Once in Every Life

"Christ on a crutch, I'm tired," Jerry said, collapsing on

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his bedroll. "Every year it seems I forget how damn hard this job is."

Jim laughed. "Ain't that the truth. I shoulda taken the family to Texas and raised cattle."

Jack went to the workbench and lit a lantern. Flames sputtered on the ragged wick, then took hold. Pale golden light seeped through the shadowy barn.

"Holy shit!" Jerry yelled. "What the hell happened to your workbench?"

Jack winced and cast an embarrassed glance at Lissa's handiwork. The huge yellow tulip seemed to dance and throb in the light. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. "My wife thought I took things a bit too seriously. Seems she took it in her mind to change that."

The men laughed. All except Jim Hannah, who was strangely silent.

"What you thinkin', Jim?" Jerry asked, stretching out on

his bedroll.

Jim eyed the workbench. Plucking up a piece of straw, he stuck it between his teeth. "I dunno. Guess I'm thinking maybe Mrs. Rafferty's right." He looked up at Jack. "A man's mighty lucky to have a woman who cares enough to change things."

Jack caught Jim's knowing smile and thought suddenly: We could be friends. Not just neighbors who occasionally help each other, but honest-to-God friends.

Friendship with another man was something Jack had given up on long ago; he knew that to make a friend, you had to be a friend, and that was a commitment he'd never been able to make before. But now, looking at Jim's smiling, uncondemning face, Jack thought maybe there was a chance.

"You know, Jack," Jerry said casually, "you ain't so bad as everybody says. And you're a damn hard worker."

Before Jack could respond, the barn door creaked open,

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drawing every eye. Lissa stood in the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back. Her hair was drawn back in a lopsided knot that hung lamely over one ear. Flyaway strands stuck out in damp corkscrew curls all across her brow. She looked as if she'd been standing in front of a hot stove for hours.

She smiled. "Y'all done for the night?" The men clambered to their feet and doffed their hats. "Evenin', Miz Rafferty," Jerry said. "That supper was mighty good tonight. Thank you kindly."

Lissa beamed. "Thanks, Mr. Sikes. I appreciate that. Here's a little snack to keep y'all till breakfast." She walked into the barn, placing a full-to-the-brim basket down between Jerry and Jim. "There's some cider and bread and leftover chicken. I hope you like it." She shot a quick smile at Jack. "Don't worry. Savannah cooked it." "Thanks, Mrs. Rafferty," Jim said.

She nodded and turned to Jack. "Are you coming in tonight?"

The men whooped and chuckled.

Jack gave her a slow smile. "I sure am."

"Good." Lissa looped an arm through his and guided him toward the barn door. The men were still laughing when the door closed behind them.

Outside, the falling night was beautiful, full of spangling stars and gentle breezes, and anticipation. Tantalizing anticipation.

Arm in arm they walked down the dirt road toward the house. There was a spring in their step that had been missing for a long, long time. As if they were both thinking? dreaming?of the kisses to come.

They didn't talk; they didn't need to. But the silence between them was different tonight. Instead of the sharp-edged anger that had marked their union for years, it was a blurry, companionable quiet that settled comfortably be-

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tween them. They didn't speak because it wasn't necessary. Touching, walking, being together, were enough.

They climbed the porch steps, and Jack held the back door open for Tess. She smiled and swept through.

The kitchen was warm and cozy, scented by the humid, salty leftovers of boiling water and the cinnamon-sweet memory of baked apple pie. In the center was the large copper bathing tin, filled halfway with water. She hurried to the stove and eased a heavy pot of water from the back burner.