Riding Shotgun

It was the image of her sloshing through the mud with a rooster and half the chickens in the pen chasing after her for their corn. It was the eggs tumbling from her basket like jumping beans. And that ugly, lopsided wig.

As he opened the gate, the laughter escaped again.

“It wasn’t that funny,” she quipped as he approached her.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed, but...”

Damn, he couldn’t help himself. He tried to swallow the chuckle that didn’t want to let go of him. “Actually, it was pretty funny from my viewpoint,” he admitted.

“If you videotaped it for YouTube, I’ll kill you.”

“No pictures, I swear.”

She was a lot younger than he’d thought from a distance. And the brown hair that had escaped the wig was shiny, nothing like the frizzy black wig.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Just my pride.” She wiped the mud from her right hand onto her jeans. Then she changed the basket to her right hand and did the same with her left hand. He thought she might be planning to shake hands with him, but she made no such move.

Couldn’t blame her. But the show had been hilarious.

He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her. “This might help.”

She took off the glasses and stuck them in her pocket, then used his handkerchief to wipe her face, though mostly it just smeared the mud around like black war paint.

He reached down, pushed her wig back up her forehead.

“What’s with the wig? Were you going incognito so the rooster wouldn’t recognize you?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“Point made.” Probably not a good time to talk about a woman’s appearance when she was splattered with mud.

Jaci finally joined them. She stuck her hands on her hips and stared up defiantly at the mud-encrusted woman.

“Why did you steal those chickens’ eggs? That’s not nice.”

“I didn’t steal them,” the woman protested. “I was just taking them into the house.”

“They belong to the chickens. That’s stealing.”

“You’re right and believe me I won’t do it again if I can help it.” The woman started retrieving the few unbroken eggs from the ground.

“It’s not stealing,” Pierce assured Jaci. “The chickens lay eggs for us to eat. The eggs we buy at the store come from chickens, too.”

Obviously dissatisfied with the explanation, Jaci tugged on the tail of the woman’s jacket until she stopped gathering the eggs and looked down at her.

“If you didn’t steal the eggs, why were all the chickens chasing you?”

“Good question. Ask the chickens.”

“Chickens can’t talk, can they, Daddy?”

“Not any language that I can speak.”

One by one, Pierce stepped on the broken eggs, grinding them under the toe of his boot until the shells were ground like sand and the liquid disappeared into the wet earth.

“Why are you smashing the eggs?” Jaci asked, already joining him in the task.

“So the chickens don’t realize they’re good to eat. Then they might eat all the eggs and not leave any for us.”

“So you’re an expert on chickens as well as women’s wigs,” the woman quipped.

“I’m a multitalented guy.”

“No doubt.”

“Truth is I learned about chickens the same way you just did—the hard way. And in this same pen.”

He picked up the last two good eggs and placed them in her basket. “I’m Pierce Lawrence and this is my curious daughter, Jaci.”

“I’m Grace Addison.” Her tone lost some of its sarcastic edge. “Are you a friend of Esther’s?”

“Practically family.”

“Really? Then you must be one of the famous Lawrence boys Esther mentioned.”

“More like the infamous Lawrence boys. And family might be a slight exaggeration, since I haven’t been around in quite a while.” They left the pen and Pierce latched it behind them. “Give me a minute to grab our luggage from the truck and we’ll walk back to the house with you.”

Grace glanced toward the black double-cab pickup truck he’d bought new in Chicago.

“Why are you parked way out here if you came to see Esther?”

“I wanted to test my new truck on a rough ranch road before I tried it on more rugged terrain.”

He opened the truck and pulled out a child’s backpack.

Jaci reached for it. “I can carry my own toys. I’m strong,” she said.

“Good thing. This backpack is really heavy,” Pierce said, playing along. He helped Jaci fit it on her back, then pulled two duffels from the backseat and slung one over each arm.

“That’s it?” Grace asked.

“Cowboys travel light. Right, Jaci?”

“I’m a cowgirl.”

“How could I forget?”