'Til Grits Do Us Part (3 page)

“Shoot, we got theater! Ol' Clive Clevenger gets drunker than a skunk every Friday night, shore as sunrise. We can git ya a front-row seat! Why, sometimes he shoots at ol' hubcaps, thinkin' they're space aliens.”

I hopped an unexpected cow pie, righting myself with difficulty. “That's exactly what I'm talking about. It's just the same old boring life here, day after day. I've never lived in a small town like this, and all these memories of Mom…. Her town. Her house. Her car. Her…” I kicked a grass clump, unable to form the word
grave
. “I love Adam, but sometimes I think I'm crazy to stay here.”

“Aw, you'd be crazy anywhere ya went, Yankee.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I laughed, feeling an unexpected rush of affection at Becky's slightly bucktoothed smile. Her harebrained ideas. Even her silly nicknames, which should be offensive but somehow weren't.

“Well, anyways, family ain't just blood, Shah-loh. Macy proved that to us. We're your family now.” She patted my shoulder. “Don't ya forget it.”

Becky untwisted the leash as Christie wrapped around her leg and trotted away, bending her over sideways. “Doggone it, Christie! Quit pullin'! Your gonna…” She let out a shriek. “Hey! Hey! Git back here!”

She sprinted off, waving her arms. “She got loose, y'all! Tim! Help!”

“Don't let her go!” I hollered, taking off after them. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

“You outta train your dog better!” Becky flailed an arm at me.

“It's your fault! You gave her to me!”

“Christie, you ol' hound!” Tim lunged for her leash, and I watched in horror as the slippery soles of his cowboy boots slid on the grass, sending him careening between two cow pies like a skater on ice. He turned sideways, whooping, and missed them both—then leaped and tumbled after her leash with outstretched arms. Catching the loop between two fingers.

Just as she dashed off again, happily licking Tim's face.

Tim and Becky bounded after her, flashlight bobbing—leaving me in a dome of starlit darkness. And utterly alone.

I stood there for a moment, motionless, and then waited for the moonlight to illuminate slight dips, hills, and spades of silvery grass around my feet. A misty cloud bank had come up over the hills, damp and cool, and the sound of my own breath startled me. Weeds crunched softly under my tennis shoes. An owl hooted from the edge of the forest, a desolate sound. I took a few hesitant steps back, wondering if I could find my way back to the truck in the dark without soiling my shoes with cow manure.

Something snorted behind me, thumping the ground.

I spun around and found myself staring into the nostrils of the biggest cow I'd ever seen—close enough for a blast of its hot, stinky-sweet breath to puff my sideswept bangs off my forehead.

I screamed and leaped back, flinging my arms up. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

The cow jumped, rearing her head, and lurched a few steps backward on the grass, moonlight glimmering in her enormous eyes. She stood there staring, chewing her cud like a Tastee Freez waitress jawing watermelon bubble gum.

Then she inched forward with another snort and sniffed my hair. The audacity!

“Go on!” I squirmed away and hollered for Tim and Becky, but all I heard was Christie's distant barks.

Two more cows loped over, curious, and I put my hands on my hips, angry breath flaring. What was this, some kind of small-town circus? I needed to get home and finish my articles. Southern initiation bah-humbug. Becky could say all she wanted about fun in the South, but I drew the line at cud-scented cow breath.

Wait. Didn't Tim say cows slept at night? Maybe they were sleepwalking. I craned my neck to see their bulging eyes in the darkness.

I twisted around to see across the rest of the moonlit field, but no sign of Tim and Becky. Just cows. And a few more loping over, shadow-like, their hooves making a soft swishing sound in the grass.

Maybe I could just…touch one. Really fast. And see if it tipped over like Tim told me.

And then I could get my tail out of the cow pasture and reward myself back home with a hot bath and an even hotter cup of my favorite Japanese green tea.

I wiped sweaty palms on my jeans and inched forward.

“Shah-loh?” Becky called from across the pasture. “We got yer knothead dog. She ran after some ugly ol' possum. Shoulda seen him!”

“Shh!” I waved her away in a loud whisper, reaching out a trembling index finger. “You'll break my concentration.”

“Shah-loh?”

I found cow fur and pushed, hiding my face with my free arm.

Nothing. The cow just stood there munching. I uncovered my face and blinked in surprise then pushed against her warm, fuzzy side with two hands.

