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Little Hank and the Covered Dish Surprise
Jul. 22nd, 2026 10:52 pm( Read more... )
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While the congregation lowered their heads, silence filled the church. Pastor Sandoval’s fingers explored the knots in the dish towel, pulling them loose. If it was fudge, he could slip a chunk out and pop it into his mouth while the three ladies sang Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb? He could probably manage a ginger cookie as well. He’d just break it into chunks.
He nodded to Mrs. Durst who began pumping the harmonium again, signaling that the time of quiet introspection was ending. The trio of ladies marched to the front again, inhaled deeply, and began to sing.
Gently, without allowing the lid to scrape, Hezekiah Sandoval opened the covered dish. Something moved under his fingers. He jerked his hand back. The lid clattered to the floor.
“Are you washed?” Mrs. Abernathy shrilled.
“In the Blood?” Mrs. Sterling sang in a slightly higher key.
“Of the Lamb!” Mrs. Hill bellowed, feeling her section was the most important and should obviously be the loudest.
The pastor stumbled back, yelping. All eyes were drawn to him. The singers stopped singing. One of them—Mrs. Hill shrieked. The harmonium gasped and wheezed as Mrs. Otto abruptly stopped pumping the bellows. Mrs. Abernathy picked up her skirt and bolted for the door.
Confused and alarmed, people stood up. A cacophony of sound rose—yelling, screeching, small children climbed onto the pews, crying. Suddenly, a wriggling collection of small greenish snakes flowed across the platform in front of the church. Like a rippling stream, the reptiles slithered over the edge of the platform. Mrs. Otto clutched her bosom, shuddering as they raised their wedge-shaped heads, dark round eyeballs gazing about, narrow red tongues flicking in and out of their wide mouths to taste their surroundings.
When they hit the floor, the cluster widened and spread toward the pews. Their green bodies with the long yellowish stripes undulated as they wriggled down the center aisle. Women began pushing their way out of the pews, shoving their children ahead of them, rushing toward the door—a herd of calico clad females stampeding toward the haven of the wide-open spaces.
Only Glorie Bee sat stiffly at the end of her pew. She stared straight ahead. Her hands trembled in her lap. Jonesy shoved his hat on his head and dragged himself upright. “Glorie Bee?” he said softly, using the voice he eased spooked horses with. “Honey?”
Her head turned toward him. Her chin lifted. “Get the wagon,” she said, her voice firm but faint. She turned her knees to the side so he could get around her.
His hands on Hank’s shoulders, he propelled her ahead of him. As she moved toward the aisle, her mother’s hand gripped her wrist. “Did you do this?” Her voice was just above a whisper.
Hank’s chin quivered. “I thought he’d wait till church was over to open it,” she whispered.
Glorie Bee closed her eyes. A fat tear rolled from one.
Hank’s eyes filled. Jonesy pushed her into the aisle. He offered his hand to his wife.
She did not take it. “The wagon,” she repeated. “Now.”
“They’s jest garter snakes,” Hank said weakly. “Baby ones. Won’t hurt nobody.”
Jonesy hustled her down the aisle. A couple of men stomped on the floor, aiming for snakes. The little critters were quick. Men of sterner character—men who had probably been more adventurous little boys at one time—began to pick them up between their fingers and thumbs. Someone dumped the bills and coins from the collection plate. They needed something to corral those slithering creatures. Mr. Hollis, one of the deacons, held the plate and kept flicking the snakes back when they attempted to slither out.
Jonesy grabbed a fistful and carried them out the door, tossing them into the grass outside the building. He held Hank’s hand tight as he loped toward the wagon. When they reached it, he slung her up on the bench and led Nipper and Windy to the trough to drink. Two miles home. At least an hour. They needed water.
All around them, people were scurrying toward their homes or boarding their wagons. Bits of horrified conversation swirled around them. Jonesy’s insides felt like they were about to shake loose. He slapped the reins against the team’s backs and circled them around, driving to the front of the church.
