Leftover Love by Janet Dailey

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 ashort 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