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Mabel’s stomach dropped like a hot potato, and she let out a yelp, automatically moving her other foot forward to try to catch her fall.
Pointless, since that foot sank deeply into the wet manure as well.
Manure wasn’t quicksand, but for some reason, that’s where Mabel’s mind went as she frantically tried to pull her feet out. She’d heard that if a person fell into quicksand, the more they struggled, the deeper and faster they sank.
But how could she not try to get herself out?
Clutching the box—she wasn’t going to survive man-eating manure only to lose her treasure—she pulled up on first one leg, then another, the manure sucking and grasping at her feet.
She leaned forward and put her free hand on the ground in front of her, her heart pounding and her breath coming in shallow gasps. If only Billy could talk. She’d ask him to give her a horn and pull her out.
Pausing for a fraction of a second to gather her strength, she pulled as hard as she could and her foot popped up.
Her shoe did not.
Ugh. She didn’t want to lose her shoe.
Still holding tight to the box, she was able to pull her other foot out, a layer of manure an inch thick sticking like a clay blanket to her entire lower leg and foot, but at least her shoe remained in its proper position on her foot.
On her hand and knees, she turned, shoving her free arm down into the hole where her first leg had been, fishing blindly around in the muck, trying to feel anything that could be her shoe.
She had her arm in up to her armpit and couldn’t feel anything except the surprisingly cool muck.
The stench was overpowering, even for someone used to working in barnyards all across central North Dakota.
Something touched her from behind, and she fell forward. Unwilling to let go of the box to catch herself, she managed to turn her head so she landed with her left cheek in the muck. What in the world?
Twisting her head, she saw a big, furry body innocently standing directly behind her. It must have been Billy, trying to scratch his head on her rear end, which had probably been sticking up in the air a good bit higher than he was used to seeing rear ends stick, that had pushed her forward.
She could hardly get upset with him. Billy was as sweet and good-natured as a cow could be.
Still, she wasn’t really feeling any goodwill toward him as she pushed herself—carefully—to her feet, manure covering practically every inch of her front from her head down to her exposed toes.
“Thanks, Billy,” she muttered, more than a little sarcastically, as she turned, intending to stomp the rest of the way across the barnyard.
But she hadn’t even taken a step before she stopped short.
A man, tall with deep blue eyes, stood in front of her, and if she were any judge, his lips were pressed tightly together to keep from laughing at her.
She probably was a sight, but it still irritated.
But she had to give the man credit. He did not smile, although he did not offer to shake, either, as he introduced himself. “I’m James, Carol’s nephew.”
It could have been her imagination, but it felt like, at his words, the box under her arm vibrated.
Odd.
