Well, well. I guess it was the right decision. Shot outa me like fecal matter through a large aquatic animal with a bad temper. Anyhow, this is a quick read. Just putting this up because I was so delighted at how quickly my brain got back into gear. More tomorrow, probably. Oh! Hello again, Ireland!
Will found a break at last. He waited until the car had pulled out of the lot before he exited the truck. He walked to the door, still wondering what the bet approach would be. Bertie looked up from the desk. Before Will could greet him, Blom pulled his glasses from his head and leaned toward him.
“Good God! Did you sleep in a bag of cats?”
Will pretended to ignore the question but, upon hearing it, he was immediately reminded that he was scored from one end to the other. Blom’s inquiry stirred his wounds to life and he was suddenly burning all over. He needed to talk to Ouillette and had no idea of how best to approach the man. He wasn’t comfortable with the unexpected—and unsolicited—assistance. There was a lot more going on there than simply finding chores for delinquents. It was bad enough he looked like he’d been dragged through barbed wire. Conducting a calm and aloof investigation wasn’t going to be easy if all he wanted to do was claw at himself.
When Will made it to the counter, Blom’s glasses were back on. The shopkeeper was shaking his head.
“Is Loren around?
Blom’s head stayed in motion.
“I don’t get an answer until you do, is that it?”
Blom stopped shaking his head and focused on Will’s fresh scabs.
“He’s here . . .” Bertie narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on a particularly nasty rip that extended from Will’s right earlobe nearly to his chin. His looking at it tripled its itch factor. “… but may not be open to conversation without assurance than your condition isn’t the result of some horrible contagion.”
“I was exploring my holdings and ran into some blackberry brush,” Will explained.
“At a full sprint, by the looks of it.” Blom finally made eye contact. “It’s a little early for berries,” he said. “But thorns are always in season.” He turned on his stool and called, “Loren?”
It was a summons scarcely louder than conversational, but the response was almost instantaneous. The respondent, however, wasn’t Ouillette, but his jittery nephew. He popped out from and aisle and moved at a half-trot, half-skip toward the counter, scabbard bouncing at his hip.
“Uncle Loren’s in the back, Mister Blom.” He turned to Will, “Hi!”
“Go fetch him for me, will you Jared. Mister Holliday needs a word with him.”
The boy gave a quick wave and dashed back into the aisle.
“And have him grab a jar of udder balm or teat cream, if he would… and some of that leg wrap they use on calves and lambs.” He turned back to Will, fighting a grin. “That boy’s priceless. Saved me a few hundred bucks on an intercom.”
Much, much, much better. Fear not, however, Arn Mikkelson– wife and kids included– was granted a stay of execution. He will be appearing in the next book (didn’t think I was stopping with this one, did you?) but will bear little resemblance to the man I was struggling to introduce in this one. Cool!