At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [36]
“How are we going to get out?”
Lindsay looked momentarily nonplussed. “Oh. Okay, you start in that corner and I’ll start in this one and we’ll meet at the door.”
“Better plan.”
Cici sat back on her heels and stared in exasperation at the spot she had been scrubbing for the past twenty minutes. “Well, I give up. I’ve tried everything I know—sanding, bleaching, steel wool, and mineral spirits . . . whatever this is, it’s not coming out.”
Abandoning the stain, Lindsay came over to examine the spot. It was an irregular dark splotch a couple of feet wide, surrounded by smaller, coin-shaped blotches of the same color. “Maybe it’s a defect in the wood,” she suggested.
Cici shook her head. “It’s more like some kind of spill.”
“Maybe the wood stain will cover it.”
“I doubt it. It’s too dark. But I don’t know what else to do, short of replacing the floorboards.”
“Uh, veto that idea. We’ve got to get this finished today, remember? Besides, that’s antique wood. Where are you going to find matching boards?”
Cici sighed. “I suppose. It just seems a shame.”
Ida Mae stood at the doorway. “Don’t look like ya’ll are makin’ much progress,” she commented. “Them men just drove up.”
Lindsay blinked. “What men?”
“About the sheep. Thought you’d want to know who was in your yard.”
“Oh,” Cici said, still preoccupied with the blot on the floor. “Not really. I don’t suppose you have any secret recipes for removing stains from wood floors, do you? I’ve tried everything, and I just can’t get this stain out.”
“Nope,” replied Ida Mae flatly. “And you ain’t gonna get it out either.”
Cici looked at her curiously. “Why not?”
“Because,” said Ida Mae. “It’s blood.”
They were blow-drying their fifth sheep when Bridget looked up to see Farley standing at the door with a man they did not know. Her jeans and sweatshirt were splotched with wet patches, her platinum bob was tangled, her makeup had worn off, and her face was feathered with scraps of curly fleece. Every muscle ached with stiffness and she was as exhausted as she looked. Nonetheless, when she saw company had arrived, she automatically ran a hand over her hair and made an effort to smile.
“Hi, Farley,” she said. She turned off her blow-dryer and nudged Lori, who was using a dog brush to comb out the wool around the sheep’s ears.
Neither man spoke for a moment; they simply stared. The stranger bore a faint though noticeable resemblance to Farley that stopped at his head, which, rather than the perpetual camo cap Farley wore, was covered by a tattered straw hat. He chewed thoughtfully on a matchstick, which he removed from his mouth before speaking.
“Damn,” he said. “I reckon I’ve seen it all now. A beauty parlor for sheep.”
Farley, deadpan, spat into his soda can. “My cousin Zeb. He does sheep.”
Bridget came forward, first wiping her hand on her damp jeans, then extending it. “Nice to meet you, Zeb. Thank you for coming, but”—she glanced helplessly over her shoulder at Lori—“we’re really not ready yet. We didn’t know it was going to take this long.”
Zeb walked forward, his expression thoughtful as he examined the sheep Lori was working on, and looked over the stall door at the four fluffy white specimens who were stored there. He ventured, “Ya’ll taking these sheep to a party?”
Lori, who was at least as tired as Bridget and far past the point of humor, bristled. “Well, you can’t shear wet sheep, can you? We had to dry them somehow.”
He sniffed the air. “They smell funny.”
“Baby shampoo,” Bridget explained, plucking an almost invisible strand of wool from her lips.
Zeb looked at her for a long moment. He looked at Farley. He lifted his straw hat and scratched his bald pate. “You washed the sheep?”
Lori pushed a handful of her straggling hair out of her face and replied, with just the smallest note of condescension, “We can’t sell dirty fleece, can we?”
He said, “How come you didn’t wait till they was sheared and then just wash the fleece?”
For a moment neither Bridget nor Lori reacted. Then their eyes met in a moment of mutual recognition for