“You didn’t finish school?” He sounded a bit horrified.
She smiled. “Of course I graduated. My brother Jason and I boarded with the Lassers while my dad—”
She wanted to observe the doctor’s face. She knew why he’d offered her the chair. Shadows and light. He sat in the former, she sat in the latter.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“My dad was a saddle bronc rider. He followed the rodeo circuit.” Still does, like an old hound chasing rabbits in his sleep.
For a moment Michael Rowan remained silent, then he smiled, small and quick. It tempered the line of his jaw. Soothed his eyes. Doctor-to-patient kind, those eyes.
“Ah,” he said. “McKay. Of course. Your father assaulted an orderly a while back for making him go through a difficult therapeutic maneuver.”
No pity, Doctor. My father’s conduct no longer matters.
Liar.
She said, “Brent—my dad—cracked four ribs at the Cloverdale Rodeo up in British Columbia. The doctors ordered him not to ride that summer. He…he didn’t take it well.” True to form, he’d raved and cussed. Didn’t they know he’d lose six months of winnings? He was a cowboy, for Pete’s sake, a man tough as nails. A couple beat-up bones wouldn’t stop him, no sirree.
But in the end they had. At least for those six months.
She continued, “He, um, took a job with the Lassers.” Manna from heaven, when compared to the days—weeks—she and Jase had lived on stale cheese, chips and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. “Caleb developed angina that year and needed help.” Turned out the couple had helped her and Jase far more. Loving them on sight. Opening their home and hearts with grace and compassion. Raising them as Brent had not.
Dr. Rowan jotted notes. “How many cows were they milking?”
“Forty. Some years forty-five.”
“We have ninety-two. A small outfit compared to some, but…” He studied her face.
She squared her shoulders. “I can handle it.”
Again, he gave her a slow, visual once-over. A small burn flickered in her belly. She wanted to leave the chair, tell him to move the interview to the living room where she could read his dark, enigmatic eyes. Equal ground. Person to person. Aspirant to interviewer. Not this…this man-woman thing.
“How strong are you?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Can you lift a five-gallon bucket of oats?”
“Yes.”
When he made a point of studying her arms, her skin flashed with heat. She should have worn a long-sleeved blouse. Or a sweatshirt. What had she been thinking to pull on this silky white tank top and this flowery skirt? Hurry, that’s what. Hurry to look good. To impress the employer. To look professional.
Well, no amount of hurrying would get her wiry muscles or, for that matter, pretty feminine limbs. Sorry, Doctor. You’re stuck with these long, skinny ones.
Annoyed at her self-criticism and his scrutiny, she asked, “Do you think because I’m a woman I’m not suited for the job?”
His eyes whipped to hers. “It has nothing to do with you being a woman.”
Then why the fitness quiz? “I assure you, Doctor Rowan, I can handle a bucket of grain. And a few cud-chewers.”
Silence hung like a weight.
She stood. “Perhaps you should consider someone else.” A man. With gym muscles. “I’m sure you’ll be flooded with applicants before long.” There had to be other jobs. She’d spread her search city-wise. Out Bellingham way, if necessary.
“Please, sit down.”
“It’s all right. I understand your concern.”
“Please.”
A tight moment passed. With his face lifted, the window light refined the lines around his mouth. Within his beard shadow a tiny scar shot to focus. She wondered when he’d received it. She sat.
“Thank you,” he said.
Their eyes caught. In her womb she felt a little zing.
Thirty-one years, and no man had ever touched her deepest, secret refuge—a soft, vulnerable, misty-eyed place. Not her father, not her ex-husband Wade, not even Jase, her sweet-faced brother. Then along comes the good doctor—and he rattles its door on the first meeting. She looked away. “Who’s your milker now?”
“A fellow from Maple Falls. Think you might know him?”
She shook her head. “But cows are sensitive to their milker. If the person has a calm touch, they’ll produce their best. About eighty pounds a day per cow is a good standard.”
Dr. Rowan rubbed the back of his neck as though he’d dealt with myriad crises since dawn and job interviews were an annoying side note. “Ms. McKay, just for the record, I’m not interested in whether these animals produce. The man I hired after my sis—” He broke off, pulled in air. His hand trembled on the page. “The guy gave notice two weeks ago. Saturday’s his last day. You’re the first applicant with any decent experience.”
The first? She’d heard of the ad from Jason, who’d been scanning the Help Wanted section for mechanic work. After the ad’s third run, he’d read the blurb aloud. “Go for it, Shan. What’ve you got to lose?” What indeed?
“It’s been a while since I worked around livestock,” she explained now. “But you won’t get anyone more dedicated.”
“I’m sure. However, let’s get one thing straight. I don’t want you making demands on me about the cattle, or anything else. I don’t need you telling me how to handle them, coddle them, or…whatever. The place is for sale, which means before summer’s out I’m hoping to have the papers signed, sealed and delivered to another owner. In the meantime, all you need to do is milk those Holsteins. Clear?”
“Like spring water.”
Again, their eyes held. Again, the zing.
“Do you know gardening?” he asked.
“As in hoeing and weeding?”
“As in canning and freezing. You saw our vegetable patch. In five weeks or so it’ll need harvesting.”
August, the hottest time of the year. She’d be sure to buy a big-brimmed, straw hat. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you. There’ll be a bonus for the extra work.”
He pulled open a drawer near her knee and took out a checkbook. With his sleeves rolled to the elbow, she saw that his arms were solid, bread-brown, and stippled with hair. Like a farmer’s, not like those of a man feeling for lumps and tying off arteries.
With a flurry of slashes he wrote out a check. “You’ll need an advance to tide you over until payday which is bimonthly. Sunday will be your day off.”
She gaped at the amount. Far more than what she’d earned in a month as a bookkeeper for R/D Concrete before the layoffs. And in Blue Springs, R/D had been the company if one wanted sound work. The doctor must be desperate.
“It won’t bounce, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said when she continued to stare at the money.
“I—” She swallowed, sat straighter. “I know that.”
“Good. There’s a retired farmer, Oliver Lloyd, who lives a couple miles down the road. He comes daily to clean the barns and tend to the cows and the land. We have roughly four hundred tillable acres in corn, oats, barley and alfalfa. He’ll assist you and