He's Got Her Goat (7 page)

“Wow.” Paige blinked. “I know exactly what you’re saying. Meet you in the barn in a few.”

She left the clothes on the bed and ducked out of the room, wondering what was really going on. In her generation, she’d never met a man who behaved that way. There had to be a reasonable explanation for not wanting to take his shirt off. Maybe he had a really hair chest, dark brown fur that continued to his back, or maybe he had a huge tattoo of his last girlfriend in a suggestive pose, or maybe he had man boobs. Assuming he was hiding something was easier to believe than the alternative—that he was just the sort of man she was looking for.

THE SHIRT FIT PERFECTLY
, and Sterling was especially grateful for the jacket. Inspecting the room confirmed his first impression. From the upside down horseshoe over the doorway to the old Avon dispenser on the dresser, it was as though Uncle Bill and his father were clones. The jacket was identical to the one his father wore for morning milkings, and his father had at least two of those denim shirts. He slid open the drawers and wanted to chuckle. Yup. Boxers in the top, neatly folded jeans in the middle, and socks in the bottom drawer. Did they attend a school for homegrown Northwest ranchers? Even the bedclothes, a thin, white coverlet with complex quilting and two flannel blankets beneath, reminded him of home. Didn’t they know you could buy a padded comforter at any big box store, eliminating the need for extra blankets? Who even owned extra blankets anymore?

After he put his wet shirt on the hanger to dry, he hooked it on the doorknob and paused to catch another glimpse of the bedroom. Awakened memories that were better left to rot seemed to be toying with him. He tried to remind himself that this was only a favor, and if he played his cards right, he’d go back to his real life in a few days. If he didn’t, he could get lost in a place like this for eternity.

Outside, Sterling was shocked by how dark the night was. In the city, between headlights and streetlights, you could never see the stars. His eyes lifted to the vivid pinpricks of light above him, and he was reminded how small he was. The barn emitted a soft glow across the open yard along with the bleating of noisy goats. Paige had already begun milking. She sat on a short stool with her back to him. He could hear the rhythmic gush of each stream filling the bucket. A caramel colored goat nudged his hand with her nose. He showed the creature his empty palm, and it stuck its tongue out at him in disapproval. “Maaah.”

Paige was watching him. “Come over here, and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

His boots felt at home against the worn wooden floorboards covered in hay. The smell reminded him of early mornings and late nights all through his boyhood days. He stood behind her shoulder and watched her thumb and forefinger tighten then her index then middle finger like a wave, only to repeat with the other hand. Back and forth. Right and left. On and on until the job was done. No wonder her handshake was so firm. After twelve years, he wondered if he still had the technique down.

Paige swiveled her head to the side, so she could see him out of the corner of her eye. “Would you rather put the milk in bags or get your hands dirty?”

“I’ll give the udders a try.”

“Then go wash up, so we keep her sterile.” She tapped the udder bag. He guessed it was to recover the last of the milk, something if you attempted with a cow was sure to leave you kicked in the head. After he washed, he stood ready to go, and she looked up at him with a questioning look on her face. “Have you ever done this before?”

“I’ve never milked a goat in my life.” Sterling admitted.

She gave him the stool. He sat in it, and she put her hands on his shoulders so she could watch his performance. “I’ll guide you through it.”

He waited for her instruction.

“First, put your thumb and forefinger together at the top of the udder to stop off the milk in the teat.”

He did but before she could say another word, a full stream hit the bucket. He did the same with his other hand.

She punched his upper arm and was gone. He wanted her to be surprised or laugh or something. From her quick exit he wondered if the punch was spurred by amusement or anger. He remembered that in her mind the biggest crime ever was lying, but he hadn’t lied. He called over his shoulder. “I grew up milking cows. Never tried a goat before, but it seems a lateral move.”

Her face was suddenly inches from his own, and she smiled that sort of closed mouth smile that women do when they mean to be polite. “Should have guessed by the boots.”

“What’s wrong with my boots?” He peered at the plain brown leather while finishing off the last few squeezes. “These are classics.”

She ignored him. “All done?” Removing the full milk bucket, she handed him another with clear liquid in two thirds of it.

He sniffed at the contents. It didn’t have a smell but made his nose sting. “What’s this?”

“Teat dip.” She was halfway back to the other wall of the barn. “Dunk her sack and release her from the stanchion.”

He wasn’t feeling nearly as confident as he had a few minutes earlier. “What’s a staunch-thing?”

“Stanchion,” she corrected. “It’s the wooden slats that secure her head. They make them for cows but most experienced milkers don’t need them. Goats do; they’re stubborn.”

Dipping the udder, he held the pail to one side, unsure where to put it. “Maybe they just know what they want and won’t let anyone stop them.”

“Perhaps.” She was back beside him, took the pail and set it on a small table next to him. “Or maybe they are never satisfied with a good thing and have to push for something better all the time.”

He stood to try and free the goat’s head from the wedged slats. “What’s wrong with that?”

She laid her hand on his and this time he was ready, thinking about her soft skin. She directed his fingers to the latch. The goat yanked back its head and leapt from the stand. “That’s what gets them in trouble.”

In the dim barn with her halo of curls, she looked like the subject of an early baroque masterpiece, surrounded by the rustic smells of real life. It shocked him to think that when he got up this morning he had no idea his day would hold this complete shift in everything he was experiencing. To him, this sort of life was in his past.

