Chapter Seven
The porch light illuminated a little circle around the generous oak door, and Paige stood with her hand on the knob. The deputy’s reaction to the mess made her nervous. She turned to look at Sterling, but her focus fell to his lips. They were almost blue. Oh, well. Why delay the inevitable?
Pushing the door wide, she gestured to the cluttered rooms. “Welcome home, such as it is.”
He stepped in the entry. She closed the door behind him and headed into the living area. Halfway there she realized he wasn’t following her. She turned to find Sterling simply standing in the entryway as if mesmerized. Was he worried he might catch some dreaded disease by venturing in? “I assure you it’s completely biohazard free.”
At last he moved, if only to look at her. “No, it’s great.” His eyes shifted further up the hall. “The living room is painted the same color as the house I grew up in.” With careful steps and his hands clasped behind his back, he walked forward with the reverence of a man walking through a museum.
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that reaction. “Where did you grow up?”
“Dallas,” he said absently.
She hadn’t detected an accent. “Texas?”
“No, Dallas, Oregon.”
“Never heard of it,” Paige tried to straighten one of the piles of invoices on the counter but seemed to only bend the pages.
“Most people haven’t.” He shrugged. “It’s a small town a little more than an hour south of the city.” He put his hands in his pockets.
“So you’re from the other Dallas.”
“That’s about the size of it,” he said.
Paige slid off her sweater and was about to hang it on the wooden peg inside the closet but couldn’t bring herself to do it. After what happened that afternoon, it would be quite a while before she went into that closet again. She laid her sweater across the back of a chair instead, grateful Sterling was in the room with her. “How nice to be so close to family. I bet you see them often.” She led him toward the back hall.
His pace slowed. “Nope. My mother died ten years ago, and I haven’t been home since.”
From his scowl, she could tell the subject was still tender. “I’m so sorry.” She understood about grief and loneliness.
He interrupted her thoughts. “About that shirt.”
She hurried to the bedrooms. “It’s over here.”
In her uncle’s room she opened the closet to reveal about a dozen button up shirts, each some shade of blue, two light jackets and one white dress shirt with frayed sleeves. It was his spare. Two items were missing. Her uncle’s best shirt and black suit that he was buried in. She could imagine what Uncle Bill would be saying now if he could see her. Just like you to be taking in a stray… but a good one.
While she selected a denim work shirt and corduroy jacket from the closet, she could hear Sterling shifting from one foot to another behind her. What was she doing alone in a room with a strange man who was probably taking off his shirt that very second? She could imagine his muscled chest, but not what was beneath it. What kind of a man didn’t even interact with his family when they lived so close? This was so wrong. How could she trust him? She’d trusted Blanche and look where it got her. Memories of the fear she had felt that afternoon bubbled to the surface, making her mouth feel dry. She pivoted toward Sterling and caught her breath.
He hadn’t even started undoing his buttons.
“I thought you were going to change your shirt,” she said.
He tipped his hat. “I will, once I have some privacy, ma’am. I don’t imagine your uncle would take kindly to me not being a gentleman in his bedroom, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Wow.” Paige blinked. “I know exactly what you’re saying. Meet you in the barn in a few.”
She left the clothes on the bed and ducked out of the room, wondering what was really going on. In her generation, she’d never met a man who behaved that way. There had to be a reasonable explanation for not wanting to take his shirt off. Maybe he had a really hair chest, dark brown fur that continued to his back, or maybe he had a huge tattoo of his last girlfriend in a suggestive pose, or maybe he had man boobs. Assuming he was hiding something was easier to believe than the alternative—that he was just the sort of man she was looking for.
The shirt fit perfectly, and Sterling was especially grateful for the jacket. Inspecting the room confirmed his first impression. From the upside down horseshoe over the doorway to the old Avon dispenser on the dresser, it was as though Uncle Bill and his father were clones. The jacket was identical to the one his father wore for morning milkings, and his father had at least two of those denim shirts. He slid open the drawers and wanted to chuckle. Yup. Boxers in the top, neatly folded jeans in the middle, and socks in the bottom drawer. Did they attend a school for homegrown Northwest ranchers? Even the bedclothes, a thin, white coverlet with complex quilting and two flannel blankets beneath, reminded him of home. Didn’t they know you could buy a padded comforter at any big box store, eliminating the need for extra blankets? Who even owned extra blankets anymore?
