by Janet Dailey
Hands were already reaching for the biscuits as Layne moved away to fetch the coffeepot and fill the cups around the table. “Where’s the food, Mattie?” It was the bold and talkative Hoyt who made the good-natured demand.
“Coming right up.” It was a literal statement as Mattie crossed to the table carrying a platter of bacon and sunny-side-up eggs, and a plate with a tall stack of pancakes. “More pancakes are on the way.” She motioned to Layne. “Sit down and eat.”
The only unoccupied chair, besides the one at the head of the table, was next to Creed. Layne hesitated only a second and then sat down. Without ceremony, the food was passed around the table. Layne took considerably smaller portions than the three men, limiting her breakfast to one pancake and a rasher of bacon.
“Is that all you’re going to have?” Hoyt Weber said as he critically eyed her plate.
“I’m not used to eating much in the morning.” There was already more on her plate than she usually ate, but Layne also knew it was a long time until lunch. She half expected someone to remind her of that, but no one said anything or encouraged her to take more.
“Where are you from?” Hoyt asked.
“Omaha.”
“Oh, yeah?” His interest heightened. “I have a sister that lives in Omaha, out by the racetrack. I usually go see her a couple of times a year.” He started asking her about places he knew. Soon developed into a whole discussion of its own, a friendly getting-acquainted exchange.
Although Creed didn’t take any part in their conversation, neither was he silent. Layne was conscious of the vibrations of his deep, gravelly voice beside her as he replied to comments made by Stoney that ranged from the weather to the condition of the cattle.
Whatever his personal prejudices were against females working on the ranch, it was obvious they didn’t extend to the sexist belief that her presence would be disruptive to his men, since he made no attempt to discourage, either by action or word, the budding friendship between Hoyt and herself. It made Layne feel a little easier because it indicated that his objections were likely based on her ability to do the job.
It was going to be hard work, but she was confident she could do it, given a chance. And she liked the idea of walking in Mattie’s shoes, so to speak, finding out about her way of life so they could meet on some common ground.
After they finished eating, a last cup of coffee was poured and cigarettes were lighted. As soon as those were gone, chairs started getting shoved away from the table. Layne stood up to help Mattie stack the breakfast dishes and carry them to the sink.
“I’ll see to this,” she was told by the woman. “You go to the barn with the others.”
“Okay.” And Layne went to fetch her coat, scarf, hat, and mittens.
When she returned, Creed was waiting for her by the door, already hatted and coated with a gloved hand resting on the doorknob. She hurriedly pulled her knitted cap down over her ears as she walked quickly to the door. There was no indication that he was either impatient or irritated with her. Indifference was closer to the mark as he followed her out of the house.
In the predawn hour the sky was a peculiar charcoal color, tinged with the merest hint of rose. It was all very still and very quiet as the tall yard light shone down on a frozen world. As awkward and cumbersome as the layers of clothes were, Layne was glad of the thick protection of flannel shirt, sweatshirt, and coat.
The crunch of Creed’s footsteps on the icy ground was a companionable sound in the lonely silence. From somewhere ahead of them, she could hear Hoyt’s voice murmuring something to Stoney. The still quiet of the morning seemed to encourage hushed tones.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever milked a cow before.” The low-voiced comment from Creed came as they reached the barn and he stepped ahead to push open the large, wooden sliding door.
“No, but I have a pretty good idea of how it’s done,” she said to indicate that she was game to try.
His measuring glance briefly swept over her. “All right,” he agreed and led the way into the barn.
Bare, dust-coated light bulbs were spaced at intervals to light the barn’s interior. There was the vague smell of hay and animal odors, most of it muted by the cold temperatures. A Holstein cow was standing in one of the stanchions, observing their approach along the wide corridor. The animal was contentedly munching the grain that had been put out for it, a dusting of it covering its broad nose.
