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

of this other crap anyway. The packages had been nicely wrapped though. He stepped back.

This display would make a perfect Christmas card image, something he might put on a magazine cover. He pulled out his iPhone, viewed the angles and took some shots.

Somebody knocked on the front door.

The kid and his dog ran out of the kitchen, charged across the living room and bolted up the steps into the entry. Light flooded the entry and the kid said, “Willis! Merry Christmas!” The kid laughed with joy.

Little . . .

Kirby wanted to walk over and meet this Willis, but he didn’t. He stayed planted in front of the tree and took a picture of the fireplace.

“Merry Christmas, Jason,” said a deep, full voice. “Here, this is for you.”

“Oh, Willis, that’s awesome.”

The guy said, “I’ll take it into the barn. Hello, Barnabas.” The dog grumbled and moaned softly, obviously saying hello to a friend.

Carolyn stood into the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling toward the entry like a teenage girl expecting to see her boyfriend. The front door closed, nobody came down from the entry and Carolyn turned back into the kitchen.

Jesus, who was this guy?

Kirby crossed to the entry but they'd all gone outside. He turned into her office and fixed himself a tumbler of rye whiskey. He took a long pull and refilled the glass.

The front door opened and a weathered, muscular man stood in the doorway, hard to judge his age. He stared at Kirby, a large slice of polished tree trunk with some kind of mechanism mounted into it slung over his shoulder.

Kirby pasted on his most polite smile, rounded the desk and stood in the office doorway. “Merry Christmas.” Kirby extended his right hand. “I’m Tom Kirby, Carolyn’s publisher.”

The guy just stared at Kirby, no smile, no nod, no hello.

Stupid.

Kirby withdrew his hand.

Yeah.

The guy’s right hand held the burled tree trunk. He couldn’t shake hands if he wanted to.

Kirby felt out of his element here. He wiped his sweaty hand on the back of his pants and watched the kid and his dog follow this guy down into the living room, not even a glance at Kirby. Kirby closed the front door and turned down the steps, wishing he’d stayed in L.A.

“Mom, look! Willis made you a clock.” Still excited.

The kid sneered at Kirby. "Willis made our house."

“Made this clock for the house, really.” The guy, Willis, had a hick accent. He seemed uncomfortable around Carolyn.

Great.

Carolyn and the Indian stood near the fireplace admiring the chunk of tree root.

The guy set the heavy looking thing on the hearth and turned toward Kirby. He extended his right hand and smiled. “Merry Christmas. Name’s Willis Donner.” His handshake felt stiff as a board, not used to meeting people.

Kirby smiled, let go and sipped whiskey.

Carolyn's eyes snapped away from Kirby. “Anyone else want a Christmas cocktail?”

Nobody else wanted to drink.

She shot Kirby a wary glance.

Nag. 

He took another sip, trying to calm the bristling hair on the back of his neck. He’d never felt so out of place.

Willis went back outside with the kid, his dog and the Indian.

Kirby followed at a distance, waited for the front door to close then ducked back into her office to refill his drink. Fresh drink in hand, he strolled into the kitchen.

Carolyn placed a stack of dishes on the large kitchen table fit into a nice bay window with a fantastic view. He hadn’t noticed any of this when he'd eaten his salad. “This is a really nice spot.” He stood near the table and looked down across the lower meadow, the feed bins, the winding brook, the sleek, fat cattle. “What do you feed your beef?”

Like I care.

She kept her distance, setting the table. “It’s a special corn feed. Olen Jacobsen has it delivered up from Sonora once a week. All the ranchers use it. Cattle buyers recommend it.”

“Is that roast beef I smell in the oven?”

“Yes.” Her mouth smiled politely, not her eyes. “Sorry, you don’t like our beef.”

“It’s not your beef. I’ve got too much on my mind. I started thinking last night and lost my appetite, that’s all. Now I’m starving. That salad probably saved my life.”

He said it playfully, trying to get a smile. It didn’t.

“It looked and smelled so good last night, I’m trying her recipe. I had to go online to find out how to apply the rock salt. It’s only been on there since early this morning. I hope it comes out okay.” She looked at the Regulator clock on the wall.

4:03.

“It’s already time to turn off the oven.” She crossed the kitchen and turned it off.

Someone had returned inside, making noise. Kirby crossed to the kitchen doorway, sipped whiskey and watched.

The hick climbed a wooden ladder with his large, gnarled slice of tree root propped on his shoulder. Maybe he’d fall and break his hick neck, turning awkwardly to hang the stupid thing. The hick hung it easily on a blackened bolt, nearly invisible in the stonework.

“Made for each other,” said Kirby. The gnarled stump fit into the pattern of the hewn stone as if the stonework had been done in preparation to receive it. The stone pattern radiated outward in all directions, the sawn stump at the center, a clock at the center of that. He admired it, an odd admission for Tom Kirby.

Willis said, “I planned to put this here for Mary Lou, the boy’s great grandmother. Then she went back to the earth.”

A skilled craftsman might be someone Kirby needed to worry about. Some women found those backwoods men attractive. Willis posed a definite threat.

Jesus.

Kirby wished he’d stayed in L.A.

Carolyn pushed past Kirby into the living room as Willis climbed down. They stood shoulder to shoulder looking up at the clock, ignoring Kirby.

She said, “Oh, Willis, it’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Kirby sipped whiskey, nearly empty.

“Still need to get it running.” Willis lurched toward the entry.

She asked, “Where are Jason and John?”

Willis stopped on the steps and