Someone had found a broom. He swept the squirming mass through the entry and out the door. Fresh squealing erupted from the group who’d been clustered just past the steps as the small snakes flew out.
Glorie Bee had made her way out of the building. She stood at the far end of the hitching post across the drive. Jonesy pulled up the team and leapt off the box. He put an arm around his wife’s waist as she stepped unsteadily toward the wagon. She didn’t speak. She held herself as rigid as a lodge pole.
Jonesy put his hands around her waist and boosted her to the seat. Her shawl had slipped off, so he picked it up, shook off the dust, and slipped it over her shoulders. Her hands came up to wind it tightly around herself. He saw her hands tremble. He felt sick inside.
He swung himself up, checked to see that Hank was sitting. He clicked his tongue at the horses and shook the reins. The wagon lurched as Nipper and Windy pulled forward. He pointed the wagon west, toward the dirt track that led home.
Glorie Bee looked straight ahead. She said nothing.
Hank wrapped her arms around her belly. Her chin tilted as she looked up at her mother. Just for an instant. Then she started at her shiny black lace-up go-to-meetin’ boots. She said nothing.
Jonesy clutched the reins like they were the only thing keeping him from sliding through the bottom of the wagon into a hole in the ground that let right straight to the fiery pit of perdition. He said nothing.
***
There was no break in the silence other than the heavy thud of the Belgian’s hooves along the hard-packed dirt road. Nipper and Windy moved at a steady clip, but it felt like forever before the barn and cabin came into view. Jonesy pulled up to the porch. He crawled off the box, but before he could get around the side to help Glorie Bee down, she’d leapt off and hurried to the house.
“Henrietta,” she said flatly, “take off those church clothes and hang them up proper.” She swept through the door, leaving it open for the girl to follow.
Jonesy held his arms up for Little Hank. She reached for him then clung to his neck when he lifted her off the box. “Does Momma hate me, Pa?” she sniffled.
“O’ course not, punkin,” he said. “She’s just hurt real deep. She wanted us to shine today, and we—” his voice faded. He cleared his throat. “We, uh, disappointed her.” He set his daughter on the ground, undid her buttons. “You go do like your momma asked.”
He led the horses to the lean-to behind the barn where the wagon and his tools were stored. He backed the wagon into its space before stripping the harness and rigging from the horses and hanging them in the tack room. He picked up the bucket with the grooming tools and brushed the horses until their coats gleamed. He checked their hooves, filled their grain bags, and forked hay into their mangers. Before he left, he hauled fresh water to the metal troughs in their stalls.
A heaviness lay on his chest as he trudged up to the house. He doubted there’d be any chicken frying in the pan. No taters. No onions. No biscuits with choke cherry jelly. He shrugged. He didn’t have any appetite anyhow.
***
Glorie Bee sat in the rocking chair, still wrapped tight in her shawl. She faced the fireplace. She did not look up when he came in. There was nothing on the stove. Well, he’d expected that. “Where’s Hank?” he asked.
She nodded toward Hank’s bedroom.
“You send her to bed? This early?” Jonesy’s stomach knotted.
“I didn’t know what else to do. It won’t hurt her to miss a meal.”
“She prolly ain’t hungry anyhow. I sure ain’t,” Jonesy said.
His wife finally looked at him. Her eyes were red and swollen. “We will have to go all the way to Huron for our winter supplies,” she moaned. “We can never face those people again.”
“Aw, honey,” Jonesy comforted, kneeling by her side. “It ain’t that bad.”
“It’s bad enough,” she sighed.
Glorie Bee dropped her face into her hands. “All those people! All those snakes! People will never stop talking about this! How could she do such a thing?”
“They’ll stop jest as soon as they find sumthin’ else to get their drawers in a bunch over.” Jonesy chewed on his thumbnail. “I’ll…I’ll go in and have a chat with Sandlewood. Offer him a side o’ beef mebbe. Mebbe half a hawg at butcherin’ time too. Hard to turn down a deal like that, I betcha.”