Layne had thought Creed Dawson would take a few minutes to show her how to hand-milk the cow. Instead he merely supplied her with a metal milk pail, a three-legged stool, and a wet cloth. His instructions were simple.
“Wipe down her bag before you milk her.”
With that, she was left on her own. Briefly stunned, Layne watched those high, broad shoulders as Creed walked away. Finally she let out a quick breath and began to pull off her mittens to tackle the chore.
“I guess it’s just you and me,” she murmured to the cow.
The black-and-white-spotted animal turned its head to look at her with its big, luminous brown eyes and lowed with seeming encouragement. Layne couldn’t help smiling as she crouched down to wash the cow’s milk-swollen udder.
Once she had the milk pail and stool in place, she bent to the task. It was not the most comfortable position, all hunched over with her head turned at an awkward angle in an effort to see what she was doing. Her first few squeezing tugs of the cow’s tits were rewarded with small squirts of milk. Soon she wasn’t even getting that.
No one had mentioned the hazards involved in milking a cow. Layne quickly discovered that the swishing tail was almost a lethal weapon after she was slapped in the face by it a couple of times. Cows kicked, which was a possibility that also hadn’t occurred to her. Twice the cow kicked the pail over, spilling the precious little milk she had managed to extract. All the while the beast chewed its grain with seeming contentment.
Struggling with her frustration and ineptitude, Layne carried on. But her hands were getting cold and her muscles were cramping. She didn’t know how long she’d been at this, but it seemed like forever. Outside the sun was rising, and there were sounds of the ranch stirring with activity, the drum of hoofs and horses whinnying in the corral.
Hinges squeaked with the opening of a side barn door. Layne released a grimly drawn breath when she heard the shuffle of boots along the concrete corridor. But it was Hoyt Weber instead of Creed who appeared.
“How are you and Flo doin’?” he inquired with a jaunty smile.
Layne straightened, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in her back. “‘Flo’ is not ‘flowing,’ “she admitted.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” Hoyt volunteered.
“Gladly.” She let him switch places with her. Almost immediately, there was a steady stream of milk squirting from alternate tits into the pail. “What’s the trick?”
“No trick. Just a lot of practice,” he countered with a short laugh. “There’s nothing to it once you get a rhythm going.”
In a matter of minutes the small pail was half full of milk. Hoyt handed it to her, then released the cow from the stanchion and slapped its bony hip as he turned it outside.
“Thanks,” she said. “I would have still been here at lunchtime.”
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Hoyt assured her.
Together they walked to the big door. The loud put-putting of a tractor shattered the peace of the morning. Layne had her first good daytime look at the layout of the ranch yard. Creed was backing a tractor up to a flatbed hayrack over by the machine shed. The long, low building, near the grove of trees where the house sat, was the bunkhouse and cook shack. In conjunction with the barn, there were pens, corrals, and loading chutes. Stoney came walking out of one of the corrals leading two haltered horses.
“Gotta go,” Hoyt said. “See you later.” He split away from her to join up with the older cowboy.
The noisy tractor motor idled and died. Layne’s glance absently wandered in that
direction as Creed swung down to the ground. “All finished?” He lifted his voice to call the question to her, puffs of steam billowing from his mouth.
“Yes!” she answered. “With some help from Hoyt.”
There was a nod, no more than that, acknowledging that she hadn’t accomplished the chore alone. “Take the milk up to the house, then come back here so we can take some hay out to the cattle.”
There were no criticisms, no snide comments that he’d known she wouldn’t be able to milk the cow by herself. As long as the job was done, it didn’t appear to matter to him how she had accomplished it. Creed Dawson was definitely a strange man. She couldn’t figure him out. He wasn’t following any predictable pattern.
When Layne entered the kitchen, Mattie was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. She showed Layne where the milk strainer and filters were kept while Layne related her frustrated attempts to milk the cow. After Layne had strained the milk into a pitcher, she rinsed out the pail and carried it back to the barn to meet Creed.
