The Unplowed Sky by Jeanne Williams

how come you’re cooking for a threshing crew?”
    Shaft sighed and fitted three big pans of gingerbread into the oven. “Well, my cousin’s a deputy sheriff. Came on a raid with some federal Prohibition officers. They caught me sellin’ a jug to some Tulsa fellers. My cousin had to haul my still and the rest of that run of whiskey into the county seat, but when he told me to get whatever I needed to come along with him, he gave me a long, slow wink. I grabbed what cash I had in the mattress, scooted out the back window into my old jalopy, and I ain’t been back. Nothin’ in the pen that interests me that much!”
    â€œDoes Mr. MacLeod know?”
    â€œFiggered it was only fair to tell him. He allowed as how he didn’t want me making any likker, but said his great-great-great grandmother distilled bootleg whisky on the Isle of Lewis—that’s off the west coast of Scotland, he says. That’s how she made her living while she was a widow. And that’s how quite a few widows in the Balkans keep food in their kiddos’ mouths, though more of ’em sell it than make it.”
    These fascinating disclosures were cut short by a motor wheezing to a stop outside the window. “Mr. Hurok!” shrilled a woman’s voice. “You interested in some butter, milk, eggs, and chickens? We got more green beans and watermelons than we know what to do with. I’d be obliged if you’d use all you could. Hate to see food go to waste—”
    She paused long enough for Shaft to say, “Howdy, Miz Brockett. If one of your kids could bring over a gallon of fresh milk after you’re through milking tonight, it’ll keep till morning. I can use four dozen eggs today, if you’ve got them, and three dozen tomorrow. Can you spare five pounds of butter? The men would sure appreciate the beans and watermelons. I can take about four chickens, providin’ they’re cleaned and plucked—”
    The hefty broad-faced woman in the sunbonnet cackled, showing her wide-spaced teeth. “Don’t like to wring their necks, do you? I recollect you got mighty pale when they were floppin’ around without their heads!” She eyed Hallie and gave a disapproving grunt. “You don’t look like you know how to gut a chicken, neither, much less singe off the pinfeathers. You want some real help, Mr. Hurok, my Sophie can wring a rooster’s neck on the second twist, and her apple dumplings plumb melt away in your mouth—”
    â€œMuch obliged,” Shaft said hastily, “but Miss Hallie’s workin’ out just fine. Got any beef for sale?”
    â€œWe knew you’d be along soon, so my man butchered a steer yesterday. Can you use a quarter?”
    â€œBe about right. Can’t keep it too long in this hot weather but what with lunches, the boys go through beef pretty fast.”
    Mrs. Brockett gave a nod so vigorous that it made her sunbonnet swish. “Fine. I’ll send Sophie over with it and the other stuff soon as she cleans the chickens. We got electricity in this year, and I got a nice new washing machine, so if you want, Sophie and me’ll wash up the men’s clothes.”
    â€œReckon that’ll suit Garth ’cause the only washing I do is dish and hand towels.”
    â€œWe can do them, too, lots easier than you can on the washboard. When Ernie brings the milk this evening, he can pick up the laundry, and we’ll have it back to you tomorrow night. You’ve never seen towels as white as Sophie can get.” The woman paused, then gave Hallie another look which was at once speculative and wary. “Mr. MacLeod got married yet?”
    â€œNot as I know of.”
    â€œTime he did. Man without a wife gets all frayed and frazzled around the edges.”
    â€œMa’am, I sure agree. Rory needs a good woman to settle him down. I’d bet your Sophie’s the one who could do