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HOME BURIAL By Dale Bailey * * * * FEBRUARY GRIPPED THE farm like a fist, and the baby would not let her rest. Rachel lay wakeful by her sleeping husband and listened. The baby’s cry came to her as a faint protest from the burying ground, patient and mournful as the keen of wind about the clapboard house. “Breece,” she whispered, shaking him gently. “Breece, listen.” Breece mumbled, rolled over, and dragged her into his embrace, but he did not wake. Outside, the wind gusted, rattling the knotted fingers of the skeletal oak that stood by the house and chasing watery moon-cast shadows through the bedroom. The barn door banged. Gray specks of snow spat beyond the pale square of the window. The wind grew louder, drowning out the baby’s racket, and Rachel felt a quick surge of relief that Breece had not awakened. She pulled the rough woolen blanket close against her breasts, still heavy and sore with milk, and admonished herself for imagining things. Breece Casey is a practical man, her mama had told her the week preceding the wedding. He won’t tolerate your day-dreaming and nonsense! That had been almost a year ago. Sighing, Rachel knotted herself about the lingering tenderness between her legs. In the chill of the midnight bedroom, there came to her a series of stark |
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