by Jill Barnett
Rebecca controlled him, though, which brought his respect for the woman up a notch. Little Miss Pinky, however, was busy backing toward the front steps. Neither woman noticed him. They were too busy sizing up each other, the way one bulldog eyes another.
"Hello Adelaide."
"Rebecca," Addie said with a curt, uneasy nod. This woman made her uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. Her horse shifted backward, straining against Rebecca's control. It sidestepped and blew a wheeze of air out its muzzle. Addie saw its nostrils flare. A fanciful part of her mind wondered if the chafing animal would suddenly breathe fire.
Instinctively she stepped back, wanting to put as much space as possible between the spirited horse and her cowardly self. Her heel hit the bottom stair. She backed up two of the stairs. This was better, she thought, now I don't have to look up at the woman.
Rebecca pulled back on the reins, controlling the horse with a skill Addie envied. Then the woman scanned the farmyard. "Where's Mr. Creed?"
"Right here, ma'am." He sauntered forward, looking long… and lean… and loose. The temperature seemed to jump a good ten degrees.
Addie sucked in a deep breath as she watched him walk forward, unable to tear her eyes away. The man emanated confidence, and something else. There was a hardness about him, as if his whole being were as callused as his hard hands. And they were callused, all right. She'd seen them when he'd reached out for her. She'd felt the hardness when he'd whacked her derriere and then crawled all over her, touching her…
Lord that sun was hot! She'd felt those callused hands when he'd squeezed her bottom, and her bosom. No one had ever squeezed her bosom. Or licked her ear, inside. She pulled at the tight lace of her collar.
"Why Mr. Creed," Rebecca was saying. "I'd swear you look thinner."
The woman practically shouted the word "thinner." Addie's back stiffened.
"And you look even prettier, Miss Latimer." He smiled up at her, oozing all that… that gallantry stuff he never oozed at her. Well, she thought, remembering the chair, almost never.
She stepped up another stair, just for good measure.
"I'm here to offer you a good meal." Rebecca gave her a disparaging glance and then blessed him with a gorgeous smile.
Addie decided Rebecca Latimer had too many teeth.
"Mother sent me to invite you to dinner Friday. Papa wanted to talk to you about the next grange meeting." Her huge blue eyes were riveted on Mr. Creed. Addie had the feeling she'd faded into the porch.
Mr. Creed looked up from what appeared to be his inspection of Rebecca's horse. He smiled at Rebecca and, in a voice tinged with admiration, said, "A beautiful animal."
For some stupid reason, Addie's chest tightened. She watched the other two, feeling completely left out, and a little hurt. They were both so confident and friendly and… tall.
Rebecca was a beautiful woman, and even more stunning in the blue she wore today. Her short jacket was a deep sapphire cutaway basque, made of bouclé, and it covered a stark white lace blouson. A split skirt of black serge allowed her to sit astride the spirited horse, and in the stirrups her black calfskin boots shone leather perfect. And they matched her riding gloves. The woman would have turned heads without the horse, but the contrast of her clothing against the dark bay of her mount was even more striking.
Addie shook her head. Leave it to Rebecca to have a horse that matched her hair. And how did one ride a horse down a dusty road and come out without a speck of dust? Addie knew she would no doubt be coated red-orange. But of course she didn't ride.
Mr. Creed hunkered down, running those callused hands gently over the horse's flank. Addie's mouth went dry. He straightened and walked slowly around the horse.
Rebecca leaned down, positioning herself closer to Mr. Creed's face while she patted the horse's long neck. "His name's Diablo. He's the fastest horse in the county." She sat up in the saddle and then slid off the horse in one easy, smooth movement. She handed Mr. Creed the reins. "Here, ride him."
The toad looked like he'd been given a platter of flies. His face took on a boyish glee, and in a flash he was on the horse. With a spit of gravel, the animal took off down the drive.
