Walnut Bottom Farm, Books 1 & 2 Read online

They all had pie and talked about the weather and peaches and how to make cherry wine.

  Calla didn't say much, just picked at her dessert. Interrupting the current topic, she finally voiced her thoughts. "I have never been spanked and don't see how it would help do a thing but make me mad. I just don't get it."

  "Mind if I try to explain?" Clayton asked Bruce.

  "I'd appreciate it, actually."

  "I'll try. No guarantee it will make sense... These days we all take pride in our individual accomplishments, our individual rights. We all run our own lives. These are good things, but, in a way, maybe it's too much of a good thing. Too much pride, no humility. Too much do what I want and what I feel like and 'whatever' if you don't like it and to hell with worrying how it may affect others. No one is in charge. No one has the final say. Small disagreements lead to family chaos. It used to be that families pooled their efforts and labors for the good of the whole. A man had authority in his home and could keep peace when conflict arose, even if he had to unbuckle his belt to do it. There is something very humbling about it, I think, for both the giver and the receiver and it just seems to set things right and clear the air. I don't think it would be easy to discipline someone you love. That's why so many spankings start with the phrase, 'This is going to hurt me more than it will you.' And besides all that, sometimes I think a woman can get overcome by her emotions," Beginning to turn red, Clayton was wondering how he thought himself capable of explaining such mysteries, "or her monthly cycle maybe, and get all angry and not even know why, and then feel better after a good cry, and certainly behave less murderously. Perhaps I can’t explain a thing, but I grew up in a house with five sisters and a couple of them seemed to book a monthly appointment at Dad’s self-control recovery clinic."

  "Yeah, well, we have happy pills and chick flicks now," Calla mumbled. She was listening more openly until he had added that last bit of chauvinist crap. Then she listened as her friend shocked her further.

  "Calla, you know my parents. They were always in love with each other and rarely argued, at least not in front of us. Well, I remember times when they did, when mom would get outrageously bitchy and as disagreeable as an alley cat. Once he couldn't take it anymore, Dad would put on some big band record, turn it up loud and say 'Let’s discuss this upstairs, sweetheart.' I once tiptoed up and put my ear to the door. I very clearly heard Mom getting spanked, hard. I thought about busting in to save her, but as I listened to what was being said between them I realized I just shouldn't. She and Dad came down together a while later, both in a much better mood. She did always feel better after a good cry, anyway. And, studies have proven that crying releases stress hormones, so however it worked, it did. Dad probably felt better after venting a little on that big butt of hers, too. I thought it was just an odd thing between my parents. I couldn't really picture other women I knew being spanked by their husbands, but now, I'm thinking it's probably a tale as old as time. I guess when push comes to shove and the talking is done, some men get mad and break things, some tuck tail and run, and some still spank."

  “Still?” Bruce asked. “I think it’s likely a lost art, went out of style with old John Wayne movies and I Love Lucy.”

  “Well,” Calla said, “just this morning over breakfast at the inn, Lexi and I heard Lucy and Ricky discuss her shopping habits.” Somehow, as she told the story, it seemed far less shocking than it had been overhearing it a few short hours before. Grace and Clayton were more shocked that the ladies had listened in on the couple than they were at what was heard. Bud found it just plain funny and Bruce seemed deep in thought. All agreed they were right to stay out of it.

  The party finished eating, repacked and got back to the trail. Fifteen minutes later they emerged into an old homestead pasture.

  "You should have seen this place in its glory," Bud said as everyone's eyes swept over the green, rolling field and ghost farm. "This time of year there would be a few half-fattened steers meandering about, portable hen houses randomly scattered, milk goats mingled with the chickens. Mr. Drake had odd ways of farming by most standards, so we thought back then. He didn't feed his cattle corn. In the summer he didn't feed his livestock much of anything, everything was free range. Over the winter he moved the chickens around his garden to scratch and fertilize and fed them mostly kitchen scraps. He called them his feathered pigs. He never used chemicals of any kind to fertilize or deal with pests. If disease or beetles or some other problem struck one of his crops he blamed it on some biological imbalance and found a natural way to right it. It was a very efficient farm. Nearly every bite of food and even some of their clothing came from right here. Anything else they needed they got mostly by bartering."

