Until the Harvest (9 page)

“I don’t care.” Lenore squinted at her eldest daughter, as though trying to make her out through a dirty window. “It’s high time I started teaching her the finer things in life. I’m tempted to ship her off to a girls’ school, where she can learn proper etiquette and how to present herself in the best society, but for now I’ll handle her education.”

Margaret looked at her younger sister, whose normally pale cheeks were positively ashen. She took her hand and squeezed it.

“This will be fun, sweetie. Mom is a very elegant lady, and you can learn a lot from her.” Margaret’s words sounded hollow in her own ears, but her mother smiled. Margaret hoped Mayfair was fooled, too.

“Thank you, dear. Now you run along. Mayfair and I are going to have a wonderful day.”

Margaret released her sister’s hand and walked out the door feeling as though she were leaving a mouse with a bored cat.

“Emily, do you think you’d ever want someone to live in with you?” Margaret dusted the family room while Emily sat rocking and reading
Good Housekeeping
. There was a picture of Mary Tyler Moore on the cover. Margaret wondered how she got her hair to look so perfect.

“Oh, maybe one of these days. I think having you is enough for the time being.” She dropped the magazine in her lap. “Sometimes you need a moment all to yourself. When John first died, I didn’t think I could stand being alone, but eventually I came to appreciate it.” She sighed. “And losing a child—well, that leaves you with a whole other feeling of being alone.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked back at Margaret. “I remind myself that we’re never truly alone. God is always and ever with us.”

Margaret nodded and went to put the can of furniture polish away. She supposed what Emily said was true, but there were times when she felt not just alone, but abandoned. Times when she worried what the future could possibly hold for her sister. Times when other people were around but seemed disconnected. Times like now.

“Henry’s here,” Emily called out. “The cow can’t be far behind.”

Swiping her hands against her rust-colored pants, Margaret hurried into the family room. Henry stood with his coat
unfastened and gloves in his hand. In that moment Margaret was struck by how good-looking he was. He wasn’t traditionally handsome—not like Robert Redford, say—but he was handsome in the way a man is when he’s pleased with the world and his place in it. Margaret didn’t think she’d ever seen Henry like that before.

“Jerry from the stockyard will be here any minute. I saw him coming, but he’s taking it slow over the dirt road with Bertie in the back.”

Margaret giggled. “Bertie?”

Henry grinned back. “I know. You’d expect Daisy or Buttercup or something like that. But Bertie it is, and I think it’s stuck by now.”

Margaret wished Mayfair were with them. She loved animals and would have enjoyed being here to greet Bertie. There was a clanking sound outside, and Henry hurried to help unload the cow. Emily and Margaret bundled up to go out and welcome the newest resident to the farm.

Henry and Jerry had Bertie in the side yard, leading her by a rope attached to her halter.

“Halter comes with her,” Jerry said. “Owner wanted to throw it in since she’s used to that particular one. You reckon you can take it from here?”

“Yup. Thanks for bringing her out,” Henry said, shaking the man’s hand.

Margaret eyed the cow. “She’s awfully big.”

Henry laughed. “She’s a Guernsey, one of the smaller breeds. Course, she’s pregnant.”

“Oh, my goodness. Did you mean to buy a pregnant cow?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “I thought you wanted to live the farm life. Sounds like you don’t know anything about it.”

Margaret bristled but had to admit that she didn’t even know enough to defend herself.

“You pretty much keep a milk cow pregnant, dear.” Emily
patted her on the arm. “That’s why they keep giving milk.” She turned her attention to Henry. “When is she due?”

“April,” Henry said, leading her to the shed. The cow followed along like a faithful dog. She already seemed attached to Henry.

“Well, then, we’ll need to dry her around the middle of February. That doesn’t give us long to get good at this.” She seemed to be including Margaret in the “us,” which made her glad, even though she still felt like Henry and Emily were speaking a foreign language.

Emily eyed Margaret and lowered her voice before speaking. “Six to eight weeks before the calf comes you stop milking the cow. That lets all that energy go to the calf instead of our refrigerator. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of all this.”

Margaret glanced toward the cow just as she turned her head and looked back at them with long-lashed, velvety eyes. She thought the cow had things figured out better than she did. A nice place to live, people to take care of her, and clear expectations. Bertie knew exactly what to do. Eat, sleep, give milk, and have a calf every year. Margaret wished with all her heart that someone would spell out that clearly what she was meant to do.

“Time for her morning milking,” Henry said, grabbing the new bucket. “Want to help?” he asked, disappearing around the half wall he’d built earlier.

Learning to milk a cow. Now that was something she could get her head around. “I’m coming,” she said, swiping at her nose, which had begun to run in the cold.

Inside the shed Henry poured a can full of sweet feed into the manger, and when Bertie put her head between two upright pieces of wood, he snugged the slats in so she couldn’t move.

“You have to hold her there?” Margaret asked. “I thought she’d want to be milked.”

