Raspberries and Vinegar (A Farm Fresh Romance Book 1) (13 page)

“I emptied it yesterday. Four more.” Claire took a deep breath. “If the steel wool is working, I’m afraid to think what it would be like otherwise.” A mouse shot across the floor and disappeared behind the garbage can.

C
laire kicked the corner of the live trap with her toe. Something scuffled.

Pretty serious when they’d caught so many that Sierra didn’t shriek for every single one anymore. Jo didn’t even want to add up the number. Her brain veered away from the knowledge.

“Wh-what kind of action are you thinking of?” asked Sierra. “I thought you said we’d tried everything.”

“Everything humane.” Claire pitched an oven mitt at the step-on garbage can, but the mouse didn’t reappear.

Oh no. Jo could see where this was going next.

Sierra backed up a couple steps, dragging the chair with her. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve tried snap traps. And the live trap. And steel wool around the pipes. They’re still getting in somewhere.” Claire retrieved her oven mitt.

Jo held up a hand. “I’m allergic to cats. Really. Hives and everything.”

“I don’t want a cat anyway.” Claire tossed the mitt into the laundry hamper. “I’d still have to scrub counters all the time because you can never be sure the cat hasn’t walked on them.”

It would have been silent except for the little scratching noise from behind the garbage can.

Sierra cleared her throat. “Are there any other options?”

Claire’s gaze met Jo’s. “Just poison.”

“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” Sierra looked from one to the other. “Could we? I mean, that goes against everything we believe in.”

“
Mice
go against everything we believe in,” Claire said shortly.

They couldn’t get into the new house soon enough, and the foundation wasn’t even due to be poured until next week. Months and months of the trailer remained. Months and months of mice.

“I don’t like the idea.” Jo chewed her lip. “I really don’t.”

“I’m open to a better one. If you’ve got something up your sleeve, this would be a good time to mention it.” Claire jerked open the cutlery drawer.

“I think—if that’s what it takes.” Sierra loosened her grip slightly. “I mean, if we don’t have other choices.”

Jo looked at Claire helplessly. She loathed giving in on something like this, their first major crossroads, but... “What would people think? I mean, we’ve made such a big deal about doing everything so eco-friendly.”

The mouse scrambled across the floor and Claire lobbed a table knife at it. “We don’t have to phone the newspaper and tell them.” She missed, but only by an inch or two. The rodent scurried to safety behind the trap.

Yeah, but what if someone found out anyway? Jo hated to admit defeat. Sheer willpower ought to be enough. Um, and a little prayer. She’d prayed about the mice, too. At least as often as she’d cleaned out the trap. Maybe not often enough?

“Action, Jo. That’s what we need.” Claire grabbed another utensil from the drawer and readied it for the next mouse she saw.

Looked like every piece of cutlery they owned would bounce along the floor before long. Jo’s turn to do dishes, too.

Sierra pushed the chair back into place. “So you want to buy poison? Is that what you’re asking?”

Jo laughed. “It will never stay a secret in this town, I can promise you that. The guy who sold me the live trap already knew all about us.” Or thought he did.

“I’m all over that.” Claire shifted closer to the garbage can, fork at the ready. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m prepared. I got a few packages last time I was in Wynnton.”

A
sinking feeling settled in Jo’s gut. But what else could they do? Claire was right. It wasn’t healthy to keep living the way they were, and there seemed no end to the creatures. “What do the directions say?”

“Open the package and put it in a dry place where mice will find it.”

The rodent made a run for it, and the fork clattered off the wall mere fractions of an inch away. The mouse disappeared. To have a heart attack, Jo hoped. Or to tell all his buddies how perilous it was in the kitchen.

“But... poison.” Sierra stared at the corner the gray creature had ripped around. “We don’t really want it in the kitchen, do we? Even though that’s where they seem to hang out.”

Claire retrieved the cutlery and dropped them into the sink. Soapy suds puffed up, releasing bleach vapor. “No, you’re right. Not in the kitchen.”

“Under the trailer?” Jo suggested. “I was going to go back under there with another box of steel wool today. Maybe I haven’t packed it around the pipes and wires tightly enough.”