  The group dismounted as Bud explained, “Mrs. Drake sold soap, candles and honey at the farmer's market in the city to supplement her income as a midwife. Although, she was sometimes paid for her services in labor; in the form of the lady's husband helping Mr. Drake to mend fences or by digging her new garden space.”

  As the horses grazed, Bud continued his guided tour around the outbuildings and barn, nearly all still in fine shape, as they were mostly made from the stone of the mountain. He pointed out the milking parlor, butchery, smoke houses, and blacksmith forge, as they explored the barn and looked at the farm equipment. Much of it was designed and made by Mr. Drake himself.

  Clayton found many pieces to be ingeniously engineered and well made. He couldn't hide his enthusiasm as his mind rolled around all the possibilities for the place.

  Even in its unkempt state it seemed a beautiful paradise. Evidence of many herb gardens abounded from every nook and cranny. Tall spikes of dill surrounded by chamomile and clover scented the breeze as they passed. Knots of rosemary and sage followed pathways. Comfrey, valerian, feverfew, St. John's wort, stands of echinacea and even spikes of the potentially lethal foxglove sprung forth around every turn. Thyme poured out from the rocks. Brambleberry vines, having escaped the raspberry and blackberry trellises grabbed at boots and blouses.

  Keenly aware of Clayton's delight, Lexi asked if he'd like to see the house. From the outside it looked charming and cozy. As they stepped in they were enveloped in cool air. The room they stood in appeared to be bigger than the entire house. Although the roof was a dense bed of purple flowers and ferny foliage, light shone through as if it had several skylights. The magic was simply glass-shielded tubes of fiber optic cables that carried in light from the front of the house and sides of the roof. Beneath their feet, the floor was solid stone. There were no corners in the entire room. The walls of intricately stacked stone curved in and out. Little ledges and shelves of rock that stood out made Lexi picture how pretty it would all look with an array of flickering candles. The fireplace gave Clayton similar imaginings that included a certain raven-haired beauty sitting in its glow.

  Chapter 5

  Thunderbolts and Lightening

  By September the property transfer was complete and Clayton had begun digging into his Shenandoah paradise. Calla saw little of Lexi, as Clayton seemed to steal her away every time she was in town. Being in the peak of harvest season for so many crops, Bruce worked from dawn 'til dusk.

  Luckily, Calla's relationship with Grace was sweetening somewhat. Her mother-in-law seemed to bear less animosity towards her and was finally giving her some space. Even so, she’d shirked off spending the day before helping her make and jar a year's worth of applesauce and pie filling.

  It was a steamy and sticky, yet, deliciously aromatic day. The scent of caramelized apples and spices still hung in the house. Grace was always delighted by the sight of all those steaming mason jars cooling on the counters and counting the loud pops as the metal lids sealed. She found it satisfying to see the pantry shelves filling up like a little country store and was glad to have that bit of security going into each winter.

  Bruce came in for lunch. "Calla!" he hollered up the stairs.

  "What?" she shot back down.

  "Just come down. I'm in a hurry." />
  A minute later she produced herself in the kitchen. "What is the emergency?"

  "None yet. I just wanted to tell you to come straight home after work tonight. Bad storms are expected, with flash flooding, and I don't want you caught out in it."

  "But it’s open mic tonight!"

  "And there will be another one next week. It's supposed to be severe. Now, I don't have time to argue. Clay and I are trying to get in the rest of the alfalfa before the rain starts."

  "Okay, Weather Marshal, whatever you say." Calla still didn't understand why people so used to the outdoors got so stressed about bad weather. It wasn't as if she would melt. The car had headlights and windshield wipers and good tires. She'd driven in rain before.

