Making Hay Read Free Page B

seemed constantly in need of trimming.
    “Blessed day to you, Vassar,” was the older man’s greeting.
    “Looks like a blessed day for hay cutting, if you’re ready.”
    Roscoe nodded and gestured toward the men who were just beginning to jump down from the back of the hay wagon where their gear was stowed. Trailing behind the wagon, like stray dogs following a sausage truck, were the machines that made modem haying a quick and reasonable task for a half dozen men. Vass immediately found his steps leading him to the shiny mechanical wonders. Almost with reverence he gently caressed the cold, brightly painted metal of the rake bars.
    “You know most of these boys,” Roscoe said, interrupting Vass’s communion with the farm implements.
    Looking up hastily, dismayed at his own bad manners, Vass acknowledged the men in the crew who were familiar to him. “John, Angus, Claidon.”
    Handshakes were exchanged.
    “That boy is Angus’s,” Roscoe said, pointing at a ruddy- complexioned young man in his teens. “His name’s Tommy. And this here is Ripley. He’s quite a hand with the machinery. He’s got that newfangled haykicker of mine slipping through the fields like a knife through butter.”
    A man in his mid-twenties jumped from the back of the wagon. There was a sauntering laziness to his walk, but no shortage of implied power in his thick muscular arms and thighs. His coal-black hair hung in loose curls around his head, and bright blue eyes gazed out of a strong, handsome face. He gave a friendly nod to Vass, his smile was broad and his teeth straight and white, and one long, deep dimple curved down his left cheek. The new man was only a few inches shorter than Vassar and had to look up only slightly to meet his gaze. After wiping his hand casually on his trousers, he accepted the offered handshake. Vassar’s huge bearlike paw was much bigger than Ripley’s own, but his grip was of a man to his equal.
    “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Green. You got some fine good fields a-growing here.”
    “The name’s Muldrow, Vassar Muldrow.” He glanced around with pride. “I grew the fields, but they aren’t mine. The Widow Green owns this place.”
    Ripley nodded with polite apology at his mistake and then raised a teasing eyebrow as he glanced around at the other men. “Widow, huh? I’m right partial to widows.” His words brought a guffaw of laughter from the rest of the crew. Vass felt vaguely unsettled.
    “That Ripley’s got him a gal on every farm we’ve been through this year,” John Crenshaw explained. “I suspect half the gals in Arkansas are expecting him to come back at the end of the season and put a ring on their finger.”
    Those words brought a spurt of laughter from the crew.
    Vassar grinned companionably with the rest.
    Old Roscoe shook his head with disapproval. “There’s more truth to that than I want to think about.”
    “I swear I don’t know how he does it,” John said. “He just smiles that pretty smile and talks some pretty talk, and them gals are clinging to him like ivy on bramble vines.”
    Ripley shrugged with feigned innocence and chuckled good-naturedly.
    Vass was grinning more easily now. “I hope you don’t set your sights on Widow Green. She ain’t much of a woman for foolishness. My daddy sent me here for her to straighten out my ways. You start talking pretty to her, and she’s liable to wash your mouth out with soap.”
    Ripley nodded, his words open and friendly. “Thank you, Muldrow. I consider myself warned. And call me Rip—everybody does.”
    Vass slapped Rip on the back.
    It took the better part of the morning to unload all the equipment. The crew would be camping out near the hay barn, where they could shelter in case of inclement weather.
    Vass began hitching up the teams to the equipment and found Ripley at his side. He’d already noticed the man had a good mind for tools and implements as well as a quick wit. Rip had kept up a steady stream of