“She does. And she’s so gentle, we probably could milk her
with the halter tied to a post, but until she’s used to us, the stanchion is a good idea.”

Henry walked Margaret through the steps to ensure no dirt or bacteria got into the milk, then sent a couple of squirts onto the ground before placing the bucket under Bertie’s udder.

“Here, you try,” he said, offering Margaret the stool. “She needs to get used to all of us.”

She sat and tentatively squeezed a teat. Nothing happened.

“Like this,” Henry said, demonstrating with his hand in the air.

Margaret tried again and got a tiny trickle. Bertie shifted and tried to look over her shoulder.

“It’s all right, girl.” Henry patted the cow on the rump and crouched down next to Margaret. He motioned for her to grasp a teat, then wrapped his hand around hers to show her how it felt. Margaret nearly leapt from the stool. The unexpected sensation of Henry’s rough fingers against the back of her hand was shocking. She’d held hands with boys before, but this was much different. Henry was all business, but at the same time he was tender—probably on account of the cow. Margaret shivered and tried to tell herself it was the cold.

“Think you’ve got it?” Henry released her and stood back.

Margaret took a breath and mimicked the motion he’d shown her, even as the back of her hand continued to tingle. Milk came out in a smooth stream.

“Great job.”

The praise made her flush, and she kept her face toward the cow’s flank. “See how much you can do before your hands get tired.”

Margaret shot him a look over her shoulder. Was that criticism? Or concern? She focused on milking, trying to shut worries about what Henry Phillips thought of her out of her mind.
After a few minutes her hands did get tired, but there was a good bit of milk in the bucket.

“I guess my hands aren’t used to this. Is that enough?”

“Enough for what?” Henry chuckled. “It’s not about getting enough. It’s about emptying the udder. It’s important to strip her dry each time you milk.”

He nudged Margaret, and she stood up from the stool. He sat and began to milk at twice the speed she had. In hardly any time he’d stripped the two teats closest to him and began working on the other two. Margaret flexed her hands and realized her forearms were burning from the exertion.

Emily popped her head around the corner and watched. “John had the most beautiful hands and arms,” she said. “Milking all his life, plus all the other farmwork. Well, it did wonders for him.”

Margaret felt strange hearing Emily share what sounded like a pretty intimate detail about her husband. She stole a glance at Henry’s hands—strong and tanned, even in winter. The sensation of those fingers against the backs of hers returned, and she shoved her fists into the pockets of her coat. She was beginning to think farming might be what she was made to do, and not just because it would annoy her mother. She needed to focus on learning as much as she could about running a farm, not the inexplicable feelings stirred by a young man with wavy hair that fell into his eyes as he milked.

Henry tucked his head into Bertie’s flank and breathed in the warm scents of cow, milk, hay, and grain. Grandma and Margaret were talking, and their voices supplied a soft counterpoint to the hiss of milk in the bucket. Bertie munched her grain and seemed perfectly content in her new home. And in that moment, Henry was content, too.

Why couldn’t contentment like this stay? He watched the creamy milk climb the side of the pail, and a poem he read once came to mind. He couldn’t remember it all, but he did remember the last two lines.
So dawn goes down to day. Nothing
gold can stay.

“What did you say?”

“Huh?” Henry jerked, and Bertie lifted one foot, then settled it again.

Margaret was suddenly very close. “I thought I heard you quoting poetry.” She blushed. “Sorry, that sounds silly. It’s just that I like poetry, and I could have sworn you just quoted Robert Frost.”

“I guess maybe I did,” Henry admitted. He stripped the last bit of milk from Bertie’s udder and clicked the lid in place on the bucket. He handed it to Margaret. “You can take that on in the house. I’ll take Bertie into the feedlot.”

“‘Nothing Gold Can Stay,’” Margaret said. “That’s the name of the poem.”

“Yeah, I heard it somewhere, maybe in English class. It kind of stuck with me.”

“That’s one of my favorites.” Margaret looked at him like she was really seeing him, and he felt a little uneasy under her scrutiny.

“You know how to skim that milk once you get inside?”

“I’ll show her,” Grandma chimed in. “Come along, we’ll let the cream rise and have butter before the day is out.”

Margaret followed Emily toward the house, but halfway there Henry saw her stop and look back toward the cowshed. He acted like he was giving his full attention to releasing Bertie from her stanchion and attaching a lead to her halter. But he saw the look on Margaret’s face. Confusion? Sadness? Whatever it was, it tugged at his heart. He turned his back and whispered soothing words to the cow. When he turned again, Margaret was gone.

Margaret arrived home to find her father ensconced in what her mother referred to as the “rumpus room” watching
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. It must have been a funny skit, based on the tinny laughter pouring out of the speakers. Margaret moved through the house, finding no evidence of either her mother or Mayfair. She noticed her parents’ door was closed. Probably Mom was in there lying down with a cool cloth on her forehead. That seemed to be her remedy for just about everything.