  Eight hours later Calla unloaded herself onto a barstool next to Lexi. Clayton was busy throwing hay bales with Bruce, so Lexi decided to surprise her and show up at the Brass Lantern at the end of her shift. Thunder and lightning had been rolling around the valley for the past hour and the very air outside had taken on a greenish hue. Despite this, Calla didn't even think about Bruce's decree that she come straight home until a piercing bolt of lightning seemed to open the sky and the rain began to fall like a tidal wave. By then they had just finished a cocktail and had gotten salads.

  "Oops," Calla said aloud.

  "Oops, what?" Lexi asked.

  "Bruce wanted me to come straight home after work tonight because of the thunderstorms. "

  "Well, that ark has sailed," Lexi chuckled as her fast, French manicured fingertips were already consulting her smart phone. "Looks like the weather radar shows a band of wind and rain moving fast. It should clear out in an hour. We may as well sit tight and enjoy the music. Besides, the brave musicians that scoffed at the storm to come out and play for us need an audience.” With a wink and her own special logic Lexi helped her friend relax, not that Calla was overly concerned.

  "It would be rude to leave, then." Calla grinned impishly.

  Hearing his cue, Roy asked, "Would you two, ever so polite young ladies like another drink?"

  "Yes, please," they fairly sang in unison.

  The next hour was like a hurricane party. Competing with the thunder, guitars, keyboards and drums were rocked by super charged musicians taking advantage of having extra time to play, so few came out that night, and there was a small unintimidating crowd. Lightening lit up the tavern like a pyrotechnic show for a full rock concert effect. The two friends sang, danced and acted as carefree and silly as they did when they celebrated passing finals during college. It had been a while since they let loose like this and they lost all track of time.

  "Calla! Bruce." Roy held up the telephone.

  She hadn't even thought to turn her cell back on after her shift. Looking at the clock, she saw that it was almost midnight. "Tell him I just left."

  "She says she just left," Roy conveyed automatically. "You're welcome."

  Calling it a night, Lexi left for the little efficiency apartment she kept at the edge of town and Calla headed for the farm in the hills. The higher she ascended, the foggier it got. Although the rain had stopped, she could hardly see where she was going. There was so much mud, gravel and limbs washed over the road, at times she wasn't even sure she was still driving on the pavement. Water still ran along the roadside like a little angry river and ponded in low spots, jerking her car as she drove through, being much deeper than she expected. Suddenly, an enormous sodden branch fell directly in front of her car. She hit the brakes and swerved. In a blink, but seemingly in slow motion, she spun out of control and finally came to rest facing the opposite direction.

  Heart pounding, she let out the breath she had been holding and sat there staring at the swirling mist in the headlights, wishing she were already home. After her heart slowed back down to a normal rhythm, she tried to restart the engine. It cranked and cranked but would not turn over. Giving up, she opened the car door to get out and only then realized that she was off the road and stuck in the mud!

  "Shit! Shit! Shit!" She pounded the steering wheel and cursed out loud. Then, feeling around the floor for the scattered contents of her purse, she finally found her phone. There was another barrage of expletives when she had no signal. With no alternative, Calla gathered her things and started walking.

  After a soggy half mile, a car came up behind her. Apprehension mixed with hope turned to relief when the police cruiser turned on its lights. Luckier yet, it was Bud Spears. She got in and explained the ordeal on the way home. Bud listened, expressed his gladness that she was okay and told her how he’d quickly searched the area when he came upon her car. Then he asked, "How much did you have to drink this evening?"

  "Not much. This was entirely weather related." The rest of the drive was silent.

  Bud walked Calla to the porch where Bruce paced, arms crossed. After explaining how he came upon her car and then her, the sheriff turned to Calla and held out a Breathalyzer. "Take a deep breath and blow."

  "How DARE you!"

  "Do it or ride in the back seat to get a blood sample drawn at the hospital." Bud's calm, no nonsense tone elicited her cooperation.

  Bud then showed Calla and Bruce the reading. "If this were anyone else she'd be booked for drunk driving." Bud was now speaking only to Bruce. "If word were to get out that I showed favoritism and let Calla go unpunished I could lose my job." A moment of silent communication between the men ended with nods and a handshake.

