He could buck her and refuse to do her
bidding. It was a tantalizing idea. Or he could do as she asked and
show her the result.
    He swung open the razor. The shiny blade
caught the morning sun and gleamed like a cavalry saber. He looked
up at the house again, just in time to see the screen door slam
behind Althea.
    Breakfast actually sounded good—his stomach
wasn’t as jumpy as it had been yesterday. He supposed if his shaky
hand didn’t cut his throat with the razor, he’d survive to eat.
    ~~*~*~*~~
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