Since her mother’s death two years earlier, she’d lived there alone. She had been born on the Colfax farm, the only child of Henry and Sarah Colfax. Unfortunately, they were also large and numerous, and they gave her a rather equine appearance. Her friendly open smile, though, displayed her very straight, very white teeth. She was faster than most to see the humor in things, and the sound of her laughter was familiar to all who knew her. Hattie was blessed, or cursed, with a quick and easy smile. And her hair, she joked to the ladies at the church, was the exact color of possum fur.
Her eyes were an in-between color-not green, not quite blue. Her figure was unremarkable, but she did have the requisite number of feminine curves. Hattie Colfax was a strong farm-muscled woman of twenty and nine. Adjusting the stool, she seated herself for milking. With an ease born of habit, she led Myrene onto the platform, guided her head through the round slot, and lowered the crossbar to secure the goat in place. Even at this early hour, her faded cotton work-dress was neatly pressed, and her mass of dark blond hair was pulled circumspectly into a coiled plait at the nape of her neck.
The area, swept only the day before with a yardbroom, was as clean and orderly as the woman who cared for it. She walked across the barnyard to the milking platform, and the goat followed in her wake. It was the renewal of life, the promise of another chance. It was her favorite season, all green and new. It was still quite cool, but spring was just around the corner. “I’m up before you are today.” Hattie appeared at the door, pail in hand, and paused to pat the goat on the top of the head before assessing the new morning. “’Morning, Myrene,” a voice called from inside. Lowering her chin, she butted the screen door in a rhythmic fashion, not unlike any caller knocking when paying a visit. She ignored the twisting honeysuckle vines and the crape-myrtle bushes, and climbed up the two small steps of the back porch. Her barley-colored coat was accented by white markings on her face, and her intelligent eyes and twitching pointed ears were evidence that this was no typical barnyard dweller.ĭaintily seeking her way across the yard, she headed directly to the sturdy white clapboard farmhouse. Peering out as if to see if the coast was clear was a handsome, well-groomed nanny goat. THE stillness of the gray morning was abruptly shattered as the barn door flew open, slamming back on its hinges.
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