Crops and Robbers Read Online Free PDF

number of the Idaho onions that the kids had planted were ready to harvest. I’d already posted a sign that I wouldn’t be at my market stall on Sunday. I planned on working at the garden in the morning and catching up on things at my place in the afternoon. As long as I gave plenty of notice to my customers, they didn’t mind if I took a day off here and there.
    “I’m looking forward to it.”
    Bo smiled. “So are the kids. And Viola, of course.”
    Viola loved the community garden and had taken her role as garden boss-slash-goddess very seriously.
    “Of course. Hey, I’ll bring jam and crackers for everyone,” I said.
    “Good idea. I’ll bring some milk.”
    “Sounds good.”
    He seemed to have gotten over his anger as he turned and walked back to his stall, and then made his way out the back of it. From where I stood, I could see that he’d either sold out for the day or packed up the rest of his product. His tables were empty except for a few stray onion skins fluttering in the light breeze his moving body had created.
    “Huh,” I said quietly.
    I suddenly felt guilty for being perturbed that Bo had behaved less than perfectly for our guests. A four-year-old issue with Joan might not be a good reason to act disrespectfully, but I now understood where he was coming from, at least. Joan’s ignoring him was uncalled for.
    There was also that immature part of me that was pleased that he hadn’t acted as though we were being visited by royalty. So there , I thought for a brief instant, but then I laughed at my own sour grapes, or would that be strawberries in my case?
    I looked around the market and breathed in the hot fresh air. I had no reason to feel bad about anything. I had the greatest job in the world; I worked with the most amazing people in the world; I had a perfect sister, a wonderful boyfriend, and the best dog on the planet waiting for me at home. My parents, who were an adventure in themselves, were in town for a visit. Who cared if someone didn’t like some of my products? I had no reason to feel bad about anything or have even one sour grape.
    I spent another hour roaming around the market, talking to vendors and touching base with my sister about dinner plans. A couple people made supportive comments regarding my products, but most had forgotten or acted like they’d forgotten about the restaurant association’s visit. We didn’t have time to dwell on much in the farmers’ market world. There was always something that needed our attention—our products, our crops, our art, or even just making sure our trucks and vans were full of gas.
    Finally, after I felt rejuvenated, I packed the few remaining jars of product into my old orange truck and headed for home. Surprisingly, the truck’s air-conditioning still worked, but I preferred to roll down the windows. The truck could only reach about fifty-seven miles per hour, but that was good enough to keep some air, warm though it might be, blowing through the cab.
    The twenty-minute drive down the state highway to my farm served to further put me into a better mood. The one AM station that my radio broadcast clearly played the Su-premes’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” which I sang along with, not caring if anyone heard or saw me.
    By the time I pulled into my gravel driveway, I was in a better mood than I had a right to be.
    Unfortunately, my good mood disappeared as I shifted into Park. My body reacted before I even acknowledged exactly what was wrong. Pure dread hollowed out my gut. My senses came together and I realized what the problem was, or at least what part of the problem was.
    Since she’d been old enough to train, my short-legged, long-footed retriever, Hobbit, had waited for me on my front porch. I had no idea what she did while I was at the market all day, but no matter what time I came home, she was always on the porch, lying on her dog bed and waiting for me to pull down the driveway.
    Allison had once been at my house