Ignoring Rebecca, Addie lifted her hand to shield the sunlight as she watched man and horse fly, hooves eating up the distance to the road. At the end of the drive they dipped and turned, riding back toward the farmhouse as though they were drinking the wind. His body movement flowed with each stride of the horse, and his long legs gripped the animal with complete control. They flowed as one—this wild, long-haired man and the spirited horse.
She heard Rebecca's quiet gasp of appreciation, but she didn't look at her. She couldn't take her eyes off Montana. The sight even thrilled Addie. The animal's hooves pounded faster and faster on the ground. It beat in her ears, and was the same rapid thud as her heart, which suddenly felt as if it were lodged in her dry throat. For the first time Addie felt respect for and not fear of a horse.
He reined in and smiled, leaning over the horse and speaking to it in that quiet, soothing deep voice. His hand stroked the animal and it calmed immediately. She expelled her breath. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding it.
Rebecca smiled up at him. "I'll tell Papa you'll come to dinner." Her eyes turned pleading. "You will, won't you?"
He dismounted, still admiring the horse. "Sure."
Once again Addie was left out. She moved back into the shade of the porch, and as if the woman read her mind, she turned. Her eyes were suddenly cool. "Oh, you may come too, Adelaide, if you'd like."
Addie's pride prickled. "I'm sorry, Rebecca, but I have too much work to do. Please thank your mother for me, though."
The woman's look brightened. "Fine," she said with a wave of her slim hand. She moved to her horse.
Addie had the feeling she'd been dismissed.
Rebecca started to grab the saddle, but Mr. Creed stopped her. "Here, I'll help." He grabbed her waist and lifted the laughing redhead high in the air. Addie closed her eyes and swallowed a lump of air. Then she opened the front door and stepped through.
Rebecca's laughter sang through the doorway, and Addie turned back.
"Thanks for the ride, Miss Latimer." Mr. Creed crossed his arms. Addie stared at his broad back, imagining for a brief, silly second what it would be like to have his callused hands hold her waist and lift her high in the air, above that face that could change with a real smile, the face with the dimple.
"Any time, Mr. Creed," Rebecca answered. "He's a wonderful animal."
Addie looked at a smiling Montana Creed. Yes, she thought, he is. And she quietly shut the door.
Chapter 11
Addie closed the gate on the chicken yard, picked up the empty pails and headed for the barn. Just as she passed the turkey pen she heard it—the loud bawl of a cow. She turned as one of the cows meandered around the corner of the barn.
Oh good Lord, she'd forgotten to milk them! She dropped the pails and ran to the house. Up the back stairs and through the kitchen she sped, until she reached the lamp table in the parlor. A thick red book sat facedown on the table. She grabbed her spectacles—flinging the chain around her neck—and the book on cows, then raced back to the barn.
Both animals stood, abandoned in the yard, bawling for all they were worth. The poor things. She'd forgotten all about them. She opened the barn door, using a wood wedge to keep the door propped open. This was her first milking experience, and she needed all the light she could get.
After yesterday's dinner the Latimer boys had taken turns explaining what she needed to do. It sounded easy, and after all, the boys were only ten. She figured if ten-year-olds could do it, then so could she. After reading her book, some of her confidence had slipped.
She stood by the door and waited for Mabel and Maud—she couldn't tell who was who—to trot inside. Both of them just stood there, blinking their huge, sorrowful eyes and making some horrid groaning sounds.
"Get inside you two!" Addie ordered.
The only movement from the cows was the swish of their long tails and a twitch of an ear. Addie stuck her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and whipped open the book, thumbing through the thin pages. She skimmed the columns, and found it.
To bring the cows in, one can use a cattle prod. If none is available, a stick will suffice.
She looked around for a stick. There was none. She read on.
Switch the back of the bovine's legs or "prod" the hind quarter with the implement.
She had no implement, so she walked around the cows and stared at their backsides. The animals bawled again; it was an awful sound, almost a painful plea. Improvise, she thought, so she tucked the book under her left arm, and with her right arm extended, index finger pointed, she edged toward the closest cow.
