Heart of a Shepherd Read Online Free Page A

night.
    Christ wake me up again.”
    I think about those cougar tracks Grandpa saw yesterday in the hills behind our ranch.
    “Christ in every eye that sees me.
    Christ in every ear that hears me.”
    I trace a cross on Merry's head and then cover him up the best I can with straw. I put the holy water back and slip outside.
    It's wall-to-wall stars now, with nothing to block the view except the empty branches of the big cotton-wood. I lean on the barn door and look up. The Herdsman constellation ought to be rising over by thenotches of rock where Starvation Creek cuts through. The bottom half of him is still behind the hills at the north side of our land. I stay to watch him rise, because he's the constellation Dad and me picked to watch over me while he's gone. A second later, I change my mind because it's getting really cold. I pull out my cookie and head for the house.
    Grandpa is finishing up with the sheep. He keeps a gun pretty close when there are cougars around. I don't want him to think I'm sneaking up on him. He'd probably shoot first and check species second. I belt out some Alleluias, spraying cookie crumbs all the way up to the house.
    I reckon my grandpa's the only Quaker member of the National Rifle Association. He's a dead-serious pacifist and the best marksman around. He's gotten coyotes, cougars, and even a full-grown bear. No trophy antlers cluttering up our parlor, though. It's not the Quaker way to shoot a vegetarian.
    It's too bad. Over at the VFW, they make a venison stew that gets me begging for seconds before the bowl's even half empty. We spend a lot of time over at the VFW because Grandma is a veteran of foreign wars. She drove some general in a jeep all over France in theSecond World War, and as if that wasn't enough, she maintained the Army Reserve motor pool for about a hundred years. She's got a scrapbook full of pictures and maps and signatures of famous people she's met. The one that's framed and hanging on the wall at the VFW meeting hall is when her general met General Eisenhower right after the Battle of the Bulge. Grandma's the one holding three briefcases, a shoebox-sized radio, and a thermos of coffee. She's tall as any man, with curly red hair and a movie star smile.
    Grandpa hates that picture. “That's no way to treat a lady,” he says.
    Grandma just laughs. “That's exactly the way to treat a corporal.”
    It's my favorite picture because it's plain to see: those generals were winning because Grandma had them all working like a fine-tuned tractor. There's not a machine on our ranch that would dare drop a bolt while Grandma's around. She's got hands like a basketball player, and when she lifts up the hood, well, any truck in its right mind would know she means business.
    The light from the kitchen window makes a square pool of yellow in the front yard, and the shadow fromthe flag by the front door makes a ghost shape when a gust of air hits it. I walk up the front steps and slam the door quick to keep the warm air in. I slump down on the bench in the front hall, pull off my boots, and hang my coat on the peg between Frank's and Dad's.
    In the kitchen, I leave the empty lamb bottles in the sink. Grandma sits on her rolling stool by the computer and orders cow vaccines online. I pull up a chair at the kitchen table and unwrinkle my fractions homework.
    Grandpa comes in last. I can hear the thump of him taking off his work boots in the front hall. He walks around the corner into the kitchen, leans over to kiss Grandma, and then warms his hands on the china coffeepot before refilling Grandma's mug.
    “Second dinner, Brother? Plenty of stew in the pot,” he says.
    Actually, it'll make third dinner for me tonight, but who's counting?
    “Mhmm,” I say. I get up and bring a bowl to the stove. “Don't you want any, Grandpa?”
    “No thanks.”
    I fill up my bowl and get back to my homework while Grandpa takes out his journal and sits in the easychair by the woodstove. Deep quiet