“And what about Henrietta? What are we going to do about her?” Tears flowed down Glorie Bee’s cheeks. “She’s got to learn that she just cannot do things like this!” She stared at her hands. “Maybe we need to send her up to the Bar B for the winter. Maybe my parents can straighten her out.”
Jonesy stood. “We ain’t sendin’ Hank off nowhere. Specially not to yer folks.”
“I don’t want to,” Glorie Bee choked, “But we have to do something.”
Hank’s bedroom door cracked open. She crept out and stood there, her hands fisted in her nightgown, her eyes wet and swollen. She stood there a moment, heartbroken and terrified. “Momma,” she sobbed, rushing to kneel in front of her mother, “I’m sorry. Don’t stop lovin’ me.” She buried her face in her mother’s lap. “Please.”
More tears slid down Glorie Bee’s cheeks. She laid her hands on her daughter’s head, smoothing her hair. “Oh, baby,” she sighed. “I will never stop loving you.” She lifted Hank’s sad face and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I—I just can’t look at you right now. I need to think. Go back to bed.”
Hank stood, gulping, and fled back to her bedroom. She buried her face in her pillow and sobbed until sleep finally took her.
Glorie Bee stared into the fire, slow tears falling. “You better do your chores, Luke. We’ll talk later.”
He blinked rapidly, striped out of his go-to-meetin’ clothes, and put on his overalls. He missed Hank’s company, her chatter, her help in the barn. He fed the stock, slopped the hogs, scattered feed to the chickens, forked hay down for the horses and cows. Finally, he pulled the milk stool up, leaned his shoulder into Brownie’s flank, and began the rhythmic squeeze-and-pull of milking. Streams of milk hit the galvanized bucket. Tater stood by, whining softly as Jonesy worked, sniffling softly as tears dribbled off the end of his nose and hit the bucket.
Everyone was miserable.
***
Glorie Bee was still in the rocking chair when Jonesy trudged in after finishing up in the barn. She looked up. “Go to bed, Luke,” she said quietly.
“Don’t ya wanna talk some?” He asked, slipping off his overalls and hanging them on the hook in the entry.
“In the morning,” she replied. “I’m still thinking.”
“You—” he paused, uneasy, “You want for me to sleep in the barn tonight? I’m willin’, if’n that’s what ya want.”
Startled, she stared at him. “Absolutely not,” she declared. “Go to bed and go to sleep.”
“Yes’m.” He hung his head, fixed his eyes on his feet. “I love you, honey.”
“I know.”
In their bedroom, he shucked out of the rest of his clothes and pulled the nightshirt over his head. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long Glorie Bee would sit out there staring into the fire. How long it would take her ruffled feathers to settle. After a long time, she entered the room. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He lay very still as she hung her clothes on the pegs along the wall and donned her nightgown.
The bed shifted slightly as she crawled in and pulled the quilt up around her shoulders. She curled to face the wall. His eyes burned.
“I know you’re not sleeping,” she said. Her voice was not angry—just flat.
“Now how could you know that?” He turned toward her.
She pushed her back a little closer to him. “For one, you are rigid as a fence post. When you’re really asleep, you’re as limp as a rag doll.” She nudged him with a foot. “And you snore.”
He snorted. He couldn’t help it.
She flung a hand back to pat his chest. “Go to sleep now.” She whispered, “I love you too.”
Relief flooded him. “Oh. Good,” he replied. He turned to face her, spooning her gently, inhaling the sweet, soapy scent of her. He sighed. Then he slept. When he began to snore softly, Glorie Bee slept as well.
***
When Jonesy woke, Glorie Bee was curled in a tight ball, like a cat in a pile of hay. She still faced the wall, but the soles of her feet pressed against his shin and her bottom grazed his thigh. He sighed. That was a good sign.