She poked it in the rump. It didn't budge. She poked it on the other side. Its tail slapped up and whacked her on the arm.
"Ouch!" She rubbed her red forearm. "Move, you two!"
The only parts of them that moved were their ears.
"Get along!" She remembered reading that phrase somewhere. It had something to do with little dogs, but maybe cows would respond.
These cows didn't. She raised her hand high and squeezed her eyes shut. They bawled again so she did it. Her palm slapped hard on the cow's rump. She cracked open one eye, just in time to see both cows lumber inside.
She'd done it. Smiling, she followed them inside, the book once again propped on her arm, reading as she was going. "Let's see," she told the cows, "it says that you're supposed to go to your stanchions…''
Addie glanced up. Both cows were in respective low stalls, their heads stuck between wide openings in the end walls. Those look like stanchions to me. Whoever said cows were dumb animals?
"Thank you, ladies," she said, and then read on.
Ten minutes later the water and feed troughs at the end of the stanchions were filled and Mabel and Maud were gnawing away. According to the book, Addie had to wash the udders and the teats, clean milk being essential to its longevity. She planted her derriere on a small milking stool she'd found hanging on a nail and grabbed a cloth from a pail of clean water. She dabbed at the bulging milk sack. The cow groaned, and Addie jerked her hand back.
The cow turned its big brown eyes and slobbery face toward Addie and stared.
"Now Mabel, or Maud, whichever you are, this isn't easy you know. I need your cooperation here."
The cow blinked and turned back to the trough. Addie took a deep breath and leaned down under the cow until her cheek rested against the animal's hairy hide. She held the huge udder with her left hand and cleaned it with the cloth.
A few minutes later, dropping the cloth into the bucket, she said, "There, now that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Mabel/Maud ate on.
Addie hooked her squat heels over the stool rung and placed the open book on her knees. With an elbow planted on each leg, she rested her small, determined chin in her hands and read about milking technique. Sufficiently educated, she placed another pail under the cow and rubbed her hands together.
Time to give it a try, she thought. She leaned down and pinched the teat between her thumb and forefinger, then squeezed, rolling her other fingers down the length of the teat. Milk pinged against the tin pail and she giggled. It worked!
Minutes later she'd mastered the rolling pull technique—with both hands—and the once-quiet barn was filled with the clean ring of milk hitting the pail.
Milking, she found, soothed her, much more so than chicken feeding. Resting her head against the warm, coarse hide of the gentle cow, she closed her eyes and just listened to the squirt, ring, squirt, ring of the milking sound. Lulled and loose, she eventually opened her eyes, gazing around the barn.
Sunlight spilled through the barn doors, and inklings of it sparkled through the cracks in the wood walls. The clean, spring smell of hay washed out the dull tinge of old manure. It smelled like earth and country and home. She was happy here, and busier than she'd ever thought possible.
Farming was hard work. Levi Hamilton had been right. She had her hands full with the chickens and her future plans for them. Right now, literally, she had her hands full with the cows too. The milk products from two cows were more than she could ever use, but Hettie had explained that her Aunt Emily had sold the extra milk and cream to Peabody's Mercantile, who'd credited the dairy money against her supply bill. That sounded good to Addie. She intended to do the same.
But she wasn't sure what to do with the dadgum turkeys. She supposed she could eat them, like the cockerels. Those were the male chickens. Addie learned the chicken lingo fast. In the meantime she'd just keep feeding the gobblers.
She finished with the first cow and lugged the full milk pail to the barn door. One down, she thought, one to go, and she started the process all over again with the other Mabel/Maud.
Head against the other cow, Addie sighed. She was tired today, and as much as she hated to admit it, she didn't think, right now, she could work a farm alone. Of course with the judge's ruling, she didn't have to. Mr. Creed would be growing the crops.
However, if he'd had no claim to the land, she would have had to hire someone to work the land, or at least lease it to a neighboring farmer. And how were they going to coexist on this land? She supposed that eventually he'd be able to build his own structures, but for now she would have to share hers with him, especially if she wanted her half of the crops.
