"Are you all right?" Alex asked, holding out a hand to help her from the floor.
She nodded, loosing the breath she had been unconsciously holding.
"I was expecting to find a skunk, and when I saw it was only a fox, I thought . . ." her voice trailed off at the amusement in his eyes.
"You look a sight," he said, as he plucked a feather from her hair. "You look like you've been tarred and feathered."
She glanced down at her clothes, covered with mud, and realized her face was also caked with slime. She could blush all she wanted. He'd never see it. She grinned as her face warmed the mud.
"I bet that fox thought this old hen was more than he bargained for."
"Yeah," Alex responded dryly. "It looked like you had the upper hand. Why didn't you simply let him escape?"
"He had one of my chickens."
Alex shook his head in wonder. "Is one chicken worth your life?"
What would one chicken mean to someone like Alex?
"Don't you think that's getting a little melodramatic? He might have bit me, but he'd . . ."
"And how would you be sure he wasn't rabid? You'd have to take shots . . ."
"Oh, give it a rest, Alex."
Her voice was sharp enough to parry his verbal onslaught. How could he possibly understand? She stooped to gather the wounded hen.
"Thanks for your help, but around here we're waging a constant war against nature. If it isn't the skunks and opossum killing the chickens, it's the weeds taking over the garden. You do what you can and get on with life. The fox is gone. That's the end of it."
She lifted the wing and examined the bloody breast.
"She probably won't live, anyway."
Alex reached for the chicken. "Can I look at it?"
Why not? He couldn't do the chicken any more harm. Let him play vet if it made him feel better. She handed the hen to him and stood.
"I have some supplies in the barn, if you want to mess with it. I'm going to get out of these wet clothes."
Her teeth were beginning to chatter. Was it the fact that the danger was now over, or the cold? Probably a little of both.
She left him in the coop with the chicken and marched across the yard to the house, her boots making sucking noises each time she lifted her foot from the mud. Somehow he'd managed to best her again. He must think she was a pansy. But what did it matter? Why let it bother her? Maybe Katie was right. Maybe she was too competitive.