He eased out of bed, careful not to wake her. He hung his nightshirt on the hook, pulled on his shirt and drawers, and took his socks into the main room to pull them on. When he was decent, he checked on Little Hank. She was lying on her back, arms under her head, staring at the ceiling. “You’re awake,” he observed.
“I been in bed since afore dark yesterday,” she replied. “A feller kin only sleep so long.” Her eyes were dry but red and puffy.
“Hungry?”
“Some. Not very.” She rolled onto her side, looking at him soberly. “Reckon momma will let me out today?”
“I reckon you kin help do chores. Don’t know if’n there’ll be grub. Yore momma’s plumb tuckered. Still sleepin’ now.” He tossed her overalls and shirt at the foot of her bed and headed into the kitchen end of the cabin. He put the coffee pot on the stove and sawed a couple slices of bread off the loaf. He smeared them with butter and choke cherry jelly, straddled his chair and waited for Hank to emerge from her room.
She tumbled out, her hair resembling a rat’s nest, one of the overall straps twisted three times. Abnormally quiet for her, she settled in the chair next to her father and inhaled the bread almost as rapidly as her father inhaled his. They did not speak, out of respect for Glorie Bee who still slept in the next room. When they were finished, Jonesy moved the coffee pot to the back burner, swept the breadcrumbs into his hand, and carried them outside to scatter to the wind.
The mean rooster rushed at Hank, wings spread, squawking threats in a high-pitched screech. Her boot met him mid-rush and launched him a good six feet across the barnyard. The rooster considered another rush, thought better of it, and strutted off declaring victory. “Idjit rooster,” Hank spat. “Fry you up one o’ these days.”
Hank crawled into the haymow and tossed hay through the chute. There was another egg in the speckled hen’s nest. She touched them. They were warm. She crawled down the ladder without them. If the speckled hen wanted to be a momma, that was her business.
Below, Jonesy leaned into Verbena’s flank, two streams of milk shooting from her udder to the metal pail while the circle of barn cats sat around him, their tails twitching eagerly. Hank dumped a scoop of ground feed in front of each cow and rubbed their heads up at the top, between their stubby little horns where they liked it. Jonesy slopped the hogs. Hank mucked out the horse stalls and behind the cows. They worked together without talking.
Hank drifted over to the window and looked toward the house. Glorie Bee stood on the porch, shawl around her shoulders, gazing out at the barnyard. The flock of chickens drifted toward her, cackling. She opened the bin of cracked corn that set on the corner of the porch and flung a couple of scoops toward them. The mean rooster flung himself at Glorie Bee’s skirt, flapping his wings and kicking at her with his spurred feet.
Quick as a snake, Glorie Bee reached down, caught him up and wrung his neck before he could reconsider his foolishness. The other chickens just moved on, eating their corn, ignoring the limp bundle of feathers she tossed onto the porch.
“Momma just kilt the mean rooster,” Hank announced. “Reckon we’s eating fried chicken today. Or mebbe chicken stew with dumplin’s.”
“Either sounds good to me,” Jonesy said. “Can you run the wheelbarrow to the pit? I’ll haul the milk to the spring house and fetch the cream up to the house.”
“Sure kin!” Hank piped. She trundled the barrow of manure and soiled straw to the pit behind the shed and dumped it. In the spring, she’d help Jonesy haul it to momma’s big garden plot and move all the rocks that the earth spewed up in the winter out of the way. Sometimes, Jonesy let her sit astride one of the Belgians as they plowed the muck into the soil. If her momma didn’t need her for other chores, that is.
She rinsed the wheelbarrow at the pump, dragged it back to the barn, and flipped it against the wall. The barn cats had already drunk up all the milk her pa had poured into the flat metal bowl and were now lounging around preening and licking each other. Tater trotted behind Jonesy as he brought the cream bucket from the spring house. Momma had rolled the churn out onto the porch. Next to it was the big canvas sack she’d sewn for the feathers.