Oh, she knew she could learn to farm and even handle it alone in time. She'd teach herself, like she had the milking. But from the little she'd read and heard, the winter wheat planting would have to be done soon, and she had yet to learn much of anything about crops, not to mention handling a plow.
The milk stopped squirting. Oh good Lord! There was a major flaw in her plans. To plow a field, you needed a horse.
A horse. She shivered, her face in a grimace. She hadn't thought about plowing and horses. At least she hadn't put the two together. But maybe that was good, because she'd always harbored a fear and dislike of the animals. That weakness might have been the one thing that could have kept her from ever coming west. It was the one thing she had run from for years.
Maybe it was time to stop running. It wouldn't be easy, that she knew. She'd always thought of horses as horrid and mean and deadly, like that devil horse of Mr. Creed's, and she had good reason too, long before that animal'd attacked her. She'd adored her parents. The loss of her father was something she had to accept, but watching her mother's pain, day in and day out, had escalated that fear. It hadn't been easy for Addie.
Of course, nothing in life was easy—her father had taught her that too. He had taught her that life was challenge, and that she should attack it head-on. Her fear of horses had been the only thing she'd sidestepped.
For the first time Addie thought of what her father's reaction to her horse fear would have been. He would have hated to be the cause for any weakness in his daughter, or anything that caused her pain. He wouldn't have wanted her to suffer forever because of the way he died, and if the truth be told, if she really wanted to do him proud, Addie knew she shouldn't let that weakness, that flaw in her character, affect her life.
This was not an easy thing to admit, but admit it she must. She was weak, though she'd thought herself strong. She loved her father, but she'd done him an injustice by not living every bit of her life as he'd taught her. By not confronting her problem. She'd forgotten to look at her own weakness as a challenge.
Her father was the one who'd taught her to take everything life offered, and never, ever believe that something was unattainable. If you wanted something, then you had to reach out and grab it. In everything else, Addie had treated each obstacle as a challenge. She loved a challenge.
She'd handled going off to college, alone, and handled the competition with the others, good old Hilary included. She'd stuck it out at the Mason Street Library, allowed Hilary to belittle her, purposely dock her pay, and make her life pretty misera
ble all the way around. She did leave, which some might say was running away, but in her mind she hadn't run away from Hilary. She'd just exchanged one challenge for another. To Addie, the challenge here on her aunt's place was like a dream come true. She couldn't let a chance to live that dream go by. It wasn't in her.
But now she had a new set of challenges. The farm and Mr. Montana Creed. Learning about the farm would be a self-taught lesson. It would take time. Mr. Creed, on the other hand, was a whole other story, possibly an unending one.
She sighed and tried to block the image of that man—half toad, half prince—from her mind. She failed miserably. The trickle of milk tapered off, so she grasped another teat, squeeze rolling until the milk sprayed out again in a steady, ivory-colored stream—the exact same color as the toad's teeth.
That man confused her. Everything was easy when she thought of him as the toad. Her conscience hadn't eaten at her when she'd thought of him as her enemy. Any man who'd point a gun at a woman, then trail it over her, didn't deserve any water. She'd thought it the perfect comeuppance at the time. Now she felt petty.
Of course, keeping Custus from delivering her supplies wasn't exactly the royal act of a prince. Neither was sneaking that horse of his in her bedroom. He had definitely behaved worse than she.
He helped you with your chickens.
I know, I know, she thought. The chicks were healthy and plump already, seeming to grow with every feeding. And there were certainly plenty of feedings.
How did you repay him?
Addie closed her guilty eyes. She wasn't very proud of the answer. She'd fed him burnt meat, chili peppers, and plaster of paris biscuits.
But I let him, and his horse, move into the barn, she reasoned, grasping for something that didn't make her feel so ashamed. But she knew that the minute the storm had blown in that night, she couldn't let him stay out in that weather. The lightning was deadly.
