Chapter Twenty-Eight

If Carina was happy with Amalia and Donovan's trades, she was even happier to have her jennets home. For several days after their return, she could be found in the paddock or the barn, talking to her animals, inspecting hooves and ears, checking coats for ticks and sores, and making liberal use of the currycomb. "What would you have done if I'd brought you the alpaca you keep asking for?" Amalia teased.

"You wouldn't see me at all, which would leave you to do your own cooking," Carina answered as she rubbed oil into an old saddle she had found in the barn. "But at least the cooking is easy right now, with all the goodies you brought from town. You did really well."

They were in the barn and Amalia pretended great interest in the condition of a harness hook.

Her shift in mood wasn't lost on Carina. "Donovan is pretty good at trading."

"Yes. He's quite the charmer."

"We shouldn't send him anywhere with Gonzales any more. He's a little too earthy and Donovan needs a more steady influence."

"That's true, even if it's not exactly what I meant."

"There's more?"

Amalia sighed. "Just that he's quite the charmer."

Suddenly everything was clear. "He's got a good heart. I doubt he would ever mean to hurt anyone."

"Of course not. But those grasshopper types who never think about the consequences of their behavior. . ."

"It's a problem, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Carina put down her rag. "As long as we don't take him too seriously," she said, "I don’t think we have to stop enjoying his company. He works hard and he means no harm."

Amalia turned away and affected nonchalance. "That's not what I meant at all. I just don't want him causing trouble for any of our friends or trading partners. He's going to pull a trick on the wrong person some day and get shot for it, and I won't be the least bit sorry."

Carina smiled to herself as Amalia walked outside, then she picked up her rag and returned to her work.

* * *

The brisk blue skies and golden poplars of November worked their magic on Donovan. After his adventures in Macrina, the simplicity of plants, wells, fences and animals was invigorating. He found himself humming old tunes as he went about his work cleaning milking equipment, drying fall herbs and vegetables, mending fences and checking the traps. What had he ever liked about urban life? Compared to the grotesqueries and degradations the nation's dying cities, this was heaven.

Sometimes he and Carina would hitch one of the jennies to a cart and trade with the valley neighbors, exchanging squashes, beans and different types of hay. Who could've guessed there could be so many varieties of all these things? But no, an acorn squash was not a pumpkin, a pinto bean was not a black bean and alfalfa was too rich for daily feed and must be traded for brome and timothy.

It was all new and surprisingly interesting.

Under Amalia's direction, he re-plastered one of the low adobe walls on the property. He trapped a rabbit for Carina to make into a stew. He refurbished an old truck wheel for one of the carts. He helped wash raw wool and learned how to keep it from felting in hot water. One afternoon he built a hammock in the garden with some rope he found in a shed. The sisters had a grand time trying to enjoy it together without being tipped into the fallow cabbage bed. In the evenings when Carina turned on the electric light so Amalia could read to them, he struggled with his knitting, trying to extend his ramshackle scarf into an even more questionable afghan. Well, it didn't have to look good to keep him warm. When he needed a break from counting stitches, he admired the peaceful domestic scene— the two women, one reading from a novel called Vanity Fair, the other mending a shirt or working the drop spindle while the tabby dozed in a nearby chair or a friendly lap. It was all very cozy and comforting.

* * *


"So," Carina said one morning over cornmeal pancakes flavored with some of the Petersons' honey, "What are we going to do about Thanksgiving?"

"I don't see why we have to do anything different from any other day," Amalia said. "If we're not thankful the rest of the year, we're not going to make up for it with just one dinner."

"That's not the point, and you know it." Carina pondered. "What can we do this year? Cornmeal stuffing, obviously, but I hate to kill one of the chickens, and no one around here raises turkeys."

"Will quail do?" Donovan asked. "I'm not so good with a bow and arrow, but if you've got enough ammo, I can shoot some. I see coveys out there all the time."

Carina nodded. "Yes, I think quail would do. And there's that can of cranberries you got in Macrina."

"I'm curious to try those. I didn't know what they were but Diana said I should take them."

"She's a clever girl. She'll make someone a terrific wife one day."

"That's if she wants to marry at all," Amalia said. "She'd probably be better off if she didn't, given her prospects around here. But then, she did express an interest in Donovan."

"Oh did she?" Carina gave him a wicked smile. "When's the date?"

"Sometime after she reaches puberty, I would think.”

"Speaking of the Petersons," Amalia cut in, "Do you want to invite them? They've done us several favors this year."

Carina brightened. "That's a good idea." She turned to Donovan. "How good are you with a shotgun? We'll need a lot of those quail if we're going to invite your little girlfriend and her family."

"I can get as many as you need. They're all over the place. Nothing's too good for my girlfriend."

Amalia rolled her eyes. "I'll see if I can get us some potatoes," she said, changing the subject. "We had no luck in town, which was odd, but the McKnights usually have some."

"I haven't had a potato in awhile," Carina said. "I wonder how their animals are doing?"

"I’m sure they wouldn't mind a friendly house call." Amalia stood up. "I guess that settles it. I'll go to the Peterson's tomorrow and invite them."

* * *

"Have you ever hunted quail?" Amalia asked, watching as Donovan inspected the shotgun.

"I've hunted game before."

"But have you hunted quail? Without a dog?"

Carina was nearby, sorting through her father's hunting gear. "Gonzales has a good pointer," she said. "Maybe we—"

"No." Amalia's voice was firm.

Donovan sighed. "I haven't ever hunted quail, with or without a dog."

Carina had found what she was looking for— a canvas bag that could hold as many as a dozen birds. She looked at Amalia. "Maybe you should go with him. He won't get as many if he tries to do it alone."

"He can throw rocks to flush them out," Amalia said. "He'll just have to make sure he finds them if he hits them."

"Maybe we should just kill a couple chickens."

Donovan took the bag out of Carina's hands and looked it over. "I shouldn't have much trouble finding the dead quail," he said. "There's not so much ground cover as all that."

"And where do you think your going to find them, if not where the ground cover is thickest?" Amalia wanted to know.

"I've seen them. I know where they hang out."

Carina put a hand on Amalia's arm before she could say more. "Let him see how he does. If he can't get enough quail, we'll go with chicken. It won’t be the end of the world."

Next>>

 <<Previous