Nope. She didn't budge.

I leaned against her with all my weight, grunting with the effort. “What's the matter with you?” I complained through gritted teeth. “Aren't you supposed to tip over?”

A flashbulb and a snicker startled me, and the cow jumped back with a snort. A low chorus of moos filtered up from the field, and my bovine friends grunted and stamped in irritation.

“Becky Donaldson? Tell me you didn't.” I backed away, horrified, as Becky's shadowy figure held out something like a cell phone. “If a picture like that gets out, I'm sunk.”

Silence.

“Becky?” I whirled around. “Where are you?”

“Shush!” she whispered fiercely, dropping down on the grass as dark clouds covered the moon, like a bad omen. “He'll see ya!”

“Who'll see me?”

“That big bull over there! He don't like no one messin' with his cows. I thought Ron had him penned up.”

“What bull? I didn't see a bull.”

As soon as I said it, I heard him. He gave a low, angry bellow, and suddenly the thud of heavy hooves pounded on the ground. Louder and louder, rising to a low thunder as the cows scattered in all directions.

“They're gonna stampede!” Becky screamed, jumping up and jerking me by the arm. “Ruuuuun!”

B
ecky Donaldson!” I hollered, sprinting across the field so fast I knocked into Becky, nearly bumping her to the ground. “You're in so much trouble!”

“I don't care, so long as we get outta here alive!” Becky pushed me ahead, yelling for Tim to open the gate. “What on earth got into ya?”

I screamed and swerved around a cow pie, hearing a furious snort not far behind me—and a loud pounding of hooves. Dust rose up from the grass, making us cough.

“You're the one who told me they tip over!” I lunged for the gate as raindrops began to spatter, making the grass slick. I slipped and slid, muddying my jeans as I fell and scrambled back up. “It was your idea in the first place!”

“You gotta be kiddin'! Cow tippin' ain't nothin' but a joke.” Becky gasped, out of breath. “We weren't really gonna let ya do it!”

“Are you crazy?” I whirled around, furious. “I can't see a thing! It's too dark!”

“Watch out!” Becky shoved me through the open gate and tried to shove it closed behind her. Tim hollered from the other side and then jumped away as the cows stormed right through the gate, snapping it in pieces like rotten cardboard. Two cows barreled past me at full speed, so fast my hair and clothes flapped. The ground shook, rumbled. Leaves rained down from the black walnut and sugar maple trees as dark shadows fled, en masse, through the trampled gate. Too many to count.

“They're everywhere!” Tim shouted, pulling Christie out of the way. “They're gonna make a big mess outta Faye's yard and ev'rything else. Quick! Call Ron!”

“I can't find my cell phone!” Becky patted all her pockets. “It musta fell out.”

“What?” I shrieked. “With
my
picture on it?”

“Great day in the mornin'. Here comes the bull.” Becky grabbed me by the arm as the smell of rain wafted over the damp grass. “Quick! Git in the truck!”

Good thing I was a runner, or I wouldn't have made it.

Tim jerked up Christie and sprinted, throwing open the driver's side truck door. Becky sailed inside with Tim close on her heels, and I lunged for the back door handle. The moon's reflection in the glass shook as the bull charged, roaring.

“Good gravy! Git in the truck, Shah-loh!” Tim squawked, reaching out the open window. “He's gonna pound us all!”

“It's stuck again!” I tore at the metal handle, banging and yelling. “Let me in!”

Becky screamed. Christie barked, scratching at the glass. I clawed my way up into the bed of the truck in raw panic, gasping for breath, and pounded on the top of the cab. “Go! Go!”

Tim stepped on the gas and squealed out of the yard, making deep tracks in the dirt and throwing up clumps of grass. He careened into the street at top speed while I hung on to the cab for dear life, hugging it with filthy arms and legs. My jeans stained and one knee torn, and a shoelace hanging limp.

The truck sailed around the curve, past a cornfield, and down a side street lined with fragrant oaks, my hair flying out behind me as the rain picked up.

Just in time to see blue lights flash against the back glass.

“Not again,” I moaned, my teeth rattling as Tim eased over to the side of the road, his tires bumping over gravel. I covered my head as rain spattered down, moistening the dusty asphalt. Wasn't it enough that somebody called the police on me last year for eavesdropping outside my own house?

