Free Till the Cows Come Home by Judy Clemens Page A

camouflage.
    I yanked open the garage door and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The only light was on a pull chain in the center of the room, and as everything was still in disarray from pulling out the generator, I didn’t feel like wading through machinery to get to it. I gave my Harley a pat as I passed it, noticing it already had a fine layer of dust on it. These dry summer days were terrible for keeping things clean.
    I pushed the lawnmower into the driveway to check the oil and gas, and it was only when I was screwing the gas cap back on that I noticed the crack running through the deck almost the whole way across.
    Well, crud, I thought. I stood and put my hands on my hips, checking out the yard. I had been saying for the past few days that it could wait another day, and if I said it once more I might as well have just planted wildflowers, set up a booth, and rented out campsites. Besides, the mower wouldn’t fix itself if I stuck it back in the garage.
    I got my truck and heaved the mower into the back, muttering under my breath about fourteen-year-old boys who don’t tell when they break things. I probably should have asked for help getting the mower into the truck, but impressing Nick was more important at the time. Whether or not he noticed was a mystery.
    I was ready to leave when an electric company truck pulled in. The company was usually very good about quick service when a farmer needed it, and I was pleased to see someone already this morning. A young, chubby guy in a uniform hopped out of the cab.
    “There an accident or something?” I asked. Usually when we lost electricity it was from some drunk hitting a pole.
    “Actually, you’re the only one with a problem.”
    “Really? How could that be?”
    “Dunno. I’ll take a look, though.”
    I wondered if I should stay to get the news myself, but figured it would take him a while before he knew anything.
    “I’m just headed out,” I said. “You need anything, Howie’s around. My farmhand. He can help you with whatever.”
    “Okey-dokey.”
    I whistled for Queenie and she came running, her nose full of cobwebs. “Where you been, girl?” I wiped off her nose. “Want to go for a ride?” She jumped into the truck and had the side window full of smears before I had a chance to open it. I rolled it down, and we were off.
    Granger’s Welding sits off of a dirt road about two miles from my farm. Jethro runs the place, and two of his brothers make up his employee list. I could hear the welding compressor when I opened my door, and hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too far back in line.
    The shop looked like an over-sized service garage, with two huge roll-up doors and a little office at the side, shut off from the noise by a flimsy wooden door. They hadn’t bothered to paint the concrete, so the building ended up looking a lot like one of those big cinder blocks mice like to make nests in.
    “I’ll be right back,” I told Queenie.
    She whined when I slid out by myself.
    “I can’t let you out, girl. There’s all kinds of little metal pieces, screws, and other dog hazards. I’ll be back in a minute.” I made sure the cab was in the shade and the windows were cracked, then got out and walked toward the open garage door.
    “Anybody home?” I said loudly. I could see somebody at the welding machine, but didn’t recognize him until he stood up straight and took his safety mask off.
    “Hey there, Stella,” Jermaine said.
    Now, I know you’re thinking Jermaine doesn’t sound like a Bible name one of Ma Granger’s kids might have. If you saw Jermaine, you wouldn’t think he looked like one of her sons, either.
    Jethro, as I’ve said before, is a big guy, but Jermaine is probably the biggest man I’ve ever known, his shoulders easily measuring three feet across and his chest so big I couldn’t get my arms all the way around him if I tried. The best way to describe him is to say he resembles one of those NFL linebackers who look like they