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She smiled. "The pigpen. "
By four oclock that afternoon, Mad Dog realized hed been lied to. All his life hed heard that pigs were smart animals. But now, after mucking through their shit for six hours, he knew it was a hoax. Pigs were the dumbest, dirtiest animals on the face of the earth.
He jammed the shovel in the thick, oozing mud and rested against the wooden handle.
She was doing it to him again, trying to kill him.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the once comforting and now brutal warmth of the sun on his face.
Yanking his hat down over his eyes, he wondered fleet-ingly if a man could sleep standing up.
A hog bumped against his legs and sniffed at his crotch.
He stumbled sideways. His boots caught in the pungent muck and he fell, face-first, into the goo. When he looked up, he saw a pair of prim, lace-up canvas boots. •
"Need a hand, Mr. Stone?"
Gritting his teeth, Mad Dog planted his bare hands in the mud and pushed upward.
Through a painful blur, he saw Miss Button-up looming in front of him like some evil brown bird of prey.
She was standing behind the low-slung slatted fence, her feet ankle to ankle, her small, pale hands at her sides. A dull brown-striped sunbonnet shielded her face, but nothing could hide her superior smile. It was as bright as the sun. And her eyes were glitteringly hard.
She was gloating again.
He moved fast. Launching himself forward, he took hold of her hand in a greasy, oozing grip and hauled himself to his feet. "Why, thanks, Miz Throckmorton," he said, standing directly in front of her, "a hand is exactly what I needed. "
A look of pure horror twisted her face. She stared down at her muddy hand and skirt. Then she snapped her gaze to his, and this time there was no superior smile, no condescension. Only white-hot anger. "I should have known . . . "
He grinned and tipped his filthy hat back. "Of course you should have. "
"Are you finished?"
He nodded and swept a hand toward the pen. "The containers are clean, the water trough is fixed, the beds are raked, the manures piled, the mud is chunkless, and those goddamn hogs are as pink as a babys butt. "
She gave him a curdled, disapproving frown. "Good. "
"And best of all, Im still here. " He clapped his hands together. Mud flew on impact.
"Now—"
She lurched backward a second too late. Dark, slimy specks splattered her dress.
"Sorry about that. " He smiled broadly. "Guess you shoulda stayed away from the work area. "
"I didnt think thered be one. "
"Seems Im making a habit of proving you wrong. "
She said nothing, just glared at him.
He tried to brush the muck off his pants, but it just smeared down his legs. "Christ, I smell like—" he grinned and looked up at her "—shit. "
"Dont worry, its not a noticeable change. Suppers in thirty minutes. Dont be late to pick it up. "
Before he could answer, she was off.
Mad Dog watched her leave. Her back was ramrod-straight, her hands fisted at her sides. He didnt need to see her face to know that it was screwed into an irritated pinch. Those full lips of hers were probably pressed into a pale white line.