Some small town this was. Nobody can catch the vandals spray painting Amanda Cummings's name and stuffing fake flowers in mailboxes, but law-abiding Shiloh P. Jacobs gets two visits from the cops.

At least he hadn't caught me driving on the left side of the road, an old tic I occasionally carried over from my Japan days.

The police car stopped behind Tim's truck, blinding me with his headlights and flashlight. I heard the squad car door squeak open and shut, and footsteps crunched across the gravel.

“Well, well, well.” He shined his light on my face, revealing a blondish buzz cut on the other side of the rain-pricked light. “Shiloh P. Jacobs. We meet again. What on earth are you doin'?”

I raised my head, humiliated. “Ask Tim and Becky, okay? It's not my fault.”

Light rain spattered down, turning my windblown hair into damp strings. I hugged myself, shivering.

Tim rolled down the window and stuck his head out, hastily turning down the bluegrass on the stereo, but Shane ignored him. “Naw. This is too good. Lemme guess.” He shined his light on my dirty jeans and manure-stained tennis shoes, raindrops swiping through the beam. “Snipe hunting?”

“Cut it out.”

Becky handed me my black leather jacket through the window, and I reached for it, slipping in the wet truck bed. I shrugged on my jacket and plopped down on the side of the truck, fuming.

“Fishin' outta the Gypsy Hill Park duck pond?” Shane winked and reached over the side of the truck to rub a smear of something—hopefully dirt—off my cheek with his thumb. “You can git fined for that, ya know.”

I hate this town
. I brushed Shane's hand away, squinting miserably as headlights from a passing Chevette swept over us in a slow swipe of brilliance. Some rubbernecker gawked out the window.

“Hold up.” Shane pulled out his vibrating cell phone from his uniform shirt pocket and clicked through it, shielding it from the rain with his hand. “Is this you, Shiloh?” He jerked his head up, chewing on a toothpick. “Are you cow tippin'?”

“Is what me?” I swiped for his cell phone, furious.

“This pitcher! I jest got a pitcher from Becky.” He leaned inside the cab and tipped his head toward her. “Beckers? You send me a pitcher of Shiloh here pushing over a cow?”

Oh please. No. NO
.

My new cell phone—Adam's surprise gift to me after I'd borrowed his old one for more than a year—rested in my jeans pocket, and I reached for it with sweaty hands. “That's impossible. Becky dropped her phone back at Faye's.”

I flipped it open and turned it on.N
EW MESSAGE FROM
B
ECKY
D
ONALDSON,
read the text above the envelope icon. I clicked. And there I stood—in all my cow-tipping glory. Both hands pushing against her furry side.

“Becky!” I hollered, scrambling to my feet in the bed of the truck.

“One of them cows musta stepped on it!” she called from inside of the truck, her voice frantic. “I swear I don't have my phone on me. I dropped it back in the field somewhere. Ya think it sent yer pitcher to ev'rybody on my list?”

“Becky!” I bellowed again, barely noticing the rubbernecking Chevette pull over to the side of the road, engine still running.

Shane hooted, slapping his knee. “So that's what this is all about. Good one, Donaldson!” He reached up to the window and fist-bumped Tim's hand. “Jest tell her to stay down in the bed of the truck on a public road next time, ya hear?” He glanced up. “And git outta the rain. For pity's sake.”

“Oh, I'll tell her. But it ain't like she'll listen anyhow.” Tim stuck his head out the window and twisted around to grin at me. “Hey, Shane, ya got any idea how we can git Ron's cows back in the pen?” He waved Shane over to the window. “They sorta busted down the fence. Know where I can get a hay bale?”

“Yep. A hay bale will do it. Works every time.” Shane pointed over a tree-lined ridge as the rain let up. “My brother-in-law's got a couple. Hold on. I'll see if he's home.” And he picked up his cell phone, still snickering.

I was pacing back and forth in the bed of the truck, livid and fuming under my breath, when somebody jumped out of the parked Chevette and rushed up to the truck.

Ahem.
Meg West's
Chevette.

“Shiloh?” Meg, photographer at Staunton's
News Leader
newspaper where I worked, gawked up at me, shielding her eyes from the police lights. “Shiloh Jacobs? What on earth are you doing?” She wrinkled her freckled nose. “You're filthy!”