By the end of the day Layne was ready to swear that the hay bales weighed a hundred pounds, at least. Ice had to be broken in the stock tank. They’d ridden for miles in the cold, looking for a dozen head of cattle that had strayed. There wasn’t a bone or a muscle in her body that didn’t ache, and she’d wound up with blisters from the new boots.
Within an hour after the supper dishes were done, she was in bed, utterly exhausted. She slept straight through until the alarm clock went off at five the next morning. As she hauled her sore and aching body out of bed, she wondered for a moment if all this was worth it. At least she understood now why Creed had doubted that she had the strength or stamina to do the work. It was a question she asked herself when Creed mentioned at the breakfast table that the day’s agenda included cleaning out the barn.
Chapter 4
At breakfast Hoyt had assured her that winter was the best time to clean out barns. “When it’s hot, the smell gets so strong it’ll knock you over.” Maybe that was so, but he wasn’t the one doing it.
Each time she tried to raise the pitchfork higher than her chest, the muscles in her arms started to quiver uncontrollably. She just couldn’t find that last ounce of strength to heave the forkful of manure-packed straw into the spreader parked just outside the door.
Since she was unable to lift it over the side of the wagon, Layne tried to toss it in. But something went wrong with her coordination. She swung the pitchfork too high. When the manure came off the tines, it went straight back and landed on her face and head. She barely muffled the shriek of dismay when it hit her.
For an instant she stood motionless while the biggest clods tumbled off of her. Finally she dropped the pitchfork and gingerly began to brush the smaller particles off her face. With the thick mittens covering her hands, it was like wiping her skin with a big powder puff.
When she bent her head to see how much was still on her clothes, a clump fell off her hat. It was all suddenly so ridiculous that Layne started to laugh. She heard the heavy sound of running feet outside, but it didn’t make any real impression on her as she continued to brush the wisps of straw and manure off her clothing while she silently shook with laughter.
“What happened?”
Somehow Creed Dawson had managed to squeeze his big frame between the wagon and the barn to reach the open doorway. His tall bulk loomed in front of her, blocking out the sunlight and momentarily startling her.
“Nothing. I—” Layne still wasn’t sure how it happened. “I went to throw some manure into the wagon but I threw it on myself instead.”
“That’s why you screamed?” he asked with an accusing rasp in his low voice.
“You’d scream, too, if you had a forkful of manure land on your head,” she retorted and brushed at her sleeves.
“Next time try to save the yelling for emergencies.” He shifted to one side, allowing the outside light to fall on her. “Hold still. You have some in your hair.”
Obediently she stood motionless while his gloved fingers brushed at her head. She was eye-level with the front of his thickly padded jacket with its fleece lining and row of leather-covered buttons. There was a vague surprise at how light and gentle his touch was.
Almost absently she lifted her gaze to his face. It was such a highly unusual face, browned by the sun and the wind and creased with strong male lines. There was something oddly compelling about features that were so unattractive. The blunt ridges of his cheekbones were too prominent and his cheeks were too lean; his nose was crooked and his brows were too thick. About the only thing she found to like was his mouth.
Layne idly wondered at his age. Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? It was difficult to tell with a face like his. She couldn’t imagine a younger version of it. It would still be all hard, uncompromising lines, only now carved with experience.
A distant part of her was aware of him carefully picking out small pieces of manure that had become lodged between her scarf and the sides of her neck. A hooked finger was very deftly scooping them out.
Her attention shifted to the impenetrable dusty brown color of his eyes. They always seemed shuttered, closing in his thoughts. When their focus shifted to her eyes, Layne barely noticed. She wasn’t even conscious of how rudely she was staring at him, fascinated by his irregular looks. There was a sudden smoldering of anger in his eyes, dark and thundering. Layne glimpsed it for a moment, then he was looking elsewhere and it was gone.
