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 milk on Sundays. When can you start?”
“Monday.”
“Fine. We begin at 4:30 a.m. Same time in the afternoon. Milking should take you no more than two hours tops. Any questions?”
With the salary he’d laid out? Unable to think, much less speak, she managed a “No.”
Without pause, he scribbled in the notebook. Thirty seconds passed. Forty.
Had she been dismissed? She read the check again. She should feel elated. She’d gotten the job. With a lucrative wage. For a few more months, Jason’s college fund and her night school accounting courses would stay intact.
So what was the problem?
Michael Rowan.
He intrigued, confused, and beguiled her into silly daydreams.
Get real, Shanna. The man wouldn’t look twice at you.
Staring at his bent head she unloosed a mental sigh. The logistics were as elemental as the points of a triangle. Point A: Their lifestyles—right down to his pen—were macrocosms apart. She observed the gold stylus flying across the page. Hardly a Bic special. Point B: Their natures didn’t concur. His reflected the Grinch while she, fool that she was, would give her right arm to safeguard and coddle the powerless, the tender-footed and the ugly. She shook her head.
Why couldn’t his grandmother be the one hiring?
Why couldn’t his face be broad and flat-boned?
His hair sparse and colorless?
He slapped shut the book, tossed it on the desk, and strode from the den. “That pickup down by the barn yours, Ms. McKay?”
She leapt after him. “Yes, I—”
A shrill bleep arrested his progress. She almost bumped into his back. He checked his pager. “I need to make a call. Wait here.” Back in the study, he closed the door with a quiet snick.
In the silence, the room lay at her feet: the tall windows, the tea set, the portrait of the woman.
What had she been thinking, Shanna wondered, envisioning herself in this house? It wasn’t her. Houses like this…
A glance at the closed study. Men like that…
Like Wade. Charming in face, honed in body. Women drooling with one look of his sinful eyes and one flash of his sexy smile.
Still, standing where she was, a sense of homecoming seeped into her blood, warm and favorable. She thought of Caleb and Estelle’s farmhouse where she’d spent most of her adolescence. Where she’d come to realize Brent—her father—would forever be a rodeo hound. Loving her and Jase, in his own skewed way, from miles down the road.
What she felt here couldn’t compare to those days.
Why this strange house?
She saw herself curled on one of the two love seats bracketing the octagon coffee table. Browsing one of the magazines scattered there. Dreamily admiring the big African violet. Touching the child’s tea set…
Her heart sank into its battered furrows. Had fate been kinder, had life taken a different route, toy trucks and trains might have covered her coffee table….
Oh, Timmy, my sweet little baby.
Fool. You’ve got to stop dreaming.
Ah, but she’d always been a dreamer. Marriage, kids, a house with a garden… But not in this house. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of rightness.
An illusion, that’s all. A lovely, horrible illusion.
She had to get away before the fantasies overwhelmed her. She could not work here. Not for Michael Rowan, who muddled her common sense. And not in a place that had home written everywhere she looked. No matter how, she’d find an office job—or wash dishes, scrub floors, flip burgers—anything but milk cows for a man who had the capability of holding her elusive hopes in the palm of his hand.
Shouldering
