The damn tree wouldn’t budge.
“Might want to yank it more to the left, big brother. Wait.” Johnny bent down and chose a blade of grass to chew on. “Guess that’d be to the right from where you’re standin’.”
“From where I'm standin’, little brother, I could use some help.”
“That is a fact.” The blade of grass danced in the corner of Johnny’s mouth. “Most jobs around a ranch do require more than one set of hands.”
The not-so-subtle comment hit its mark. Scott straightened his stance to observe exactly where he was standing - knee deep in muddy creek water backed up due to several jammed branches midstream. He glanced at the grassy riverbank where his younger brother stood. No. Correction. He glanced to where his younger brother lounged. “Agreed. So why don't you bring your set of hands over here and help.”
“Oh, I dunno, brother.” The blade of grass danced across Johnny’s wide smile to land in the opposite corner. “I think our way of doing things has worked out mighty fine so far today.”
All morning, our way of doing things had Scott providing the muscle while Johnny’s contribution consisted of recommendations on how to do the chores better. “If the only requirement for the extra set of hands was an opinionated mouth, I would’ve insisted on Jelly accompanying me.”
“Well, hell, Scott. Why didn't you say so? I'll ride back and fetch him.”
The insincerity of his brother’s sincere expression brought a grim smile to Scott's face. “No, Johnny. I wouldn't want you to break a sweat.”
Johnny’s attitude was no surprise and honestly, Scott couldn't blame him. They owned equal shares of the ranch which included equal shares of the workload. However, that hadn't been the case these last few months during Scott’s absences - travels to vineyards, trips to Boston. With clenched teeth, Scott gave the stubborn branch another pull. “Let’s not forget honeymooning in Omaha.”
“Say something, big brother?”
A heavy Boston accent replied. “Looks like ah hickorah brahnch cahused it ahll.”
Dammit. Out of frustration, Scott kicked the unyielding limb which only resulted in the water line climbing higher on his pants.
Squinting up at his brother, a white flag was waved in the form of Scott’s sweeping arm. “All right, Johnny, call it what you want - getting even, proving a point, teaching me a lesson...wait. That's it, isn't it? Teaching me a lesson. Well, the lesson has been taught and your student apologizes for the abandonment of his duties. Now the question is how much longer do you plan to keep it up? The way I see it, the sooner we get this creek flowing, the sooner we can address the real spur up your ass.”
“And what spur might that be, Boston?”
“Kinsey.”
Rising, Johnny rolled up his sleeves and tossed aside the blade of grass.
*******
Even with two sets of hands, it took over an hour to dislodge the dam Mother Nature had blessed them with. During this time the conversation consisted of grunts, groans and creative cursing. Scott especially admired Johnny’s poetic alliteration, Whorin’ Hickory from Hades.
Riding side by side back to the ranch, neither brother appeared in a hurry. Scott was uncertain if the possible chaffing in wet pants influenced the pace or their search for the right word to begin a needed discussion slowed their return.
Johnny’s thoughtful examination of the situation broke the silence. “I believe there’s a tadpole swimmin’ in my sock.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Best to have it swimming in your sock than doing the backstroke in your britches.”
“Well, the slimy son of a gun wouldn’t get far upstream considering I got a spur lodged in my ass crack.”
“No truer words were spoken, little brother.” Scott held out his hand. “Reset the clock?”
A firm grasp accepted the extended hand. “Clock reset, big brother.” Johnny let out what Murdoch would consider a heavy sigh. “I would have given a month’s wages to see the expression on your face when that little girl showed up in Omaha.”
Scott grinned “I’d double it for the opportunity to see yours while standing at the empty train station in Stockton.”
“Good thing I did miss her. I’d have throttled her right then and there. The old man sends her to her room for sayin’ he’s not the boss. Did she back down? Hell no. She takes off in the middle of the night. Goddammit.” Johnny shook his head. “Gotta admit, your cousin has a fine set of brass…” The younger brother adjusted his sitdown in the saddle. “Well, yanno what I mean.”
“I do.” Scott readjusted his own wet backside. “I thought it was her yannowhatimean that captured your admiration.”
“Not when it makes her stupid.”
Scott couldn't agree more. It had become increasingly difficult to downplay Kinsey’s significant inheritance. Word would eventually get out and spread like wildfire. He wasn't concerned with the unsuitable suitors possessing their own personal agenda. He’d see to it they didn’t get one foot past the door. It's what he couldn't see lurking when Kinsey decided to take off on her own that had him worried.