Glorie Bee preferred to dispatch the chickens by ringing their necks—chopping their heads off was a bloody mess, and she preferred her feathers not be covered in gore. Jonesy dumped the cream into the barrel and slid the plunger in. Then he sat on the porch steps, canvas bag between his knees, and began plucking the mean rooster, shoving the handfuls of feathers into the bag.
Glorie Bee began churning, sending Hank to the root cellar for squash, potatoes, and onions. “Bring up a jar of that plum sauce, too, Henrietta,” she ordered. “Start peeling the potatoes and skin the onions.”
“Yes’m,” Hank murmured, skittering into the house to do as she was asked.
When she was out of sight, Glorie Bee turned to Jonesy. “Luke, I’ve thought about this for hours. Henrietta has to understand that what she did yesterday cannot be tolerated.”
Jonesy started at the rooster’s half-plucked corpse. “Yer sayin’ she needs a lickin’,” he sighed.
“You think she doesn’t?”
“I ain’t sayin’ that. Jest…” He shrugged helplessly.
“Just what, Luke? One of those older ladies could’ve had a stroke, seeing all those snakes slithering out of the pulpit.”
“She don’t never think that far ahead when she dreams up this stuff—" His mouth turned downward. “I reckon you’re right about them old biddies. Any one of ‘em coulda gone toes to the sky outta shock.”
“Then you agree?”
He blew a puff of air at the curls that had fallen onto his forehead. “You do what you think is right, Glorie Bee. I reckon she gots it comin’ to her.”
Glorie Bee stopped churning. “Not me, Luke. You.”
“Me?” He stared at her, flabbergasted. “Whup Hank?” His eyes widened. “I—I—don’t think I kin do that. You’re the one who alwuz gives the lickin’s ‘round here.”
“And my lickin’s don’t seem to do the trick,” Glorie Bee argued. “She knows her daddy doesn’t take her naughtiness serious. Once her backside doesn’t sting anymore, she goes right back to her foolishness.” She churned the butter fiercely for a minute. “If you were to give her a good scolding and a lickin’, she might just take it to heart.”
Jonesy swallowed hard. “It ain’t that I don’t hear what yer sayin’, honey, but whuppin’ Little Hank? I’d druther take the whuppin’ my own self.”
“Sometimes I’d like to give you one,” Glorie Bee huffed. “Sometimes I feel like I have two naughty children instead of one.”
“Aw, honey—”
“Don’t you aw honey me, Luke Jones. You are her father. It’s time you act like it.”
His hands still, he stared at the mean rooster—not so mean anymore. One of its cloudy eyes seemed to glare at him, judging him. Be a man. Whup that kid, it seemed to squawk.
“Does it has to be today?” he asked pitifully. “She already done cried a’most all night.”
Glorie Bee sighed. Frustrated. “I don’t like it any more’n you do, Luke, but the time to rub the nose in a mess is when the mess is fresh! It’s crueler to let her think she got away with it for a few days and then punish her.”
For a minute, Glorie Bee thought her husband would actually cry. He took a deep breath. Straightened his spine. Squared his shoulders. “I don’t wanna,” he blurted. “But I reckon I kin if you say it’s needful.”
Glorie Bee reached out to squeeze his wrist. “Just remember—it’s for her own good—not to hurt her. To protect her from getting herself into real trouble down the road.”
Jonesy didn’t speak. He nodded. He kept ripping the feathers out of the mean rooster’s corpse and shoving them into the canvas bag. His chin quivered, and he had to blink several times to keep from squalling like a sissy.
***
After they had eaten the mean rooster, fried up crispy, with boiled squash, fried taters and onions, and plum sauce, Glorie Bee announced that she was going out to feed the chickens and gather eggs. She wrapped herself in her shawl and gave her husband a long, stern look. “You know what to do, Luke.”
“Yes’m,” he said, raising his eyes to his daughter.
Glorie Bee ran her hand gently through his hair. “It’s the right thing,” she murmured.
