Wrenna stopped and looked at me curiously. I watched the rooster tidbitting beside her, foraging for food in the grasses. With an eye on the child, Tommie clucked softly and bobbed his head for Wrenna’s attention while picking up bits of seed and dropping them at her feet.
A screaming hawk flew over and Tommie cocked his head, stretched his neck, sending out an abrupt oo-oo.
“Whuut-whuut,” Wrenna answered softly, searching the sky.
Mrs. McCain chuckled. “‘Hens in danger,’ he’s saying. Last month, an ornery dog strayed into the yard, scrounging for scraps, growling at Wrenna. The chil’ called out her warning, and ol’ Tommie came a’flyin’ from around the tree over there. He fought that snarling mean dog off.” Mrs. McCain pointed a calloused, knotted finger at the white rooster. “Yessir, he surely did. Them two’s always talking to each other like that.”
I admired the old bird’s tenderness, protectiveness toward the child, remembering Rudy, the colorful rooster my parents had raised with our chickens. Rudy was always bossing, chasing Junia out of the yard and away from the chickens, and the mule sassed right back with her offended haws and brays, having to wait out of sight till it was safe. Junia eventually learned to tolerate the feisty old bird, even grew fond of it, and in the end let him roost on her backside.
“Would she like a book, Mrs. McCain?”
“I suspect she would. She’s practically licked the ink off her favorite that her folks gave her long ago, The Doll’s House.”
I nodded. Mama had read Rumer Godden’s book to me many times.
“She loves to read. And them books help since the schools won’t have her. Chil’ won’t sit still an’ won’t leave Tommie. Wrenna, Wrenna Jean,” the old woman called, “git over here an’ let Book Woman give you a good book.” She frowned. “I tried the settlement school again last year, but she weren’t having none of it, so them fotched-on women said it’s best to keep her home.”
I breathed in the heady scents of woods and pine and couldn’t imagine a wilded Wrenna wanting to leave it for a stuffy, chalk-dusted classroom as free as she was. Nudging my chin over to Junia, I motioned to the girl. “Let’s pick out a book for you, Wrenna.”
“Book Woman, if ya can git me any of them books by Irvin Cobb, I’d be a’mite grateful,” Mrs. McCain said.
“Yes, ma’am, I can bring you several. I noticed The Thunders of Silence and The Glory of the Coming on the library shelves when I dropped in.” Cobb, the Kentucky humorist and author, was a favorite among folk in these parts, and Mama had most of his Old Judge Priest stories from my grandpa’s collection at our cabin.
Wrenna followed me over to my bags and waited while I looked through the children’s books. The girl reached up and petted the mule’s neck, and Junia nuzzled her cheek, pressed her big mouth against the girl’s head. Wrenna didn’t laugh but her eyes were wide and appreciative. Tommie coo-coo’d softly and stayed at her side, keeping his head cocked to Junia. The ol’ girl swished her tail and backed away, keeping a wary eye on the rooster.
I found two books, Elizabeth Goudge’s The Little White Horse and Twig by Elizabeth Orton Jones. I searched again, thinking about the reads Retta and Mama had bought me when I was about Wrenna’s age. There was a wonderful one called Rabbit Hill for young’uns who loved animals. It was back at my home in the Cumberland Forest, but maybe I could find a copy at the library.
“Here you go, Wrenna, and I’ll bring more next time.”
The girl reached up, tickled Junia’s soft, floppy ears, then took the books from me, her eyes holding mine, a mixture of curiosity, innocence, and other things I couldn’t see reflecting back.
I searched inside again in case I missed another read she might like, and pulled out the Bit-O-Honey candy bar Doc had purchased, thinking I’d save it for my routes. Wrenna looked longingly at the sweet treat, licking her lips, and I unwrapped the packaging and broke off several pieces of the mixed taffy and almond bits, separating the tiny bars from the wax paper.