  Chapter 6

  Aftermath

  Instead of the usual sounds of morning at Walnut Bottom Farm, Calla woke to a racket in the wood shop. Saws and sanders screeched and buzzed her awake. At least he's too busy to bother me with a lecture, she thought. Feeling embarrassed and angry at the same time, she looked out the window and saw her sad looking car sitting where the tow truck had dropped it. What on earth could he be building out there that's more important than fixing my car? she wondered. In the kitchen Grace had left a note that said that she and Bud had gone to an auction and would be home around three or so. Calla made her own coffee and breakfast, and then showered.

  Returning to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, Calla found Bruce sitting in the window. She sighed, resigned to the argument they were undoubtedly about to have. "Look, I'm really sorry about last night. I guess you're pissed about the whole thing and embarrassed that your uncle brought me home and thinks I'm a drunk driver, but honestly, it was the weather... WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?" Calla's eyes fell upon a wooden paddle lying on the bed.

  "Prototype number three. When I decided to make a paddle, the first one was too big and heavy. I made it of walnut and thought it would be a bit too harsh. The next one…"

  "Shut up!" Calla interrupted. "If you even come near me with that thing, I'll have you arrested!"

  "Perhaps you will. Though I'll still get done what I intend to do before that happens, and if you want to further humiliate yourself by showing an officer your fanny and telling your sad story, then I won't try to stop you. You're free to do as you please, as you demonstrate so well."

  "How DARE you?" she spat out again as she had on the porch the night before.

  "How dare you stay and drink, get drunk and drive home, especially after I asked you to come straight home due to the weather that you insist caused your accident? How dare you think that just because you are free to do as you please that there should be no consequences for your choices?" Bruce was still calm, but was beginning to raise his voice.

  "It isn't your place to play traffic court! You have no right…"

  "You have no appreciation for the thousands of dollars Bud saved us by bringing you home! You have no respect for my place as your husband, which is NOT to sit by and watch my wife act like a college student on spring break, with my hands in my pockets! A good paddling isn't going to kill you. Drunk driving will. You may hate me for it, but you won't forget so easily the next time you stay for a few drinks."

  Calla just stood there, wide-eyed with her mouth hanging open but speechless, clutching
her towel around her body with both arms as if it were a protective magic cloak. Bruce now stood between her and the door with his fists on his hips. She’d never seen him look so steely and scary and had never felt so small and defenseless. Taking in the breadth of his chest and shoulders and the bulges of his pecs and biceps stretching against his red cotton tee shirt, she wondered how on earth she would get away.

  He looked bigger and meaner, all puffed up in anger and she half expected him to turn green and burst out of his clothes like the Incredible Hulk. As if reading her mind, he said, "Calla, it will go better for you if you cooperate. I don't want to wrestle you down like a steer at the rodeo, but I will."

  "I have to get dressed for work. Does my car run?" She managed to put on a bra and underwear before Bruce walked over and took her slacks from her hand and put them back on the hanger.

  "I called you off work today. No, your car does not run and you're already overdressed for the occasion." With one hand firmly around her wrist and the other around her waist he began leading her to the bed. She went in quiet shock at first, but as Bruce was about to sit, she sucker punched him and clamored over the bed, grabbing the paddle. Darting for the door, she tried to throw the implement through the window on the way. She succeeded in breaking the glass, but the curtains caught the paddle and sent it clunking to the floor as a strong arm lifted her from the doorway. "You're making this far more difficult than it needs to be."

  "What the fuck? Shut the hell up and let go of me! I don't care! Put me down! Let me go!" Calla fought and screamed and kicked and cursed.

  It took a few moments for Bruce to finally get his paddle and Calla back to edge of the bed and a few more to get her over his knee. Once he managed to get her legs locked down under his right knee, and her right hand pinned safely behind her back, all she could do was scream, holler and pound the mattress, the only thing in reach, with her left hand. For a while he just held her there and let her rant. She went on for a couple minutes and began to feel silly; she eventually grew quiet, aside from her hard breathing. Finally she spoke again. "This is humiliating."