Leftover Love (6 page)

By the time she had dressed in her new workclothes and boots, the aroma of frying bacon was permeating the house. When she walked into the kitchen, Layne noticed that the table was set for five. Mattie was at the stove, deftly turning the strips of thick bacon sizzling on the grill. She spared one glance over her shoulder at the sound of Layne’s approach.

“Good morning,” Layne said, although she wasn’t sure she was fully awake yet.

“Morning. Check the oven and see if those biscuits are done,” Mattie instructed.

Bending, Layne opened the oven door to peer inside. A long sheetpan of biscuits sat on the middle rack of the hot oven. The dough had risen, but the tops hadn’t started to brown.

“Not quite.” She carefully closed the door.

“There’s jam and honey in the refrigerator.” With the bacon turned, Mattie started breaking eggs into a mixing bowl with pancake meal. As Layne walked past her to the refrigerator, Mattie’s glance made a skimming sweep of Layne. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be young.” Her mouth
quirked briefly in a wry line. Layne gave her a curious look, wondering what had prompted that remark. “There you are with lipstick and mascara, and most of the time I don’t do more than run a brush through my hair. Of course, it would take a ton of makeup to cover all these freckles.” She sent another glance at Layne. “You’re lucky you don’t have any, even though you’ve got that hint of red in your hair.”

“I like your freckles. They make you look young.” With her hands full of jars of preserves and honey, Layne pushed the refrigerator door shut with her hip.

“That’s nice to hear. Inside you always feel young, but it’s the outside that gives you away,” Mattie declared while she vigorously beat the pancake batter. “In another couple of years I’ll be fifty. Life seems to be over before it’s begun.”

“Do you have any children?” The atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to lend itself to personal questions.

“No.” Mattie set the bowl on the counter and began to scoop up the strips of crisp bacon. “John couldn’t have any.”

“Were you ever sorry?” Layne pretended a mild interest while she studied the woman closely. It didn’t surprise her that Mattie had made no mention of the child she’d given up.

“Sorry? I don’t know.” She shrugged vaguely. “Does it ever do any good to be sorry about something in the past? It’s over and there’s nothing you can do to change it, so why make yourself miserable with regret and forget all the good things that did come your way?”

“I guess that’s true.” But Layne experienced a twinge of disappointment. She realized she was clinging to a girlhood wish that her natural mother regretted giving her up for adoption. It had nothing to do with what was wise or practical. It was strictly emotional.

There was the clump of boots on the steps outside the
back door just as Mattie began to ladle the pancake batter onto the greased grill. “I timed that right.”

Two men filed into the kitchen ahead of Creed Dawson. The first was an older, heavyset man in his fifties with iron-gray hair. The weight of his big torso seemed to be carried on the big trophy buckle of his belt. Coats and hats were peeled off and hung on wall pegs by the door.

“Mornings” chorused around the kitchen in an exchange of greetings. The second man self-consciously combed a hand through his hair, flattened by his hat, and grinned widely at Layne. In his middle twenties, he was slim and sandy-haired. Layne smiled back as she stopped at the oven to remove the biscuits, baked to a toasty golden brown.

Creed pulled out a chair at the table. Layne had never seen him when he was not wearing his hat. The springing thickness of his hair was the rich brown color of roasted coffee. Its wayward order seemed to invite a hand to smooth it into place. Layne smiled to herself at such a fanciful idea and piled the hot biscuits onto a plate.

When she approached the table, Creed made very brief introductions. “Stoney Bates,” he said, first indicating the older man to her. “Hoyt Weber, Layne MacDonald.”

The older man, Stoney Bates, merely nodded to her as he scooted his chair up to the table, but the young cowboy was not the silent type. “After looking at these two characters every day,” he said with a gesture at Creed and Stoney, “your face is going to be a welcome addition.”

“Thanks.” She laughed at the compliment.

There had been a moment when she wondered what the reaction of these two co-workers would be. They could easily have shared Creed’s opposition to her sex. But it appeared that Hoyt Weber, at least, had no such hang-up about working with a woman.

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.