Claire regarded her thoughtfully. “That’s a good spot. Here, I’ll just wipe off the counters again so we can make breakfast. I’ll set the package on the landing outside before we leave. Sure you don’t want to come along?”

Jo shook her head. “No thanks. But have a good time.”

***

Zach strode across the hospital parking lot toward the physical therapy unit, still high on a great interview. Albert Warren was the nicest guy imaginable, the clinic immaculate and up to date. Corinne, thankfully, turned out to be a middle-aged mother of teenagers, so there was no danger of a repeat episode. What an awesome opportunity.

His cell phone jangled. Could they possibly have decided to hire him this quickly? But he didn’t recognize the number on the display. “Zachary Nemesek here.”

“Ah, Zach, my boy.”

Zach’s stomach fell.
Doc Taubin
. How was he going to tell the old guy?
He made an effort to put some brightness in his voice, though his mood suddenly matched the weather. Somber. Dripping. “Hi there. How’s it going?”
Please say they can’t schedule the surgery any time soon.

“I just heard back from my GP. Somebody had to cancel so they were able to move my hip replacement up to next week Monday. May seventeenth. Isn’t that great news?”

Couldn’t get much worse. “Wow, that’s fast.” Zach ducked under the overhang by the main entrance to get out of the drizzle.

“He knows I’ve been waiting a long time. Thanks so much for giving me this chance, Zach. Can you come in this afternoon and I’ll start showing you around?”

Zach’s brain raced. “Um, sorry. I’m in Coeur d’Alene. On my way up to see Dad right now, actually.” Should he tell Doc Taubin about the possible job? Call Albert Warren back and ask for a delay? What?

“Well, tomorrow’s soon enough. Greet your dad for me.”

“Will do.” Zach swiped the cell off and stared out at the gray rain glancing off the gray pavement in front of the gray building across the street. He’d screwed up, plain and simple. He never should have agreed to fill in for Doc Taubin, but it wasn’t right to leave him in the lurch now. Maybe he should text some of his buddies and see if anyone wanted a stint as a farm vet. He mentally scanned his class yearbook.
Nah
. City kids, every one.

On the other hand, the position at East Spokane was absolutely perfect. What he’d always wanted. This would be the perfect time to seek guidance if he thought God was listening. Apparently He wasn’t.

“The doctors suspect I contracted Guillain-Barré Syndrome from contaminated water at the feedlot.”

Zach stretched his legs alongside his dad’s bed. “I thought it wasn’t traceable.”

His dad shrugged. “They’re not certain, but there’s plenty to suggest a link with cattle farms. Most people can fight this bug, but apparently I’m one of a tiny percentage who get an auto-immune reaction.”

“It’s pretty strong stuff, I guess. How’s PT going?”

Dad grimaced. “I feel like a baby learning to walk, only I’m not as resilient as they are. I’ve got a session in half an hour. Want to come watch your old man flounder?”

As if
. It was hard enough seeing his strong father bedridden. “No, sorry. Have to get back to the farm. The field work calls.”

“Your mother says you’re going to fill in for Wally’s hip surgery. That’s wonderful news, son.”

“About that.” Zach leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve got a little problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. See, I left a résumé at East Spokane Vet Clinic back before all this happened. They called me for an interview.”

His dad frowned but said nothing.

Zach pushed ahead. “I just came from there. The head vet is a great guy and the clinic looks really well run. I’m almost certain he’s going to offer me the job. Remember I got the president’s award? Well, Doc Warren got it back in his day, too.”

Dad sank back against his pillows, but his eyes searched Zach’s face. “I see.”

Hope lightened Zach’s heart at the understanding expression. “I’m not sure how to tell Doc Taubin. If I get the job, that is.”

“You do have a dilemma.”

Zach nodded. God might not be talking, but Dad was. He leaned forward.

“What do you think you should do, son?”

Not questions. Answers. “I was hoping you could tell me that.”

His dad shook his head. “You’re twenty-seven years old, Zachary. You’ve been on your own for years. This is a decision you need to weigh carefully and prayerfully, not something I, or anyone else, can make for you.”

“But...” Zach scanned his dad’s face then looked down at the floor. Watched the toe of his shoe trace a pattern on the tiles. He took a deep breath. “I’ve made some really dumb choices the last while. I don’t trust myself.”

