The baby chicks came in a box sieved with holes; peeps and chirps rising from the back room of the post office. They sat on the big sorting table with the stacks of tightly rolled newspapers, the various boxes and parcels tied up with string or sticky with thick tape, with the over-sized manila envelopes and the open bins of letters. From the box came, as well, a faint soft rustling and the nose-tickling smell of down.

“They’ve been calling for you, Chrissie,” said the postmaster, and grinned.

Christine Allen, known to her friends as Chrissie, shoved the heavy strands of black hair off her face and grinned back. She had started the morning with her long hair in a ponytail, but somewhere in the busy day, the wind had whipped loose the fastening, and now it was wild as a mustang’s.

“Thanks for babysitting, Mack. How’s Clara?”

“Fair to middlin’. She’s gone to Redding to grocery shop, said she wanted to pick up some corned beef for Saturday.” He twisted the clipboard around for her to sign.

“Something special about Saturday?”

“Why, it’s Saint Patrick’s day, Chrissie.”

Chrissie finished signing the receipt. “Guess I’ve been so busy I forgot.”

“You work too hard, girl.” His pale blue eyes looked at her compassionately from the netted wrinkles surrounding them.

She shrugged, avoiding his eye, declining the compassion with offhanded casualness. “Not much choice, Mack. Thanks again.” She made her way out of the post office with the box carefully balanced in her arms, dodging the woman at the entrance with a baby on her hip and a toddler in tow.

Chrissie lifted the box into the front seat of her pickup, made the black and white collie get on the floor. The dog pricked up her ears and sniffed interestedly at the box.

“Not for you, Pip. Now stay on the floor.”

She turned the heater on high; it was a raw day in early March, and if she felt chilled despite the flannel shirt and down vest, the chicks would be as well. Chrissie droved the ten miles to the ranch with a hand on the box and caution replacing her usual speed; the chicks would not do well with a sudden stop. The flag was down on the big mailbox; Martin must have been by with the mail van. She stopped to open the metal flap, threw the collection of letters and magazines down carelessly on top of the fencing pliers and leather gloves in the middle of the seat.