“...and I'd appreciate you backin’ me up when she comes whinin’ to you that I laid down the law. I'm not puttin’ up with her nonsense to and from the mission.”
Not paying attention, Scott missed the beginnings of Johnny’s rant. However, he’d gotten the gist of it, which created another area of concern. “I don't think Kinsey will give you too much trouble. Sister Rosa put the fear of God in her heart.”
Johnny looked at his brother and grinned. “Now there’s an expression I’d pay three months wages to see.”
*******
As the brothers dismounted, they spotted Jelly. His hands, usually flapping around as if to take flight, were jammed deep in his pockets. Craning his neck, he frantically paced back and forth in front of the barn.
“What do you suppose is eatin’ him?” Johnny squinted in the direction of his friend.
Scott rolled his eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine. He looks like a desperate man in search of a misplaced outhouse.”
The delivery of Scott’s analogy coincided with the arrival of the desperate man. “Just where have you two been keepin’ yerselves?” Stifled snickers served as Jelly’s answer.
“And mind tellin’ me what's so doggone funny?”
Johnny crossed his arms. “Scott, I do believe it's Jelly’s britches the tadpole is swimmin’ in.” Snickers dissolved into chuckles.
“Ha ha.” Jelly stuck out his chin. “Very funny but it doesn't answer my question.”
“We’ve been working, Jelly.” Scott pushed his hat back on his head. “Join us next time to acquaint yourself with the concept.” Chuckles stepped up to guffaws.
“Go ahead! Laugh it up. Won't be so amuuuuzin’ once ya see what she’s been up to.”
Silence.
“She?” A frown dipped on Scott’s face at Jelly’s superior inflection. “Who’s she?”
“Who do ya think?” The whiskered man cast his eyes beyond the barn.
“Kinsey?” Scott looked at his younger brother. “She started whitewashing the chicken coop today.”
Jelly rolled his eyes. “Whitewashin’ ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
It took a moment for the statement to sink in. Simultaneously, both brothers mouthed the word no and headed behind the barn with the tattletale bringing up the rear.
The color reminded him of the peppermints Winnie would buy when he was a boy. Sections of the chicken coop walls now stood as testimony to this childhood memory. Scott managed to utter a single word. “Pink.”
Johnny hooted while slapping his hat against his thigh. “Holy hell! The old man is gonna hit the roof.”
Jelly offered his condolences. “Told ya.”
“Where’s our father, now?” Scott’s eyes were fixed on the gaudy hue gracing the coop’s wooden planks.
“In town. Should be back any minute.”
“Yanno, Scott -”
“I know, Johnny. This is somehow going to be our fault.”
Striding toward the chicken coop, Scott focused on his cousin, clad in overalls. “Kinsey! God Almighty, what -”
“Is it really necessary to take the Lord’s name in vain?”
A female voice, not his cousin’s, had asked the question. Scott turned. “Teresa?!”
Dressed similar to Kinsey, Teresa’s bright smile greeted him. Scott noted the only thing brighter than the girl’s grin was the steady drip of paint from her brush. “Isn’t the shade lovely? Kinsey mixed it herself. I think the chickens are quite happy with it.”
“Nothing's lovely. No one’s happy.” Scott placed his hands on hips. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Helping. It's fun.” Teresa answered so matter-of-factly, Scott almost accepted it as reasonable.
“No. This is not fun and you are not helping. This is to be a punishment for Kinsey.” Holding out his hand, a stern directive was given. “Give me the paintbrush.”
Teresa raised an eyebrow as she walked forward to meet his hand. “Fine. Have it your way, Scott Lancer.”
The bristle end of Teresa’s brush slapped into Scott’s palm, turning it the lovely shade only a chicken could love. His nod confirmed its delivery followed by a proclamation. “A discussion with me is in your future, Teresa O’Brien.”
“I look forward to it.” A toss of the head and one half of the painting detail disappeared around the corner of the barn.
Facing his palm downward, Scott watched Teresa’s brush slowly peel away to land on the ground with a plop. Shaking his hand produced pink paint splatters that joined the mud still clinging to his pants. Closing his eyes, Scott searched for an ounce of patience. None could be found. “Come here, Tom Sawyer.”
Counting to ten, Scott opened his eyes to his cousin standing front and center - her look as innocent as the morning dew. The obvious was stated. “You were told to whitewash the chicken coop.”
