Page 8 of Her Gentle Protector
She had never stolen corn before, and she wasn’t sure how to do it quietly. As she reached for the next stalk, the rain seemed to pick up, and the sound of it pattering against the plants masked her movements. She quickly ripped the corn off the stalk, husking it before shoving it into her pack.
Just as she finished filling her bag, a high-pitched scream pierced through the stillness. Her stomach dropped and with shaking hands, she pressed herself against the stalks, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She held her breath, barely daring to move until she heard just the wind racing through the stalks like a ghostly shriek.
Midge’s eyes widened and her breath hitched as she caught a flash of red darting through the stalks of corn. A red fox paused beside a tall stalk, its ears twitching as it glanced in her direction. Yellow eyes met hers as it parted its maw to emit a raspy bark that echoed in the wind. Her heart raced as her hand pressed against her chest and she tried to compose herself.
“Oh, thank you,” she said to the rustling stalks. “It was only a fox.”
Take us the foxes, The little foxes, That spoil the vines: For our vines have tender grapes.The words her mother read from the Bible rang in her ears. Ma told her that the little foxes were those sins that people overlooked or tried to justify but would come back to haunt them or have huge consequences in the person’s life.
Taking several gulps of air, she wondered if the fox was trying to warn her. She knew stealing was wrong. It also didn’t set a good example for her siblings.This will be the last time, Lord. I promise.
Hitching her sack over her shoulder, she made her way to the edge of the property. She was grateful to make her way through the cornfield unnoticed. Hunkering down, she could see the tree next to the chicken coop and the barn in the distance. The barn door was open, and Midge could see several lanterns hanging from the rafters.
She waited to see if anyone would come out of the building or walk by. With nerves already frayed from the fox, she wanted to be sure there was no one else around. Dropping her bag by the edge of the cornfield, she crept closer to the chicken coop, her eyes darting around for any sign of danger. She chastised herself once more, but pushed away her guilt, focusing on the task at hand. Her family needed her, and she would not let them down.
As she approached the chicken coop, a mix of fear and determination coursed through her veins. Arriving at the tree, she looked for a weak spot in the fencing. It took several tries with the rusty snips since she lost her new ones, and she was inside the chicken yard. Since she was already familiar with the way the hen house was situated, it only took her a moment to scoop up a sleeping hen.
Midge gritted her teeth and shoved her shoulder through the opening in the chicken wire fence, ignoring the angry clucking of the hen.
“Stop right there!” a voice boomed through the storm.
Midge paused for only a second, then took off running towards the cornstalks, her bare feet slipping in the muddy yard. The hen squawked louder in protest. As she reached the tall corn, she glanced back and was startled by the thunderous footsteps of the largest man she had ever seen, chasing her through the pouring rain.
She navigated the tall stalks of corn as quickly as she could, holding the squirming hen to her chest with one arm while feeling for the missing burlap sack that was usually tucked in her pocket. When her fingers failed to brush against its familiar fabric, she let out a groan.
In her haste, she had forgotten her bag of corn. Shuddering, she knew she was in trouble.
The bag had Pa’s name on it.
Baxter grabbed the burlap sack the thief had abandoned near the barn. Opening it, he found it filled with half-dried corn. Not only was the thief stealing chickens but also food that was going to feed livestock through the winter. Gripping the burlap tightly, Baxter held it up to the light emitting from the barn.
Bea.
Bea?
Turning the bag once more, he could make out the rest of the faded letters.
Bea-l-e.
Beale.
He should have known.
Harold Beale had a notorious reputation for drinking and stealing. Pa, who traveled often on business trips before he died, was already familiar with Harold’s shady behavior. So when news spread that the Beale family was moving to Flat River, Pa made sure everyone in town knew exactly what to expect from them. Harold had no wife by his side; most likely she had left him, given up on his habit of hard-drinking and carousing.
Tossing the heavy sack of corn over his shoulder, Baxter started down the winding path that connected the Hartman and Chapman properties. Moving quickly, he could feel each footstep pounding up through the soles of his boots. As he stepped carefully across the creek where it was shallowest, he thought of Harold Beale, and his anger spurred Baxter forward. He would make it back to their shack before Harold did.
As Baxter crested the hilltop, he had just enough time to hide behind a tree when he spotted a silhouette appearing further down the path, the chicken still tucked neatly under one arm. Holding his breath, he waited until the figure was just a few feet away before lunging out from his cover and grabbing the shadow by the shoulders roughly. A shriek broke through the air as a gust of wind snatched the hat off their head and sent it sailing through the air.
Baxter released her and stumbled backwards as the figure stepped into the light from the front porch, revealing a woman with long brown locks and hazel eyes flickering between defiance and vulnerability.
He knew he should remember her name, but his mind had gone blank as he stared at the woman before him. She had to be Harold’s oldest daughter. Baxter racked his brain trying to recall her name, desperately searching for the right combination of letters.
Meg... Mary... Margaret...Why couldn’t he remember?
“Midge. My name is Midge,” she told him, rolling her shoulders back.
“Why are you telling me that?”
