At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [37]
Bridget said, very distinctly, “We didn’t have to wash the sheep.”
And Lori agreed in a small voice, “I guess not.”
“We could have just washed the fleece.”
Lori tried to smile. “Guess we should have thought of that.”
Bridget drew a breath as though to say more, stopped herself, and then turned back to Zeb with a smile so stiff it looked as though it might crack.
“Well then,” she said in a voice that was high and tight and far too cheerful. “Shall we get started?”
“What do you mean, blood?” Cici asked.
“Whose blood?” Lindsay demanded, alarmed.
Ida Mae gave her an exasperated glance. “How’m I supposed to know whose blood? Somebody’s, is all.”
Lindsay took a step back from the splotch on the floor, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “But . . . blood. On our floor!”
Cici insisted, “Then how do you know it’s blood? Who told you that?”
Ida Mae shrugged. “Just always knew it, that’s all.”
Cici’s frown was skeptical as she gazed down at the stain. “If you know it’s blood, you must know how it got there.”
“Never said I didn’t.”
Both Lindsay and Cici looked at her expectantly. Ida Mae took a dustcloth from her apron pocket and ran it across the mantelpiece.
“Honestly, Ida Mae, getting information from you is like pulling teeth,” Cici exclaimed. “Well? How did it get here?”
Ida Mae tucked her dustcloth back into her pocket. “Seems like there was some story about somebody shootin’ a Yankee that tried to come in that window yonder.”
Lindsay caught her breath, her eyes going wide. “No kidding? A Yankee?”
Cici cast her a dry look. “Yes, kidding. Unless somebody was still fighting the war at the turn of the century, which was when this house was built.”
Lindsay looked disappointed, but Ida Mae returned smugly, “As much as you know, Miss Smarty-Pants. Like I told that pesky child of yours, there’s been a house here since before Civil War times. Part of it burnt down, but they built it up again. “
Now Cici looked interested. “Really? What part?”
It was Ida Mae’s turn to look annoyed. “I wasn’t around then,” she told her, “and I got to go take my nap. Ya’ll finished making all that racket up here?”
Cici assured her that they were, and Ida Mae moved off toward her downstairs sanctuary.
Lindsay regarded the stain on the floor with new respect. “Well, at least now we don’t have to worry about getting rid of it. You don’t get rid of a piece of history.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about preserving the kind of history where people are shot in your living room,” Cici said uneasily.
Lindsay shrugged. “Times were different back then.”
“I don’t know why you say that. Blood is blood. And dead is dead.”
“And we can’t do anything about what happened here a hundred years ago.”
“You’re right about that.” Cici cheered marginally. “Besides, it is a good story, isn’t it?”
“No one I know has a better one.”
“Okay.” Cici took up a pair of rubber gloves and slapped another into Lindsay’s open palm. “Let’s get started then.”
After a dozen sheep were sheared—which was accomplished in approximately half the time it had taken the two of them to wash even one sheep, exclusive of the blow-drying—even Lori had to admit the advantages of hiring a professional far outweighed those of doing it themselves. Farley looped a hobble around each sheep’s hooves to keep them from struggling, and with a pair of electric shears, Zeb peeled off the thick, furry fleece in a single piece. As the fleece dropped to a clean tarp on the barn floor, Farley released its former owner and a naked sheep trotted away.
“It’s just like unzipping a jacket,” Lori said admiringly. “I don’t suppose you’d let me try it once, would you?”
Zeb replied simply, “Nope.”
“Lori,” Bridget pointed out as she led another sheep into the shearing pen, “we’re paying this man by the hour. Aren’t you supposed to be turning the sheared sheep out to pasture?”
“Right,” Lori said, and hurried after the newly released animal with a rope. “Where’s that dog, anyway?”
Bridget hesitated, looking around. “I don’t know.” She sounded