Slade gave up, sitting down next to Roxie on a redwood bench at the picnic table. “I hate chickens.” He was frustrated enough that it bore repeating.
Behind Slade, Roxie had attached a fish net, abalone shells, and driftwood to the wall of the house. Roxie had worked most of her life as a fisherman...fisherwoman...a woman of the sea. And yet, she’d retired to the base of the mountains.
Flynn sank onto the bench across from Slade. “You know, Abby was bred to herd sheep. Maybe she could herd chickens.” He’d left Truman’s dog in the truck with the windows down, in case she decided she liked the taste of live chicken more than she liked chasing after live chickens.
Slade was ready to give Abby a try. They needed reinforcements.
Across from Slade, Truman swung his legs under the table with gleeful intensity. “We’ve never had to catch chickens before. Only over-the-hill poodles and stray kittens.”
“Still haven’t caught any,” Roxie noted drily. “And I prefer you don’t use the dog. Besides, I hear she smells like skunk. That’ll put my hens off laying their eggs for days.”
“Is that on top of the week from us exhausting them?” Flynn winked at his nephew.
The twins stood near a cherry-tomato bush. A couple of times, Slade had stopped chasing chickens to watch his daughters break down in gasps of laughter.
“Huh.” Truman looked at Faith and Grace. He seemed an honorary twin, so good was he at reading them. He communicated with them by using hand gestures and loud, broken English, as if they were deaf. To him, it was a game. To Slade, it was a weight he couldn’t seem to lift from his chest.
Faith whispered to Grace. Grace whispered back. They approached the picnic table.
“We might as well try whatever idea the girls have come up with.” Truman shrugged.
Flynn and Slade exchanged glances and then looked at the twins.
“Use the net,” Faith said.
Grace pointed to the fishing net draped on the wall behind them.
Truman stared at the net. “You’re brilliant.”
“What took you so long?” Flynn resettled his baseball cap on his head and stood.
Slade couldn’t stop grinning.
A few minutes later, holding the fishing net between them, with the kids flushing chickens out of the side yard, Flynn and Slade swept all the chickens back into the coop.
“Good idea, girls,” Slade congratulated his daughters as he drove to the next destination on their list—the Mionetti sheep ranch. Flynn was better at electrical and was going to Mildred’s to work on her malfunctioning stove. “I bet you don’t see many chickens in New York City. Or skunks.”
They didn’t answer him. Slade’s grin faded, leaving his cheeks feeling worn-out.
When they got to Mionetti’s, the twins petted the elderly man’s half blind, half dead sheep dog. Slade climbed up onto the roof, turning the antenna in every possible direction, thanks to Mionetti yelling garbled instructions through the chimney. When they’d adjusted the picture to the old man’s satisfaction, he gave the girls green pellets and let them hand feed a few lambs in his flock.
Which was a hit on the giggle meter, until Grace curled the pellets into her palm instead of flat-handing it and a lamb nipped her skin.