“But I always do, and now it feels like I’m late.” I grab my milking pail and stool and position them in front of Genevieve, who eyes me with her tolerant resignation—as if like me she’s accepted a life where she does what she’s told without complaint.
“Told you before these are my chores. You don’t gotta do them.”
I frown in his direction, since his repeated emphasis on this claim is becoming annoying. “I know you told me that.” My voice is as mild as always, despite my mood. “But I like to help.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
We milk our respective cows for a minute in silence. Then he gives me a sidelong glance and mumbles, “How you feeling this morning?”
I blink at him, holding one of Genevieve’s udders in my hand. “What do you mean?”
“How you feeling? After…”
“Oh. I’m okay. Kind of sore, but fine.” I’m actually very sore, but I was so worried about being late it barely registered until right now. Sharp pangs in my thighs and between my legs trigger whenever I move the wrong way.
“Okay. Good.” He’s focused studiously on his work.
After a minute, I ask, “How are you?”
“What?”
“This morning. Do you feel all right?”
“I feel great. Real good.”
My chest and mouth soften. “So you think last night went okay?”
“Okay? I thought it was amazing.” Now he’s frowning again as he studies me. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was just making sure.”
“Okay. Good. Me too. Good. Okay.”
A giggle rises in my throat for no reason at his mumbled repetition and his avoidance of my eyes. I’m not sure why it makes me laugh, but it does.
I’m smiling to myself as I turn back to my work.
I finish Genevieve with no trouble and then milk Vera after that. Ambitious, I ask to try another cow, and Mason sets me up with Millicent.
Everything goes well for several minutes. Then I get an itch and let go with one hand to scratch my side. The move must startle the animal because Millicent makes a sudden jerk, and I’m not prepared for it.
I don’t get kicked or hurt anyway, but the milk I’ve gotten so far gets spilled all over both me and the ground.
“Oh no!” I stand up, staring at all the milk I’ve wasted as it slowly soaks into the packed dirt. Even Bill runs over from investigating a bale of hay and snuffles my feet in concern. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“No big deal,” Mason says, stopping his own work tocome over to rub Millicent’s back. “She just got spooked. She didn’t hurt you, did she?”
“No. It was my fault. I didn’t realize?—”
“It’s not a big deal.” He’s not angry. At all. But there’s an undercurrent of something beneath his manner. I assume it’s frustration or impatience. With me. “It happens.”
“But all that milk!”
“I said it’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go on in. You can clean up and get started on breakfast. Just stick with Genevieve and Vera from now on.”
There’s still nothing in his tone that sounds like frustration. Or an accusation. Or even disappointment. It’s nothing at all like the response I would have received after making the same sort of mistake with Lorraine or Aria.