Kinsey raised her hand as if waiting to be called on by a Harvard professor.
Scott stared. “Yes?”
“I have to disagree.” Removing a piece of paper from her back pocket, Kinsey carefully unfolded it and pointed to the first item listed. “Paint the chicken coop. Not whitewash. Paint. It’s what I’m doing Scott - to the letter.”
Paint. Scott read the word and then scrutinized the reality taking place in front of him. Random boards had been selected for the new color while others were ignored. Drips and blotches of pink adorned window and door frames. Someone fetch Val. This wasn’t painting. This was murder.
“What in Sam Hill is going on here?!” The verbal thunderclap caused poultry to scatter and coop boards to rattle. Murdoch had arrived.
The patriarch, never taking his eyes off his chicken coop, slowly advanced past his tongue-tied sons and hired hand.
Scott was the first to test the waters. “Sir -”
“Quiet!” Murdoch confirmed there were rough seas ahead.
His father's approach stopped a few feet from the coop where a moment of close examination commenced. A gradual about-face allowed the inspector’s gaze to settle heavily on his oldest son before moving on to his youngest. “Where were you two when this happened?”
Scott’s sideways glance to meet his brother’s eyes proved lethal. Laughter, brought on by their prediction of blame, bubbled just below the surface. “Well sir, we were clearing the stream in the north pasture during this…”
“Slaughter.” Johnny aptly finished the sentence but felt the need to end on a positive note. “The chickens seem happy with the color.”
“How can you tell, son? By their smiles?”
Snorts setting fires to the brothers’ solemn personas were quickly extinguished.
“I was busy too, boss.”
Jelly’s statement required a mumbled comment from Scott as he adjusted his hat further down on his forehead. “Busy like a sloth.”
“Something you’d like to add, my son?” Murdoch cocked his head to maintain eye contact with his oldest.
“No, sir. It appears enough has been said already.”
“Hardly. And why is your hand pink? Don't answer that.”
Like a lion stalking small prey on the Serengeti, Murdoch closed in on Kinsey. “Young lady, this is not the whitewashing I requested or do you beg to differ?”
Scott found maintaining a serious expression painful. Johnny's shift in weight from one foot to the other indicated he suffered from the same affliction.
Smiling up at the man towering over her, Kinsey appeared unruffled. “With your permission, sir, I do beg to differ.” The chore list was once again unfolded and held up to bridge the height gap between the two conversationalists. “Item number one - paint the chicken coop.” The little cousin lowered the list to admire it with loving eyes. “Allowing me to choose the color speaks volumes regarding your progressive thinking. To give me - no, wait - to...to…”
Scott grinned. Someone hand the little lady her soapbox and stand back.
“To empower me with the opportunity to express myself artistically is a testament to your support of not only my ability to make decisions, but to the women’s movement itself. I’d like to think when the painting is completed this chicken coop will be my contribution as a symbol for the suffrage.”
Johnny was the first to crumble, but hid it well by pulling his hat over his face and turning his back. His shaking shoulders were the only clue. Having heard Kinsey’s speeches numerous times and somewhat immuned to them, Scott managed a more respectful demeanor.
Murdoch reviewed the damage done in the name of The Cause. “Uh-huh.”
“Of course, if you’d like me to stop…”
“No. Continue. I certainly wouldn't want the reputation of being closed-minded.”
Scott bit his lower lip, crossed his arms and stared at the ground. Dear God, please let this end.
“Besides,” A satisfied smile rested on Murdoch’s face. “It’s only a matter of time before one of my sons chooses a bar fight for their evening’s entertainment.”
San Joaquin Valley, California
Lancer Ranch
“Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Lesson of the Loophole: Today, a small, insignificant word on a chores list coupled with a wily female mind forced us to cast aside the normal mundane whitewashed shed.
An outsider would consider Kinsey’s actions reflect a defiant, spoiled little girl. And, in truth, there was a bit of that young lady mixing pink paint early this morning. But, she also saw an opportunity to express herself in a way my father couldn't argue with. A monumental accomplishment indeed. Lucy Stone would be proud.
Scott looked at his hand. Traces of pink paint still remained in the creases of his palm. He needed to find Teresa.
A review of the chores list took place in the Great Room after supper. Possible loopholes were eliminated. Johnny and I signed the document as witnesses. That may have been a mistake.
S.
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