“I think you’ll survive,” he announced gruffly and reached down to pick up her pitchfork. “Here. You’d better get back to work.”
“Thanks. …” Her voice trailed off onto a flat note as he abruptly turned away without waiting for any expression of gratitude, polite or otherwise. Layne sighed, wondering what she had done to offend him this time, then shook her head. She didn’t know what sort of hang-up he had, but she wasn’t going to waste precious time wondering about it.
After supper that evening Layne was quickly indoctrinated into the practice of calling the evening meal “supper.” In the city it might be dinner, but out here it was supper. After supper that evening she took a long, hot bath to soak some of the soreness out of her muscles.
With the sash to her long terrycloth robe securely belted, she started downstairs. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head in a loose knot. The bath had left her feeling almost human again. She was halfway down the steps when Mattie opened the stairwell door at the bottom.
“Feel better?” Mattie’s smiling glance seemed to indicate that Layne looked it.
“A thousand percent,” Layne said.
“I think I’ll take a turn in there and see if a bath can’t rejuvenate some life in this body,” Mattie declared wryly.
As they passed on the stairs, Layne paused to ask, “Is it all right if I use your phone to make a collect call? I want to let my parents know where I am.” She had planned to write them a letter but it seemed wiser to call and allay any fears they might have about the situation.
“Go ahead. There’s a phone in the office.”
When Layne opened the door to the parlor-study and switched on the light, the orange cat marched into the room after her, in a bit of a royal huff. It seemed to doubt that she had permission to be in there and followed when she crossed to the small walnut desk. When she picked up the telephone, the cat hopped onto the desk top and laid down, wrapping its long tail across its feet like a red-gold cloak.
Its slow-blinking eyes watched Layne as she put the call to her parents through the operator. Her mother answered the phone, and Layne waited until the reversed charges were accepted and the operator put her through.
“Hi, Mom,” she said and settled into an old-fashioned wooden and leather-cushioned office chair behind the desk.
“Hello, Layne. I wondered when we were going to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’ve been meaning to write, but with one thing and another, I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time.”
“How
’s it going? Were you able to find out anything new?” The questions sounded forced.
“Better than that.” Layne wrapped her fingers around the coiling telephone cord, glancing briefly at the orange cat when it hopped off the desk. “I’ve found her.”
“You have?” There was a certain vagueness in the reply. “Have you seen her? Talked to her?”
“Yes. I don’t know how to describe her. She’s so natural and down to earth that I …” Layne paused, sensing the hurt silence on the other end of the line. She immediately regretted letting so much of her enthusiasm and excitement creep through. “Mom … I love you and Dad. Please don’t let any of this upset you.”
“We won’t, darling,” came the quick assurance, but there was an underlying thread of nervousness and anxiety in her mother’s voice. “What did she say when she found out about you? Was she happy to see you or—”
“I haven’t told her,” Layne admitted. “I thought it would be better to wait until later … after I’ve had a chance to see how things work out. By the way, if you need to reach me, I’m staying at the Ox-Yoke Ranch. You’d better write down the number.” She read it off to her mother.
“Is this her home?” her mother asked.
“Yes. I’m working here as a hired hand. Can you imagine that?” Layne joked.
Conversation was awkward. Layne almost wished she had written instead of calling, but she knew her parents needed to hear that she still cared about them as much as before. She kept the conversation brief by promising to write a long letter, telling her mother all about everything. After she put the telephone receiver in its cradle, she stared at it for a long moment without moving.
“What didn’t you tell her?” The sound of Creed’s voice startled her.
Her gaze jerked to the doorway in dismay. His long shape was propped against the frame, his stance giving every indication that he’d been there for some time. The big tomcat was rubbing against his legs, a smugly smiling expression on its face when it opened its green eyes to look at Layne.
Her heart was hammering in her throat as she tried to think of some way to get out of this. She decided to bluff her innocence and uncrossed her legs to stand up.
