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Akela dances side to side, and I pat her head. I step forward ready to kick, and she resumes attack stance.
Boot against the wood, I shove harder, screaming once more, “Please, Jesus! No rats!”
The door flies open, bouncing off the wall… and I jump back.
Again, nothing happens.
The inside is silent.
“Darcy Hayes said it doesn’t matter how talented you are. She said the judges only care about your dress and your hair… and how you smile. And how you walk.” Three and a half feet of golden-haired happy trots up behind me, not even pausing for a breath.
“Tara Dove.” My voice is quietly on guard. “I told you to stay at the house.”
“I have to sell sponsorships, Mamma! Darcy Hayes said her uncle Digger bought three full-page ads from her already!”
I step forward carefully, shining my giant flashlight along the wooden floors of the old shed. They’re covered in a layer of dust so thick, they look gray instead of brown.
“Digger Hayes has always been a show-off.” I walk to a large cardboard box in the middle of the room.
My daughter’s small voice goes whiney. “She’s gonna win with that kind of head start, and she can’t even sing You Are My Sunshine!”
“Dove.” I pause to face her. “That pageant is a year away. You’ve got plenty of time to sell sh… stuff.”
She blinks up at me with blue-green eyes that will never stop looking like her daddy’s, and her rosebud lips are pouty. “Darcy said you hate Princess Peach because you didn’t win it.”
“Of all the…” Shaking my head, I give the box a nudge with my boot. “I don’t like pageants because they’re just a bunch of opinions. They’re not reality.”
Or in the case of Princess Peach, one person’s bank account.
I give the heavy box a harder nudge, waiting to see what happens next. So far, it seems the stories of rats in this shed were greatly exaggerated.
“Why are you in here, Mamma?” Dove walks to an old desk moldering away against the wall. “Uncle Sawyer said he’d clean the shed for you.”
Feeling around the walls, my fingers land on a light switch. I flip it up and down, but nothing happens. “Un
cle Sawyer’s got enough on his plate with planting all those peach trees. I’m perfectly capable of—ahh!”
A little white mouse streaks across the floor, and I squeal, hopping onto the desk. Akela charges after it, skidding to a stop at the crack in the floor and dancing around it.
“A mouse, Mamma! A mouse!” Dove shrieks loud enough to break glass, and I hop down and scoop her onto my hip, grabbing the flashlight again and heading for the door. “It was Angelina Ballerina!”
“I think we’ll let Sawyer come set some traps this evening.”
My daughter twists in my arms, looking back with round eyes. “If Uncle Sawyer catches the mouse, can I keep it in my room?”
“Mice shouldn’t live in houses.”
“That one does.”
Sliding her down my hip, I hold her hand as we walk up the hill to the farm house. Akela jogs along beside us. We only take a few steps before Dove starts to skip.
I glance down at her shiny blonde curls bouncing and smile. “What’s got you thinking about the pageant already?”
“They handed out sponsorship forms in class today. Mrs. Jenny said we all need to participate. It’s tradition.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Lifting her under the arms, I help her hop up the back steps to the kitchen, one by one.
“She said my grandma won every pageant she ever thought about. Is that true?”
