Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (chapter books to read to 5 year olds TXT) 📕

“There’s too much ice. If it crossed over, why didn’t it use these rocks instead of going into the water?”

“I don’t have any idea. Maybe it fell in and drowned.”

Too deep and dark for Jason to see anything. "I hope so."

“How dare they lure that thing onto our property? That sheriff is going to get a big piece of my mind. I’ll call him as soon as we get back.”

Stoner finished drinking and Jason reined him toward the meadow. “Race you home.”

SHERIFF PHIL NASON had been rousted out of bed by a call from the California Highway Patrol at 2:22am, Friday morning, sleeping off his Thanksgiving dinner with Nancy. There’d been an accident out on Sonora Pass Highway, called in by a truck driver from his cell phone.

With deep, fresh snow on the roads, he’d needed to drag Jake Pendleton out of bed to clear the road to Sonora Pass and down Sonora Pass Highway to the accident. Jake had been taking care of heavy earthwork needed in the valley for years. He owned a backhoe and a small dump truck with a snowplow attachment. It had taken him an hour to plow from the village up to the highway. It had taken another hour to plow down to the scene of the accident.

A lumber truck had jackknifed coming down the east side of the pass and had dropped his load onto a passenger car, a family returning to Sonora from over in Hawthorne. There'd been no advance warning for this storm, one of those seasonal things up here, so they’d failed to close the pass in time.

The front of the car had been crushed, killing the man and his wife instantly. The six year old boy in the back seat would probably be okay, only a broken arm and hypothermia. The baby had been nearly frozen but the paramedics said they expected her to live, possibly some brain damage.

The truck driver had suspended his Peterbilt tractor over the edge of the cliff, more than a hundred foot drop to a slope of granite rubble. He’d stayed in his tractor, scared witless.

Nason hoped he wouldn’t blame himself for what had happened to the family, a freak storm and all.

What a mess.

By the time the snowplow from Sonora reached them, the plow and tow trucks from Bridgeport had reached the pass above Pickle Meadow, plowing steadily toward them under a clear and sunny sky.

The highway patrol took the truck driver back down to Sonora, a rescue helicopter took the kids and dead parents, and Nason headed back to his office. He walked in at 3:17pm, completely exhausted.

He kept the potbellied stove on slow drip, plenty to keep his office toasty.

He peeled off his sheep skin coat, put it on a hanger and hung it on the back of the door. He hooked his hat over the coat and used his hands to walk around his desk, too exhausted not to. He eased into the cushioned comfort of his armchair, laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back, dog tired.

The flashing red light on his answering machine wouldn’t allow his eyes to close. His never used machine had six unanswered messages. He leaned forward, propped both arms on his desk and pressed the message button. He laid his weary head on his curled left arm and listened to six beeps. He pressed the erase button and settled back into his chair. His heavy eyelids wanted to close. His answering machine beeped and an electronic voice said, “No Messages.”

“Thank you.” He pushed away from his desk, laced his fingers behind his neck, propped his boots on his desk and got comfortable, squirming and adjusting into that special spot. He closed his eyes and darkness swarmed over his detached mind.

“There you are,” said Carolyn Potter, her harsh tone forcing Nason’s unwilling eyes to open.

His heavy boots thudded to the floor and he sat upright, struggling to unlace his fingers. He mustered all his strength, leaned forward, spread his fingers on his desk and focused on his hands, counting his fingers. His vision slowly returned and he looked up into her big, dark blue eyes.

She looked into him like she could read whatever might be written on the back of his skull.

Gorgeous.

She waved a rolled rug in the air and marched to his desk, angry about something. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

“Why didn’t you leave a message?” He scrubbed his face with both hands, chasing cobwebs. He needed a shave.

“I didn’t know what to say.” She waved that rolled rug as if she wanted to throw it at him. “I’m still not sure I know what to say. I called to see if you were in so I could come over.”

“I’ve been out on the highway all night. There was a bad accident, the storm and all. I just got back and I’m tired.” He stood and stretched out the kinks, suppressing a much needed yawn. He gulped a couple of deep breaths, unable to stop his muscles from shuddering. “What’s this about?”

“We had an incident last night.” She waved that rug one last time and set it on his desk. “Something tried to get into our house.”

Dazed from lack of sleep, Nason absently stared at the rolled rug and cocked an ear in her direction, waiting for more.

“How dare you stake out that poor baby cow on my property? No telling what kind of dangerous animals that could attract. . . Did attract!”

“What?” Trepidation crept up from the bottom of Nason’s tired feet and prickled the hairs at the back of his aching neck. “Are you talking about the bull calf?”

“If that’s what it was, yes. You tied it to a rock in our upper meadow. Who told you you could do that?”

“The Village Committee has an easement.” Nason felt more tired right now than at any time in his life. “Kidro set it up after . . .” She didn’t need to know the rest.