Free The Milch Bride by J. R. Biery

into the herd and watch to make sure they work out together“
    “We treated for worms and threw out two salt and mineral blocks
after the last snow. I reckon Blackie‘s calves are as good as any bull throws.”
    He heard the defensive pride in her voice. “I‘m sure they
are, Miss Stoddard.”
    She acknowledged his apology with a nod. “Hattie. I wanted
to see the chickens too; apparently five of them are missing.”
    James Boyd had come out to the fence leaving Rubye standing
on the porch, rocking the baby.
    “They’re in the barn, the mules and that old gelding are in
the back paddock.”
    But Hattie was already gone, opening the barn door to
disappear inside. By the time the men caught up, she was outside the door with
a pan of grain. As she walked outside she clucked softly, shaking the grain in
the pan, “Here chick, chick, here chick,” she sang as she scattered grain. In
minutes eight red hens boiled around her feet, pecking at the grain as she
scattered it. One of the hounds stood on its haunches and barked, but Jackson
called him back down.
    “Reckon you’ll need to put up a coop for these, if they’re
to last more than a day or two,” Boyd said.
    “Probably easier if we just add some wire to the garden
fence. The chickens can work it and keep the bugs down. They’re used to
roosting in our barn, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” Hattie patted the flat
pan against her hip and added. “Dottie and her sisters are gone, along with
Gaylord, the rooster. The hens were setting so they may have stayed with their
nests. Gaylord should have been out cutting up to protect the hens.”
    “No way could we miss a flogging rooster. Looked through
that barn pretty close too,” Boyd protested.
    “Dad had a board just under the eaves where they roosted. We
used to have a yellow cat, Purdy, who liked to move through them at night
teasing them awake. So there are poles outside the barn where they can swoop up
in stages then fly into their nests. There are probably one or two eggs in the
nests of those that are not brooding.”
    “I hope you don’t expect me to go back and wrangle chickens,
because that was the meanest job you ever gave me boss.”
    “If they’re nesting, we’ll move nest and all for those four.
I’ll bet the roosters gone. Didn’t you leave any dog or cat behind?” Jackson
barked.
    “Purdy died last year. Bert, our cow dog, was shot when the
yahoos rode in.”
    Jackson shook his head. Had he really thought she was timid
and quiet?
     
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    “I’ll ride out after we finish here and take Cliff. We need
to chase down that black bull and any heifers he’s guarding. James, you stick
close. See if you can help get the garden in.”
    He turned back toward the corral as Hattie moved back to the
house when she heard her name called. She stepped up onto the porch to take
J.D., not surprised to feel a damp bottom.
    James was walking toward the house, and Hattie waited until
he was in easy hearing. “Can you tell the boss I need to talk to him before
they leave?”
    He tipped his hat in acknowledgement and Hattie took the
crying infant inside. It was an hour later when she carried the padded cradle
and sleeping boy to rock gently in the warm shaded breeze of the back porch.
Hattie smiled, happy for the first time in weeks. She heard the hens clucking
and scratching through the garden. She had lined up the seeds, each labeled and
saved in its packet made from old catalog pages.
    In the distance she could hear the men working in the far
corral, smell the scent of singed hair and hear the painful bawls from the
calves. Even the yearlings needed branding and snipped, being changed to steers
before the men finished.
    Ignoring the sounds, she went to the paddock for Henry. Although
Pepper could outlast the younger mule, Henry was quicker to obey her commands
and responded well to her lighter hand.
    Harnessed to the plow, she entered through the gap in the
fence that James had made earlier.