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Suzanne looked at me, her expression steady and giving nothing away. I understood that going or staying was my choice. She would not interfere with my decision.

I averted my gaze and whispered, “No.”

“I’m under orders, Mrs. Vermont.”

Suzanne’s hand settled over mine, warm over my cold flesh. Her touch gave me strength. I repeated my answer in a hoarse voice, “No.”

“Mr. Vermont will not be pleased.”

I shuddered, knowing that the punishment he’d mete out would be beyond anything I’d ever suffered for prior defiance. Slowly, I stood and raised my skirt, exposing the dark bruises and welts on my upper thighs as well as haute couture silk panties. I heard the hiss of indrawn breath behind me. The reverend had come home, followed by his mother.

“Brutality offends the Lord!” Reverend Blankenship shouted. He glowered at Gordon and pointed one thick finger at him. “Begone, minion of Satan! Begone from God’s house!”

Gordon’s cold eyes flared with some strong emotion—or perhaps it was just annoyance. He nodded, turned on his heel, and departed. I released my skirt and let the heavy fabric fall back into place.

Rev. Blankenship held my gaze as he seated himself at the table and his wife brought him a slice of pie and a glass of cold milk. He took a bite then said, “Your husband’s a powerful man, Mrs. Vermont.”

I nodded.

“This won’t be easy.”

I nodded again.

“Howard, you could lose your position over this,” his mother hissed.

Struck by the consequences the reverend and his family were likely to suffer for supporting my bid for freedom, I turned to leave.

“A shepherd cares for his flock and rescues those that are lost,” he intoned. “As Jesus Christ saved the world, I can do nothing less than save one of my flock.”

I trembled, unsure whether to stay or go. A pair of warm hands settled on my shoulders and gently turned me around. I looked into the soft smile of Suzanne Blankenship’s kindness.

“No woman should bear marks like that. You’re staying with us.”

​My fragile control shattered and I collapsed into her arms, weeping as though my heart had broken. As though something else had broken inside me, I felt liquid warmth soak my panties and run down my legs. Suzanne gasped. I looked down. Blood trickled over the expensive leather of my shoe.

Anyone who truly knows me knows that I dislike ... no, loathe ... chickens. I grew up with chickens, so it's not like I arrived at my abhorrence of them based on an utter lack of experience. Chickens are nasty, filthy, vicious, disgusting creatures that deserve to die and be offered up on my plate.

This is why anyone who truly knows me will be surprised at the latest addition to the home farm: chickens.

After an unusually warm and wet winter, the bugs are already out in force, especially flies and ticks. I have a strong reluctance toward drenching my farm with pesticides. Nasty chemicals. I don't want to poison my horses or my water supply.

So, I figured the best pest control was natural. What eats bugs? Chickens and guinea hens.

It's a slippery slope I set foot upon.

I put the word out: I'm seeking mature birds, not chicks. (The barn cat will kill chicks.) I'm not interested in collecting eggs or butchering birds. I want bug-eating machines. If you're looking to rehome a few chickens, such as hens that have stopped laying eggs, I'll take them off your hands.

I got a response. Someone in the extended neighborhood had a couple of black silkie roosters he wanted to rehome. I was hesitant: roosters tend to be aggressive. He assured me they weren't. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I picked them up and brought them home.

Now what? They need a shelter that isn't my barn. So, I improvised. We have large, plastic, 55-gallon barrels left over from the alpaca and llama 4-H days. With my husband's assistance, we tossed in some old hay for bedding and lay one of the barrels down in what's left of the loafing shed. He set it on jump standards to keep it off the wet ground. In went the two chickens.

The next morning, I checked on them. They were still in the barrel, quiet and content. I figured they were probably hungry, so I pulled them from the barrel and set them on the ground beside a pan of grain. They squawked for several minutes, then calmed down. A few minutes later, they were doing what chickens do: pecking the ground and eating. So, the chickens know where their "nest" is and they're settling in.

The horses aren't sure what to make of these new critters, but I could grow fond these little guys. They're not aggressive. They're not obnoxiously loud. They're kind of cute.

​I'd like to bring home a few more--just a few for bug control.

Good grief, I have chickens.

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“Dear Lord, it’s an earthquake,” she muttered as the entire car shook again as though the mountain were trying to shrug the vehicle off its shoulder. 

Then the earth gave way and the car plunged down. Maggie screamed. Like every silly heroine in every adventure movie, she screamed in terror even though she knew that screaming would help nothing. She slammed into cloth-covered metal when the car hit the cold, murky water. 

From across Loch Saorach in the far northeast of Scotland, Connor Matasan watched in horror as the hillside crumbled beneath the car. 

“Come help!” he bellowed as he shot out of his chair to run, run as though his own life depended upon it. His powerful legs and lungs

burned as he ran around the loch’s rocky edge. He nearly squeaked in terror as water rose and slid momentarily over the dark, scaly curve of massive and hungry monster. 

Loch Ness wasn’t Scotland’s only body of water to boast a water monster; it was just the famous one. 

Connor rounded a curve and leaped into the cold, dark, deep water—so deep none truly knew how far the loch’s bottom descended. The sinuous bulk of the monster bumped him gently. It would not harm him for he belonged to the loch as much as it did. But the driver of the doomed car could not be so lucky. 

The monster had grasped the vehicle in its toothy jaws. Connor swam past the monster’s bulbous eye and realized he had to surface for air. He shot upward, gulped a lungful of air, and then dove back down, following the monster and its prize. Every so often, the monster would shake its head, the violent swish of the car through the murky water leaving whitish bubbles and eddies of disturbance. On one of those shakes, the vehicle’s passenger side door flew open and the car’s sole passenger floated out. Connor hoped the mysterious and ancient water dragon of Saorach did not realize that its fleshy prey had escaped the metal shell. 

He swam around the monster’s lithe, snakelike neck and grabbed a bit of cloth. Lungs burning, he needed air—desperately. The lake monster stilled and fixed a bushel basket sized eye upon him and the barely discernible body he grasped. 
​
Connor’s own eyes narrowed and he sent a warning to the monster to leave well enough alone.