“You don’t need to, son. You know that. Depend on God. He’s reliable.”

He should have known that would be Dad’s answer. Not much help. Didn’t Dad know how much this job meant to him?

“It’s your decision.”

He tried avoiding eye contact, but something in the soft, sad words snagged Zach’s eyes and wouldn’t let go. For a man who couldn’t walk, Dad was very strong. Compassion flooded his father’s eyes. Understanding. But also an unflinching knowledge of what was right.

Zach dragged his gaze away, focusing on his shoe scuffing the floor. He’d once held firm to what he knew was right, but it had become w
earisome during his college years. Easier to run with the crowd, though he’d maintained a reputation for staying aloof and not participating.

He hadn’t given in to Yvette. He wasn’t such a horrible person.

What kind of recommendation was that?
Not a horrible person
. Was that how he wanted to be known? He took a long, shuddering breath. No. Dad was right. To respect himself, he had to do better. He had to
be
a good person. An honest man. A trustworthy man.

Was he willing to go all the way and become a God-centered man?

***

Jo couldn’t get the passion of Zach’s kiss out of her mind. Every instant not filled with something else — like spreading the mouse poison — had become a replay of the moment they’d shared. Over and over she sought a different way for it to end. For her not to have slapped him. For him not to have needed it. Sure, he said he hadn’t kissed her to shut her up, but what else could it have been?

Stop it.

Nothing good could come of dwelling in that moment. She wasn’t a teen to drool over the cute guy who’d finally noticed her. She was mature, a woman.

And what a man he was.

Yes, but a man who did not walk with God, who did not value rural life, or the works of God’s hands.

Jo stared up at Zach’s tree house through the mist. How had her feet carried her right to
this
golden willow? Had his dad helped his son build the fort? Had Gabe Rubachuk played here, too? She envisioned two young boys clambering around in the tree, swinging off the rope, pretending they were... what? Pirates? Cowboys?

The rope beckoned. She grasped it once more and hauled herself up on chilly strands shimmering with rain. When she stepped onto the slick planks, her feet shot out from under her.
Oh, noooo
. There was nothing to grab but the spindly railing, but as she rammed into it, it splintered in her hands.
 

The willow’s branches did nothing to temper Jo’s fall as she swept downward. When she hit the ground, everything went black.

***

Zachary pulled away from the curb at his Coeur d’Alene apartment. He drove down Sherman in the heart of downtown, quaint cafés and trendy businesses on either side. Even at this time of day, the city bustled. He passed the theater, its sign unanimated in the early afternoon.

Galena Landing’s theater seats had lost their padding, but what did that
matter? Movies didn’t arrive in the valley until they’d been out everywhere else for a couple of months. Netflix was easier and faster.

Two different worlds. He’d chosen the city, but the other still tugged and wouldn’t let go. What did he really want? Things that didn’t go together, obviously. Convenience…and quiet hillsides. Enough money for comfort... and life in the country. Peace... and Jo. Polar opposites, in every case.

He turned onto Highway 95 and headed north, watching for the first drive through. There’d been nothing worth scavenging in his fridge or cupboard, and it wasn’t like he could get this much variety back home. He paused. Since when had he started thinking of the farm as home again? Scary thought.

The speaker crackled as Zach ordered two triple bacon cheeseburger meals with the works. He idled the car forward in line. Why hadn’t Dad given him any solid advice? Something real and substantial—not merely a reminder to pray about things? If Zach could put words in his father’s mouth, what would the words have been?

Dad would’ve said, “Son, you made a promise to Doc Taubin before you had this interview. An honorable man keeps his word.”

So maybe Zach didn’t want to hear Dad’s counsel.

He paid the cashier, wedged waxed drink containers into cup holders, and accepted bags of greasy, salty heaven. He snatched a handful of blistering hot French fries and eased back into traffic.

And what was
God
going to say if Zach sincerely wanted an answer?

Oh, man. He didn’t even want to go there. Asking for God’s direction would get way more complicated. It wouldn’t end with which job he should take. It wouldn’t end with where he should live. It wouldn’t even end with Jo and her enviro-crazy ways. God was going to want to meddle in every facet of Zach’s life.