Bone Valley by Claire Matturro Read Free Book Online Page A

said, and winked at Miguel. “Five minutes to get ready, and I’ll be right with you.”
    While Jimmie sputtered, I dashed into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up, dabbed tinted sunscreen on my face, fluffed my hair, dotted citronella, a natural bug-repellent alternative to DEET that usually works, at my pulse points, reddened my lips with something from the health food store that used berry juice and beeswax instead of chemicals, and then dashed into the bedroom. Hiking, let’s see, I thought, aiming for practical, yet alluring. Skip the shorts and sandals, as hiking in wild Florida involves a lot of things that bite, cut, snarl, snag, and itch. Even though it was a warm spring, I went for jeans, a man’s long-sleeved, white cotton shirt, hiking boots, swept my hair back in a ponytail, and squinted into the mirror. Okay, a good look for a sixteen-year-old, but I wasn’t sure about me. But my five minutes were over and I still had to clean up from lunch, and I sprinted out to the kitchen.
    Jimmie and Miguel were busily putting up food and wiping counters and Angus was stuffing dishes into the dishwasher. Okay, I’d have to redo all that, using some serious cleaning stuff. As I shooed them all out of the kitchen, Jimmie said, “Didn’t I tell you boys she’d go and do it over? Didn’t I?”
    “Can’t you just leave it till later?” Angus said, who was not staying shooed and was peering back into the kitchen.
    “Son, you don’t know this gal, do you?” Jimmie said.
    “Shoo,” I said, and waved my hands at Angus until he left again. Like a whirling-dervish imitator of the all-natural version of Mr. Clean, I sprayed, wiped, cleaned, mopped, cleared, and disinfected, as fast as I could using borax and something natural from the Granary that contained orange-peel oil and claimed it killed germs as good as the high-tech chemical stuff. Still, breaking my Clorox habit was hard. I left the kitchen, smiled at Miguel, and then, as if invisible hooks were pulling me, I scampered back into the kitchen for a quick spray-and-wipe with Clorox while I held my breath. When I was done, definitely so were any germs, but now my kitchen smelled like Clorox and not oranges, so I had to do the orange-peel spray again.
    “Damnation, you’re not cleaning up after slaughtered hogs in here,” Angus said, again hovering in the doorway.
    “I sure was hoping you’d gotten over this,” Jimmie said from beside Angus. “Reckon you ought to see that doctor again?”
    “All ready,” I said, ignoring them both, and detouring toward the laundry room and tossing the cleaning cloths in the hamper on the way toward Miguel.
    Now I was primed for a hike in the hammocks with Miguel.
    Oh, and, drat, with Angus too. He reminded me he was going to be there by saying, “Aren’t you gonna be hot in that?” Oh, and this from a man in cowboy boots.
    “Better hot than sunburned and bug bit,” I said. “Besides, I am pretty heat tolerant.” Yeah, all those folks who migrate down from Michigan complain about how hot the Gulf Coast is, but they don’t know what hot is. Hot is the dog days of late summer in Bugfest, Georgia, my hometown, where 105 degrees with 90 percent humidity, coupled with a generous facial coating of gnats, was the norm.
    “Yeah, me too,” Angus said, “heat tolerant, I mean.” He smiled at me, and I had the odd feeling I was winning him over, though I wasn’t trying to do so. I glanced at Miguel to gauge my approval rating in his eyes, but he was looking out my front window.
    As we darted out the door, Jimmie gave me a stern, disapproving look, and I mentally dared him to say anything.
    “You don’t mind riding in the middle, do you? Might be a bit tight,” Miguel asked as I took in his small, red pickup. No, tight was good, I thought, and hoped he liked the scent of citronella.
    We crowded into the truck and roared away. When we were well into Manatee County, Miguel pulled off the interstate at Moccasin