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The barn had buckets, a feed trough, oat sacks, and a salt lick block that had been worn into deep grooves. Spiders spun in their web stretched across the dusty rafters.
Raven pulled the dangling string on a bare bulb and a mouse skittered through a hole in the wall. “Grab some feed out of that closed bucket.” He pointed.
She searched for the specific bucket he mentioned, and found one clearly marked Betsy. She opened it and stared down at the kernels of food. “How much?”
“Two scoops poured into the metal bucket.”
Doing as he requested, she brought the filled bucket over and handed it to Raven who poured it into the trough. Betsy was already making huffing breaths as she bent her head over to nibble at the food. Raven had pulled over a small wooden stool and motioned for her to sit.
“Thank you for wanting to teach me, but I really don’t think…” Seeing his narrowed gaze, she sighed. It was probably best to just get the chore over with. She wanted to prove that she could handle simple tasks around the farm. If she wanted Raven’s, and Bonnie’s, respect she had no choice but to show people she respected what they did here.
Settling on the stool, which was about as wide as child’s chair and as comfortable as hemorrhoids, she watched Raven bring a metal bucket he got out of a sealed cabinet and place it under the cow. When he didn’t say anything, she bent to one knee. “Watch closely.”
She didn’t remove her eyes as he milked the cow, making it look as easy as breathing.
Then she tried. Nothing came out of the teats.
“Squeeze only with the thumb and first finger as high up as possible on the udder.”
Still nothing. Her skills of milking didn’t exist. If her life depended on getting milk she’d die of thirst.
“I don’t think she likes me.” Parker said when Betsy let out a disgruntled moan.
“She knows you’re incompetent” he muttered.
“That’s unfair to say just because I’m incapable of milking a cow. How many people outside of farmers and ranchers do this?” Her patience was waning.
“If you don’t know or have experience with these things how can you decide how Bonnie should run her business?”
The last straw unraveled within her. Standing, the stool fell over. “I think you should keep in mind that I’m not here to impress you with my farming skills. I’m here to help Bonnie. So, I’d appreciate it very much if you kept your rude remarks to yourself.”
He stood, facing her with fire in his gaze. “Bonnie’s not here. I am. You say you want to help, then help.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do? This isn’t part of the deal. Mending fences and milking cows!”
“You agreed that you’d do this.” His tone had lightened some.
“I agreed that I’d let you give me a tour, not put me to work and then yell at me because I can’t become a farm girl after fifteen minutes.” She noticed that he’d taken his attention off her and was investigating something behind him.
“Skedaddle!” He smacked his hands together, chasing a mouse out of the bucket of feed. His fiery gaze returned to her. “You never, ever, leave lids off feed buckets.”
She’d reached her limit. “I don’t have to listen to you any longer.” She made a wide circle around him, seething, and because she was so angry she didn’t see the rake leaning against the wall. The bulky toe of the boot caught on the tool and she lost her balance, lurched forward, then landed face first on the dirt floor. Sprawled out and spitting dust, she pushed herself up to her elbows and smelled something terrible. She almost gagged on the stench.
Sitting up she looked down at her shirt, seeing the straw mixed with clumps of mud, but as she investigated her surroundings, she realized it wasn’t mud. Betsy had left a calling card. The piece of toast she ate that morning threatened to make a return appearance. Humiliation made her cheeks warm. When she looked up to find Raven smiling, anger rolled through her.
“You have your wish. I’m leaving!”
She stood, spun on the heels of the awkward rubber boots, and stormed out of the barn.
That was that!
She would get the stinking, soiled clothes off, scrub the farm off her skin, and she would call a car. Parker had failed. She would run back to Chicago with her tail tucked between her legs and admit defeat. There were other jobs. She had a pristine resume. She refused to be treated like a lower-class citizen by some cowboy who didn’t know her.
At the door to the back porch, she toed off her boots, dragged off her gloves and stripped right there in nature. Not caring if anyone saw her, not even the cocky jerk of a cowboy she’d walked away from. She’d rather burn the new clothes than ever see them again.
~~~~~
He’d acted like a dick.
