tractor up to a flatbed hayrack over by the machine shed. The long, low building, near the grove of trees where the house sat, was the bunkhouse and cook shack. In conjunction with the barn, there were pens, corrals, and loading chutes. Stoney came walking out of one of the corrals leading two haltered horses.
“Gotta go,” Hoyt said. “See you later.” He split away from her to join up with the older cowboy.
The noisy tractor motor idled and died. Layne’s glance absently wandered in that direction as Creed swung down to the ground. “All finished?” He lifted his voice to call the question to her, puffs of steam billowing from his mouth.
“Yes!” she answered. “With some help from Hoyt.”
There was a nod, no more than that, acknowledging that she hadn’t accomplished the chore alone. “Take the milk up to the house, then come back here so we can take some hay out to the cattle.”
There were no criticisms, no snide comments that he’d known she wouldn’t be able to milk the cow by herself. As long as the job was done, it didn’t appear to matter to him how she had accomplished it. Creed Dawson was definitely a strange man. She couldn’t figure him out. He wasn’t following any predictable pattern.
When Layne entered the kitchen, Mattie was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. She showed Layne where the milk strainer and filters were kept while Layne related her frustrated attempts to milk the cow. After Layne had strained the milk into a pitcher, she rinsed out the pail and carried it back to the barn to meet Creed.
By the end of the day Layne was ready to swear that the hay bales weighed a hundred pounds, at least. Ice had to be broken in the stock tank. They’d ridden for miles in the cold, looking for a dozen head of cattle that had strayed. There wasn’t a bone or a muscle in her body that didn’t ache, and she’d wound up with blisters from the new boots.
Within an hour after the supper dishes were done, she was in bed, utterly exhausted. She slept straight through until the alarm clock went off at five the next morning. As she hauled her sore and aching body out of bed, she wondered for a moment if all this was worth it. At least she understood now why Creed had doubted that she had the strength or stamina to do the work. It was a question she asked herself when Creed mentioned at the breakfast table that the day’s agenda included cleaning out the barn.
Chapter 4
At breakfast Hoyt had assured her that winter was the best time to clean out barns. “When it’s hot, the smell gets so strong it’ll knock you over.” Maybe that was so, but he wasn’t the one doing it.
Each time she tried to raise the pitchfork higher than her chest, the muscles in her arms started to quiver uncontrollably. She just couldn’t find that last ounce of strength to heave the forkful of manure-packed straw into the spreader parked just outside the door.
Since she was unable to lift it over the side of the wagon, Layne tried to toss it in. But something went wrong with her coordination. She swung the pitchfork too high. When the manure came off the tines, it went straight back and landed on her face and head. She barely muffled the shriek of dismay when it hit her.
For an instant she stood motionless while the biggest clods tumbled off of her. Finally she dropped the pitchfork and gingerly began to brush the smaller particles off herface. With the thick mittens covering her hands, it was like wiping her skin with a big powder puff.
When she bent her head to see how much was still on her clothes, a clump fell off her hat. It was all suddenly so ridiculous that Layne started to laugh. She heard the heavy sound of running feet outside, but it didn’t make any real impression on her as she continued to brush the wisps of straw and manure off her clothing while she silently shook with laughter.
“What happened?”
Somehow Creed Dawson had managed to squeeze his big frame between the wagon and
“Gotta go,” Hoyt said. “See you later.” He split away from her to join up with the older cowboy.
The noisy tractor motor idled and died. Layne’s glance absently wandered in that direction as Creed swung down to the ground. “All finished?” He lifted his voice to call the question to her, puffs of steam billowing from his mouth.
“Yes!” she answered. “With some help from Hoyt.”
There was a nod, no more than that, acknowledging that she hadn’t accomplished the chore alone. “Take the milk up to the house, then come back here so we can take some hay out to the cattle.”
There were no criticisms, no snide comments that he’d known she wouldn’t be able to milk the cow by herself. As long as the job was done, it didn’t appear to matter to him how she had accomplished it. Creed Dawson was definitely a strange man. She couldn’t figure him out. He wasn’t following any predictable pattern.
When Layne entered the kitchen, Mattie was putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. She showed Layne where the milk strainer and filters were kept while Layne related her frustrated attempts to milk the cow. After Layne had strained the milk into a pitcher, she rinsed out the pail and carried it back to the barn to meet Creed.
By the end of the day Layne was ready to swear that the hay bales weighed a hundred pounds, at least. Ice had to be broken in the stock tank. They’d ridden for miles in the cold, looking for a dozen head of cattle that had strayed. There wasn’t a bone or a muscle in her body that didn’t ache, and she’d wound up with blisters from the new boots.
Within an hour after the supper dishes were done, she was in bed, utterly exhausted. She slept straight through until the alarm clock went off at five the next morning. As she hauled her sore and aching body out of bed, she wondered for a moment if all this was worth it. At least she understood now why Creed had doubted that she had the strength or stamina to do the work. It was a question she asked herself when Creed mentioned at the breakfast table that the day’s agenda included cleaning out the barn.
Chapter 4
At breakfast Hoyt had assured her that winter was the best time to clean out barns. “When it’s hot, the smell gets so strong it’ll knock you over.” Maybe that was so, but he wasn’t the one doing it.
Each time she tried to raise the pitchfork higher than her chest, the muscles in her arms started to quiver uncontrollably. She just couldn’t find that last ounce of strength to heave the forkful of manure-packed straw into the spreader parked just outside the door.
Since she was unable to lift it over the side of the wagon, Layne tried to toss it in. But something went wrong with her coordination. She swung the pitchfork too high. When the manure came off the tines, it went straight back and landed on her face and head. She barely muffled the shriek of dismay when it hit her.
For an instant she stood motionless while the biggest clods tumbled off of her. Finally she dropped the pitchfork and gingerly began to brush the smaller particles off herface. With the thick mittens covering her hands, it was like wiping her skin with a big powder puff.
When she bent her head to see how much was still on her clothes, a clump fell off her hat. It was all suddenly so ridiculous that Layne started to laugh. She heard the heavy sound of running feet outside, but it didn’t make any real impression on her as she continued to brush the wisps of straw and manure off her clothing while she silently shook with laughter.
“What happened?”
Somehow Creed Dawson had managed to squeeze his big frame between the wagon and
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