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her best to make her voice sound serious. “Business deals are very important, you know.”
    Eyes wide, Dale blurted out, “We’d be partners?”
    “Exactly. A business between two people relies on their honor and integrity. Neither one of them slacks off or gives up.”
    “Never, ever?”
    “Never, ever,” Laney confirmed. “No matter what.”
    “That’s right.” Hilda narrowed one eye and stared at the pigs. “I’ll bet Laney would be willing to make a deal with you, Dale. In exchange for Hortense’s board, you could—” “Have all of the piglets!” Laney leaned forward. “Would you be willing to do that for me, Dale? I know I’m asking a lot of you.”
    “If you’re asking my son for a partnership, it needs to be a mutually beneficial agreement.” Mrs. O’Sullivan’s jaw rose a notch. “Dale, any partnership needs to be fair for everyone. If you do this, Miss Laney ought to own half of the piglets.”
    “Half,” Dale said, looking up at Laney.
    “I couldn’t agree to such an arrangement.” Laney shook her head. “And it’s not ladylike for me to haggle,” she added.
    “Three quarters.” Hilda suggested. “That’s fair. Dale keeps three quarters of the piglets; Laney gets one quarter.”
    “Miss Laney, which quarter do you want? A forequarter or a hindquarter?”
    “That’s not what Miss Hilda meant, Dale.” Colin grinned at his baby brother. “She means out of every four pigs, you get three and Miss Laney gets one. They weren’t talking about butchering them all!”
    “I didn’t know. ’Sides,” Dale said, giving his newly won pig an assessing look, “I’m a farmer and I’m s’posed to grow things up to be food.”

    Crack! The eggshell shattered, half of the pieces sliding into the skillet with part of the egg. The other half glued themselves to Galen’s slime-coated fingers as the other portion of the egg oozed down the outside of the skillet.
    The rooster crowed as someone knocked on the door.
    “Come in!” Galen shouted as he tried to figure out how to clean his hand enough to use something to flip the measly half egg before it burned.
    The door creaked open. “Good mornin’, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
    “Ishmael.” He grabbed a dish towel and began to wipe his hand. “And the morning’s not starting out so well. Do you know how to cook?”
    “Not really. Sis usually sees to that. Your breakfast’s startin’ to smoke.”
    Galen grabbed the nearest implement and tried to flip the egg. The tines of the fork poked through and shredded it. “Scrambled eggs,” he muttered to himself as he started to stir the blackening mess. Most of it clung to the skillet and smoked more. In desperation, he flipped the skillet over a plate and two stinking pea-sized blobs fell onto it.
    “Must’ve been quail eggs.” Ishmael didn’t sound as if he was joking.
    Galen stared at the mess inside the skillet. “The sad truth is, it was a chicken egg. Looks like you’re the only Grubb I’ll have today.”
    Laughter rippled out of Ishmael. “I don’t mean to make fun of you, Boss, but you’ve got a right clever mind to come up with a joke like that.”
    “If I’m so clever, why can’t I fry an egg?”
    “Thought you was trying to scramble it.”
    Galen glanced at the pathetic plate and then held the castiron skillet for the new farmhand to inspect. “I was trying to salvage it.”
    Ishmael cleared his throat. “From the looks of your land, you’re a fine farmer.”
    “But a more miserable cook you’ll never find.” Ma’s teased me about how I need a wife to take care of me. For the first time, I’m thinkin’ that’s not so much of a joke . “Cooking makes no sense to me. Ma always cracks the eggs straight into the pan, and they slide out perfectly. What I wouldn’t give for a good plate of her bacon and eggs.”
    Ishmael swallowed.
    Here I am moaning about wanting bacon and eggs, and this man is truly hungry . “Get on over here, Ishmael. Two grown men can’t