Free Making Hay by Pamela Morsi

anxiety and fear that curled up inside her.
    “If it was so wonderful,” she asked finally, “why did you break off with Homer?”
    Sugie Jo shrugged. “Oh, I’m not silly enough to think that Homer’s the only fellow who could make me feel that way. And I think Daddy liked him better than I did. That, in itself, is enough to worry a gal into breaking it off.”
    It was near noontime before Joseph Mouwers had his blades all honed to his liking. He flatly refused an invitation to luncheon, stating tactlessly that the Widow Green’s cooking never set well on his stomach.
    “I hope I see you again before the wedding,” Sugie Jo told Lessy as they parted. “ ’Cause I’m sure I won’t see much of you afterward. I bet that Vassar keeps you within hugging reach from then on.”
    Lessy smiled with delight at the prospect, but reality couldn’t quite be ignored. As she watched the Mouwerses driving away, Sugie Jo bouncing up and down on the seat, her father staring straight at the horses in front of him as if he were completely alone, Lessy couldn’t help but worry. Would Vassar ever want to touch her? And if he did, would she really think that she’d died and gone to glory? Or was that special feeling only for pretty girls like Sugie Jo?

    “ C ome help me pick peaches .” Lessy’s words were more in the nature of a command than a request, and Rip immediately discarded the gearing box design he was working on to follow her.
    The sun was shining brightly this afternoon, making it hot and muggy, but all were hopeful that by tomorrow the fields would be dry enough for haying.
    Lessy had been uncharacteristically quiet both at breakfast and the noon meal. Even now her thoughts appeared to be elsewhere as she made her way to the orchard, an empty bushel basket hanging from her left hand.
    Ripley had to hurry to catch up with her, and when he took the basket, her smile of thanks seemed more sad than grateful.
    “Not many peaches left,” he said conversationally as they walked through the neat rows of tall, well-tended trees.
    “It’s late in the year,” she agreed. “But I never let a peach go to waste.” She spied a bright yellow fruit with a rusty red blush on its cheek and reached up on her tiptoes to pull it down. “It really takes more time to pick what’s left than when the trees are full, because you have to move the ladder with you constantly.”
    Taking her words as a suggestion, Rip retrieved the folding ladder that leaned against a nearby tree trunk and began following Lessy with it in hand. They stopped at first one tree and then the next as she climbed up the ladder to reach the higher limbs that held a few stray ripe peaches.
    Her thoughtful expression caused worry lines to form on her brow.
    “This is a mighty fine orchard, Miss Lessy,” Rip told her, trying to lighten her mood.
    Lessy smiled gently, her voice a soft whisper. “My grandmother planted it. When I was young, I thought of it as my own secret hideaway where everything that I ever wanted would always come true.” Suddenly recalling herself, she cast off the hint of dreaminess in her expression. “Vass said pecans would have been better.”
    Rip’s expression was puzzled as he raised an eyebrow in disagreement. “I like peaches.”
    “Me, too,” Lessy agreed as she climbed up the ladder. ‘There is nothing better than fresh peach cobbler. But Vass is right, pecans would have been more practical.”
    Rip held the ladder steady as she reached a high and heavy branch. Lessy could feel the heat of his gaze upon her. The strangeness of the feeling caused her to speak more rapidly than she would have.
    “Pecans are easier to grow,” she said. “And they keep much better than peaches, even when they are in preserves. And when there’s a need to cull the trees, the wood of the pecan is valuable in itself. Peachwood is good for nothing.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Rip said with a smile. “My mama used to make some mighty