She brought him to the present with another stiff punch in the arm. “Well, catch her. Charcoal has got to go in that pen, so you know who you’ve finished.”

He directed the goat to the pen, noticing the dusting of grey on its nose, and smiled, guessing the name’s origin. Back at the milking stand, Paige had dumped a scoop of pellets in the trough and clicked the stanchion in place around the next goat waiting to be milked. He watched her return the hand shovel back where she kept the feed and then put the milking bucket right in front of the goat’s teats. “So what is this one’s name? Licorice?” He sat on the stool to start milking but froze when she slid her hand across his back. The unexpected sensation was not unpleasant. He looked up at her.

The delight on her face was plain. “That’s right! Now, you need to wash her first.” From the other side, she took another pail and a rag, scrubbing down the udder.

“Got it.” And he did.

Chapter Eight

H
E MILKED, DIPPED, RELEASED, SCRUBBED
and milked again twelve more times. As he let the last goat enter the pen and shut the gate, his hands, arms and lower back ached, more than from any workout at the gym. He made his way to a long counter, which used to be a tool bench where Paige stood with two pitchers, an industrial-sized box of Ziploc bags and a plastic carton. He placed the last pail of milk beside her and watched as she poured it into a pitcher and whisked the milk to ensure the fat content was consistent throughout. Then she filled three plastic bags, closing them and laying them flat in the blue plastic carton.

When she was done, she went to heft the full carton, but he was too fast for her. Only, he wasn’t expecting it to be so heavy. He tried not to show any strain on his face as he carried it to the chest freezer. A puff of frigid air wafted past him as she lifted the lid. Sterling was surprised he hadn’t felt chilled once since he got to the barn, though it was not heated. He began gently placing the contents in the freezer.

“Really?” Paige upended the crate in his hands and let them fall inside. “Hold this.” She handed him back the empty crate and bent deep into the freezer. He admired the ideal view of her mud-covered backside. He hadn’t dated a single woman who would dare be seen with a smudge on her clothing, let alone walk around town filthy. Oddly, it was refreshing.

She threw bag after bag of frozen milk into the crate they'd just emptied. Soon it was had as many bags as it had before he dumped it, but now they were solid ice milk packets. Satisfied, she closed the freezer, retrieved a similarly filled crate for herself, which had been sitting in the corner and headed back to the house. He followed.

She directed him to put the plastic carton on the kitchen floor and went for her keys. “Okay. I keep my promises. Let’s take you home.”

He wondered why he ever wanted to go. “So what’s that for?” He pointed to the frozen goat’s milk.

“To keep other promises.” She opened the front door.

He faced her. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve still got to make soap tonight, or I’ll never meet the orders you made. I don’t want to make a liar out of you to all those new clients, do I?”

He looked at the bags of milk. If each was a gallon, that would be over ten gallons of liquid which he imagined was just a portion of the ingredients. “How much soap is that?”

She tilted her head toward the car. “Only 24 tins. Let’s go.”

A clock in the shape of an apple hung from the kitchen wall. “But it’s after nine. You won’t be back until eleven.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

He could see a shadow below each of her eyes, and she was a little paler than before. A single curl swayed in front of her eyes. He almost reached up to tuck the lock of hair back in place, so it wouldn’t block an inch of her perfect face. “Can I help? I’ve never made soap before. For real this time.”

That brought a grin to her lips, and in return, one to his own. She shut the door and headed back into the house. “If you’re sure your up to it.”

When he had first seen the kitchen, it seemed lived in, not dirty. Like his house growing up during canning season. Now, as he inspected it more closely, he realized that it was immaculate. There was not a speck of dust or grime in the corners, and the floor was so clean it could have been recently installed if it weren’t for the fact it was ancient linoleum, yellowed in the corners.

From a drawer she retrieved two black rubber aprons with bright yellow gloves. “I would have washed up last night, but I was beat, so we’ve got to do that first.” Producing a mop from the pantry, she shoved it into his hands. You can do the floor while I take on the tins.”

After the kitchen and dishes were scoured, she got Sterling busy wrapping the cakes made last night at the oak dinette while she donned goggles and began her work. The soap cakes were round, the size of a flattened muffin, each embossed on the top to distinguish its variety. The molds were double wide muffin tins that she probably bought from a specialty store. He did some math. Each tin yielded 24 soap cakes, and she had one dozen tins of completed soap. That was 288 items. The round wrapping paper was specially folded six times and then a label glued on the top. Though the result was appealing, Sterling wondered if it was the best use of her time, especially if she wanted to expand. The process had to be streamlined.

A few hours later, she finished mixing up the batches ready to be cooked, but he wasn’t quite done wrapping the newly cured soap cakes. Paige sat next to him to help with the last two tins and got her first one done in record time. It took three more bars before he got down her technique, and it became a wrapping race. By the last one, they were neck and neck. When he slapped on his last sticker, he threw his hands in the air as though he was in a rodeo. “Done!”

Her hands were already in her lap with the completed soap before her. “I think it was a tie.” There was a definite smirk on her face.

Against the wall leaned a number of new flat boxes. She took a large one, stretched it wide, taped it open and began laying the wrapped soap inside. “Let me pack this, and we’ll be ready to go. Are you sure you can make it to the booth by seven thirty in the morning? That won’t leave you much time for sleep.”