I think about my mother's voice:You just be you.
I lace my fingers with Bo's on the step.
His fingers fold through mine.
Bo leans over and kisses my forehead, a favorite of mine.
Chapter 21
Veronica Eden
Bo
"You, crazy rooster," Falon's voice carries over the yard, and I laugh despite myself. She and that rooster have issues. He is like a ticking time bomb; you never knew when he would go off. He crowed at three in the morning just as easily as one in the afternoon.
"No, I already gave you worms, don't argue with me, Frank." She continues to berate the bird. My best guess was that she'd given the chickens, and yes, Frank too, some mealworms and scraps from the kitchen, and he was still following her, looking for more.
This morning, she and I split the chores. She had some ordering to do, the farrier was coming, and a meeting with Rusty and Dane to restructure a few of the cattle rotations. This left the pharmacy for Rick's new boot (he broke the old one), Carl's for a sprinkler head, and the garden center for another pot for the front yard. Falon bought some lemongrass and wanted it in a pot by the door to deter the mosquitoes.
When I leave the house, she is watering the horses and still telling Frank, "No.”
"Oh, Bo. Do you mind returning Pearl's and Mrs. Winslow's pie plate? Oh, and could you also swing by the post office? Ed's closing early today so he can meet Miss Olivia for lunch. He mentioned he had a package on hold for us," Falon calls while pushing two of the horses away so she could get hay in their trough. She is so tiny and so feisty. She is the opposite of the common blonde stereotype.
Three things, well, six now. It should have been an hour, max. Now, maybe two, leaving time for conversation. Everwood loved to talk, or more so, pry, without openly prying.
Falon had the farrier coming out for Matrix, so she'd be tied up most of the morning. I kiss the top of her head on my way out and head into town with Rowdy in the passenger seat and the windows down. In Montana, June could go either way. I've seen snow, two inches thick, and hot one-hundred-degree weather all within the same week. Montana was like that; no matter the weather app, weather forecaster, or website, none were ever really right. I loved that.
I drop the dishes off first. Mrs. Winslow answers the door in her housecoat and a pair of reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, and when she sees it is not Falon and me, her expression shifts about three degrees toward disappointment.
"She's tied up with the farrier this morning," I say before she can ask.
"Mm." She takes the pie plate and looks at me over her glasses. "Are you eating enough?"
"It's nine-thirty."
"My point stands." She hands me a wrapped piece of something from the counter just inside the door. I don't askwhat it is, I just take it. I eat whatever it is in the truck. It is good. Lemon something.
Next is Carl's, which is surprisingly quick, even with his story of the coyote making a home under his porch. He'd tried three different methods to relocate it, and, according to Carl, the coyote had developed opinions about each one. I commiserate for six minutes and get out with the sprinkler head and my dignity mostly intact.
Ed at the post office is disappointed when the package turns out to be a pair of mucking boots that Falon had ordered. He'd been expecting some new fishing lures and was rather let down. He cheers up when I mention Stan Ottman has a new batch of trout in his north pond, which may or may not have been true but seemed like the right thing to say.
Four errands down, two disappointed, fifty-fifty. Not bad.
I still have the garden center, and the pharmacy is left. I am still in awe that Rick had somehow managed to break his walking boot. I was betting he was in the cow pen again, exactly where the doctor told him not to be. Rick Williams and the doctor's orders had a complicated relationship.
The garden center is easy. Gerald has the lemongrass already potted and waiting, because Falon had called ahead, because of course she had. She had called ahead to half the places in Everwood before I'd even started the truck. She'd probably sent a full briefing packet if he'd asked for one.
"Tell her the big pot was my idea," Gerald says as he loads it into the truck bed. "She'll argue, but it's a better size."
"I'll tell her."
"She won't believe you."
"I know."
He is right on both counts.
The pharmacy is my last stop. Dawson has Rick's new boot liner ready, along with a small lecture about Rick's activity restrictions, which I accept on Rick's behalf and planned to deliver in edited form. The unedited version would have started an argument, and Rick Williams arguing with medical advice is not a problem I need on a Tuesday morning.