He gave a nod. Just one. She went out the door.
Jonesy stood. “Come on, Hank. Let’s warsh up these dishes. We gotta talk.”
Hank had the uneasy feeling that something was not as it should be. She gathered the dishes and set them in the wash basin. Jonesy lifted the heavy tea kettle and poured hot water over the soap, adding enough cold to keep it tolerable. He washed. Hank dried. As they did the chore, Jonesy cleared his throat.
“Little Hank,” he began, “Yore momma says you need a lickin’.”
Hank’s shoulders slumped, but she nodded, “I figgered she’d git around to it.”
Jonesy’s stopped scrubbing the plate he was working on. “It’s worser than that,” he sighed. “She says yer not takin’ her lickin’s to heart, so I gotta whup ya.”
Hank’s mouth dropped open. “But—but pa! You never whup me!”
“I know that,” he cried, “And I don’t wanna whup ya! But yer momma sez it’s gotta be done.” His jaw clenched and his adam’s apple bobbed several times. “So, after we’s done with these dishes, I gotta take ya into yer room and—and—we gotta do this thing.”
They stared at each other. Both appalled. After a bit, they went back to washing dishes and stacking them on the counter.
***
Jonesy closed the bedroom door behind them. “I ain’t never done nuthin’ like this afore,” he said. “How’s yer momma do it?”
Hank blushed. Jonesy blushed. They eyed each other miserably.
“Depends on how bad I been,” she whispered. “Usual, she bends me over her knees or over the bed. I alwuz has to drop the overalls, and if I been real bad—” she looked at her feet, “—then the drawers has to come down too.”
“We ain’t doin’ that!” Jonesy sputtered. “Yer drawers is stayin up!”
“Good.” Hank shuddered. “Getting’ whupped bare is awful humiliatin’.”
“I should say!” Jonesy shuddered as well. He held the length of harness leather Glorie Bee had left for him. Hank slipped the straps of her overalls over her shoulder and let them drop. He doubled the strap. She bent over the bed.
“I reckon this’ll hurt,” Jonesy quavered.
“It’s s’posed ta hurt, silly,” Hank sighed, looking over her shoulder at him. “That’s what’s s’posed ta knock all the wickeness out o’ ya!”
Jonesy choked. “There ain’t no wickedness in you, Little Hank! I cain’t do this. I cain’t!” He tossed the strap on the floor and covered his face with his hands. “I’d rather cut off my own head.”
“Daddy,” Little Hank shuffled around and sat beside him on the bed. Her little arm stole around his shoulders. “It’s okay. I know I done bad. Real bad. Momma cried and cried. Jest for that, I got it comin’. Jest whup me. I been whupped afore. It ain’t gonna kill me.”
He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her against his chest. He sobbed once, then sucked it up—for her sake.
“Don’t cry, daddy,” she said. “I’d druther take a million whuppin’s than have you cry cuz o’ me.”
They held each other for a while. They heard the door open and the sound of Glorie Bees boots on the floor. Suddenly Jonesy’s head lifted. “Hold on,” he whispered. “I got me a idee. It jest might work.”
Hank rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “What?”
He scooped up the strap, doubled it, and grinned. “What if I take the strap to that pillow ‘stead o’ yer bottom? And ever’ time I give that pillow a lick, you let out a yelp like I done walloped you hard enuff to strip hide off’n you? Yer momma will think I’m layin’ inta ya just turrible.”
Hank clapped her hands over her mouth to smother the giggles. “That’s a rip-snortin’ idee, Pa! I kin holler loud!”
“I better scold ya first. Glorie Bee said you needed a stern scoldin’ and then a whuppin’.”
Hank smothered more giggles, and Jonesy launched into a harsh lecture which covered everything from disrespectful behavior to dishonesty and putting them elderly ladies at risk of any number of deadly consequences. “And what happened to them cookies anyhow? Did you eat ‘em all yerself? That’s a sin too! Gluttony!” He finally wrapped it up with “Now yer gonna hafta take yer punishment, girl. Bend yerself over now.”
