A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [99]
She blinked. “What? What did you say about Katie?”
The silence was heavy with self-recrimination. “She didn’t want you to know,” he said in a moment. “So don’t let on, okay? I’ve been sending her a little every month, to help with the rent.”
“Which you wouldn’t have to do if I’d moved to Chicago,” Bridget said slowly, “instead of buying this house.”
“Well, it sounds like things are not working out as well as you’d hoped on that end, either,” he said. “So maybe by the first of the year you’ll reconsider.”
She said absently, “Yes. Maybe.”
“In the meantime, if you need help making the insurance payment, I guess I could scrape together a little . . .”
“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly. “Don’t you dare. It’s not even due for a couple of months. I’ll think of something by then. It’s no big deal, really.”
“Well . . . happy birthday, again.”
“It’s not until Tuesday. But thank you anyway. Wish I could see you. Maybe at Thanksgiving?”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you know.”
She smiled into the phone. “You’re a wonderful boy. I’m really proud of you.”
“Good to hear you say that, Mom. Let’s talk soon, okay? We’ll make plans for the holidays.”
“You bet. Take care.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, Kev.” But even after he had hung up, she stood there holding the phone to her chest, staring at the bill, thinking about Kate, until Lindsay came in from her studio, rubbing her hands together against the cold and inquiring about lunch. Bridget smiled quickly and pretended everything was all right, but it wasn’t. And it was about to get worse.
Every afternoon around four thirty Lindsay put the fawn, who inevitably had been named Bambi, into his pen for the night, while Bridget fed the dog and checked on the sheep. Cici had fashioned a lean-to against the side of the house with two pieces of plywood and some tarp to provide the deer a refuge from the weather, but Lindsay worried it wasn’t enough.
“Noah said they can freeze,” she said. “What are we going to do when it snows?”
“Noah is a teenager,” replied Cici, tacking down a corner of the tarp with a finishing nail. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face and she used her shoulder to push it away. “We’ll put him in the barn at night when I get the roof fixed. Meanwhile, he’s a deer, not a house pet. He’ll be fine.”
Lindsay stroked the nubby head while the deer nibbled a carrot from her hand. “Maybe I should get more hay.”
Cici started to reply, but they both turned at the sound of a cry. It was Bridget, running across the yard toward them. Her jeans and her shoes were spattered with mud and her jacket flapped open behind her; her face was taut with distress. “Cici! Lindsay!”
They hurried out of the pen and Bridget reached them, gasping. “We’ve got to call a vet. It’s Bandit, he’s not moving, and his eyes are all rolled back—”
“Bandit?” parroted Lindsay.
“The dog?” said Cici at the same time. Neither of them could remember what the dog’s current name was.
Bridget shook her head, grasping Cici’s arms. “The sheep. His breathing is funny, he won’t move, he’s really sick, Cici, and I don’t know what to do!”
Cici said, trying to calm her, “Okay. Okay, show me. We’ll see what we can do.”
“I’ll try to find a vet,” Lindsay said, running toward the house.
“Call Farley!” Bridget yelled. “He knows about sheep!”
Lindsay waved affirmative, and Bridget grabbed Cici’s hand, tugging her toward the meadow.
Farley arrived less than five minutes later, bouncing across the yard in his pickup truck, and screeching to a stop at the gate. The sheepdog, with ears pricked forward and eyes fixed on the downed sheep, didn’t even bark when he slammed the door. Cici and Bridget, kneeling helplessly over the muddy mound of tangled wool, straightened up with visible relief as Farley strode through the gate.
He stood over the animal for a moment, chewing his tobacco thoughtfully, then spat on the ground. “Sure looks bad, don’t he?” he commented.
Bridget said desperately,