He's Got Her Goat by Christine

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.