At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [42]
Lindsay shrugged. “But it’s old. It was in the cubby behind the wall in the guest room where they used to store firewood. I also found a cool pair of brass andirons.”
“Good.” Cici dropped the package on the sofa. “Because we’re going to need them. I heard on the radio coming back that the temperature is really going to drop tonight. It’s going to stay cold all weekend, too. Wouldn’t you know? Just when we promised Paul and Derrick a lovely spring weekend in the mountains. I’m going to start bringing in some firewood.”
Lindsay followed her through the house to the kitchen. “How cold is it going to get?”
“In the twenties tonight, the teens tomorrow.”
Bridget was just taking the scones out of the oven and the kitchen was filled with the aroma of creamy vanilla and blueberries. She turned when Cici spoke, holding the baking sheet in her mittened hands. “What did you say?”
Lindsay went straight to the refrigerator and took out the butter dish. Cici filled the kettle and put it on to boil. “A cold front is moving in this afternoon. It’s not going to get above freezing all weekend.”
Bridget’s eyes went in disbelief to the window, where an emerald meadow, unfurling green leaves, and snowy blossoms testified to the fact that this was definitely spring. “But . . . everything is in bloom! The fruit trees, the berries, the flowers . . . they’ll all freeze!”
Lindsay, who was impatiently plucking the hot scones from Bridget’s baking sheet into a napkin-lined basket, paused. “Oh-oh,” she said. “I didn’t think about that. My roses are starting to bud, too. I’ll have to cover them.”
“We can cover the blueberries and the hydrangea bushes,” Bridget said. “But we’ll have to cut all the flowers and bring them inside.”
“You don’t cover blueberries,” Ida Mae said, coming into the kitchen from the pantry. “They need the cold to make. Same with blackberries and raspberries. You just leave ’em alone. Mother Nature has a plan.”
“What about the cherry trees and the pears?” Cici said. “They’re just starting to bloom. Does Mother Nature have a plan for them, too?”
Ida Mae shrugged. “They’ll either live, or die. I told you it was too dang early to be shearing sheep.”
The kettle started to shriek and Cici lifted it from the stove, pouring hot water over the tea bags in three cups. Lindsay put the basket of scones on the table and Bridget put away the baking pan, and for a moment the significance of Ida Mae’s last words were lost on them. It was as one that the three of them turned again toward the window, and the view of twenty-five naked sheep peacefully scattered over the meadow.
“Oh, my,” moaned Lindsay.
“The sheep,” gasped Bridget.
“What about the sheep?” Lori, who could be counted upon to respond to the scent of baked goods from anywhere on the property, came in from the back porch and helped herself to a scone.
“Those are for company,” Cici said. She took one for herself and sat down, reaching for the butter knife.
Bridget looked worried as she told Lori, “It’s going to get cold tonight.”
Lori said, “We’ll bring the sheep into the barn. It’s a mess to clean up in the morning, but we’ve done it before. “
“But,” Bridget said, “that was when they had wool.” She sat down and pulled her cup of tea toward her, her forehead furrowed as she absently dunked the tea bag.
Lindsay took a scone and slathered it with butter. Steam rose from the crevices as the pale sweet butter turned to liquid, and Lindsay bit into it, smothering a moan of delight. “Oh, I hope you made more of these.”
But Lori, with her own scone poised before her lips, hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“She means,” interjected Ida Mae, setting a glass of milk in front of Lori with a thud, “that unless you figure out a way to get heat in that barn, them sheep is going to be dropping like icicles off a roof.”
Lori stared at her. “You mean—they could freeze?”
“Dead,” confirmed Ida Mae.
Lori turned a frantic look on Cici, who was buttering her second scone. “We can’t heat a barn!” she objected before Lori could speak. “And even if we could, it wouldn