He gave the pillow a relentless walloping. Little Hank yelped then wailed then howled. “There now,” Jonesy barked. “Jest don’t ya fergit what kin happen when you do somethin’ so foolish and dreadful—embarrassin’ yer family and scarin’ the life outta god-fearin’ folks.”
“I’m sorry, daddy,” Little Hank wailed. “I won’t never do nuthin’ like that ever, ever agin!”
They grinned at each other like two outlaws who’d just made off with a fortune in gold nuggets.
“Yer momma must never know ‘bout this,” Jonesy whispered. “Never. She’d skin us both alive. Turn our hides into moccasins.”
***
Jonesy opened the bedroom door, strap dangling limply from his hand. “It’s done,” he said.
Glorie Bee stood by the fireplace, wringing her hands. “Oh, Luke!” she whispered. “That sounded awful!”
Hank staggered out of her room, hair mussed, one overall strap swinging loose, both hands clutched to her bottom. “Oh, momma,” she moaned, “I’m so sorry! I won’t never, never do no wicked things at church ever again.” She fell against her mother, pressing her face into her bosom, snuffling like she was on the verge of collapse.
“Luke Jones!” Glorie Bee gasped. “How hard did you hit our baby!?”
Luke blinked then frowned. “You said she had ta learn,” he said. “It’s prolly best you give the lickin’s from here on. I reckon I didn’t know my own strength.”
Hank whimpered, “I ain’t never been licked like that afore.”
Glorie Bee glared at Luke. “I didn’t say to cripple her!”
Hank giggled into her mother’s belly. Fortunately, Glorie Bee thought she was sobbing.
***
For the next couple of days, Hank hobbled around the place, rubbing her backside and squeaking pitifully when she sat at the table. Jonesy shook his head, thinking she was enjoying her dramatics way too much. Finally he pulled her into the barn for a serious man-to-young’un talk.
“Hank, you best quit milkin’ this—it’s gonna turn ‘round and bite us in the backside. Your momma is lookin’ at you like she’s afeared I done some real hurt to ya!”
She grinned up at him. “You tole me to act like I was getting’ skint alive.”
“Then!” Jonesy said, peeking out the window. “It’s time to leave off afore yer momma takes it into her head to ah—inspect the damage!” He gulped. “If she sees you ain’t even got a red mark on yer backside, much less welts and bruises, she’s gonna know we deceived her agin.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “Oh—” she whispered. “That would be real awful.”
“Yes, it would be.” Jonesy made a face. “I cain’t stand the thought of shamin’ yer momma agin like that. She be so hurt, she might jest pack you and herself up and head up north to the Bar B where her folks is. And I might not see ya’ll for months and months.” He swallowed hard, blinking several times. “No way could I survive losin’ the two of ya. I’d just shrivel up and die—like a salted slug.”
She threw her arms around him. “I couldn’t stand it neither, Pa. I’ll leave off.”
He spat in his palm, stuck out his hand. “Shake on it?”
She spat in her own hand. “Done,” she said.
They shook.
Later that day, Glorie Bee made a custard tart for supper. She hummed while she rolled out the crust. She smiled at Jonesy when he came in from the barn.
“Yer lookin’ pert, darlin’,” he said. “Find a silver dollar in yer shoe?”
She laughed. “I wish! No—I’m just glad that Henrietta seems to be perking up some. I think it near broke her little heart to have her daddy so vexed with her.”
Jonesy smiled—though inside he felt a stab of guilt. “Durn near broke my heart too,” he said. “I ain’t much good at bein’ harsh.”
Glorie Bee took his face between her hands and kissed him right on the mouth. “That’s what makes you so durn lovable—” When he grinned, she added, “And frustratin’.”
“Aw, shucks, Glorie Bee. I don’t mean ta be frustratin’."