After he put his wet shirt on the hanger to dry, he hooked it on the doorknob and paused to catch another glimpse of the bedroom. Awakened memories that were better left to rot seemed to be toying with him. He tried to remind himself that this was only a favor, and if he played his cards right, he’d go back to his real life in a few days. If he didn’t, he could get lost in a place like this for eternity.
Outside, Sterling was shocked by how dark the night was. In the city, between headlights and streetlights, you could never see the stars. His eyes lifted to the vivid pinpricks of light above him, and he was reminded how small he was. The barn emitted a soft glow across the open yard along with the bleating of noisy goats. Paige had already begun milking. She sat on a short stool with her back to him. He could hear the rhythmic gush of each stream filling the bucket. A caramel colored goat nudged his hand with her nose. He showed the creature his empty palm, and it stuck its tongue out at him in disapproval. “Maaah.”
Paige was watching him. “Come over here, and I’ll show you what I’m doing.”
His boots felt at home against the worn wooden floorboards covered in hay. The smell reminded him of early mornings and late nights all through his boyhood days. He stood behind her shoulder and watched her thumb and forefinger tighten then her index then middle finger like a wave, only to repeat with the other hand. Back and forth. Right and left. On and on until the job was done. No wonder her handshake was so firm. After twelve years, he wondered if he still had the technique down.
Paige swiveled her head to the side, so she could see him out of the corner of her eye. “Would you rather put the milk in bags or get your hands dirty?”
“I’ll give the udders a try.”
“Then go wash up, so we keep her sterile.” She tapped the udder bag. He guessed it was to recover the last of the milk, something if you attempted with a cow was sure to leave you kicked in the head. After he washed, he stood ready to go, and she looked up at him with a questioning look on her face. “Have you ever done this before?”
“I’ve never milked a goat in my life.” Sterling admitted.
She gave him the stool. He sat in it, and she put her hands on his shoulders so she could watch his performance. “I’ll guide you through it.”
He waited for her instruction.
“First, put your thumb and forefinger together at the top of the udder to stop off the milk in the teat.”
He did but before she could say another word, a full stream hit the bucket. He did the same with his other hand.
She punched his upper arm and was gone. He wanted her to be surprised or laugh or something. From her quick exit he wondered if the punch was spurred by amusement or anger. He remembered that in her mind the biggest crime ever was lying, but he hadn’t lied. He called over his shoulder. “I grew up milking cows. Never tried a goat before, but it seems a lateral move.”
Her face was suddenl
y inches from his own, and she smiled that sort of closed mouth smile that women do when they mean to be polite. “Should have guessed by the boots.”
“What’s wrong with my boots?” He peered at the plain brown leather while finishing off the last few squeezes. “These are classics.”
She ignored him. “All done?” Removing the full milk bucket, she handed him another with clear liquid in two thirds of it.
He sniffed at the contents. It didn’t have a smell but made his nose sting. “What’s this?”
“Teat dip.” She was halfway back to the other wall of the barn. “Dunk her sack and release her from the stanchion.”
He wasn’t feeling nearly as confident as he had a few minutes earlier. “What’s a staunch-thing?”
“Stanchion,” she corrected. “It’s the wooden slats that secure her head. They make them for cows but most experienced milkers don’t need them. Goats do; they’re stubborn.”
Dipping the udder, he held the pail to one side, unsure where to put it. “Maybe they just know what they want and won’t let anyone stop them.”
“Perhaps.” She was back beside him, took the pail and set it on a small table next to him. “Or maybe they are never satisfied with a good thing and have to push for something better all the time.”
He stood to try and free the goat’s head from the wedged slats. “What’s wrong with that?”
She laid her hand on his and this time he was ready, thinking about her soft skin. She directed his fingers to the latch. The goat yanked back its head and leapt from the stand. “That’s what gets them in trouble.”
In the dim barn with her halo of curls, she looked like the subject of an early baroque masterpiece, surrounded by the rustic smells of real life. It shocked him to think that when he got up this morning he had no idea his day would hold this complete shift in everything he was experiencing. To him, this sort of life was in his past.
She brought him to the present with another stiff punch in the arm. “Well, catch her. Charcoal has got to go in that pen, so you know who you’ve finished.”
He directed the goat to the pen, noticing the dusting of grey on its nose, and smiled, guessing the name’s origin. Back at the milking stand, Paige had dumped a scoop of pellets in the trough and clicked the stanchion in place around the next goat waiting to be milked. He watched her return the hand shovel back where she kept the feed and then put the milking bucket right in front of the goat’s teats. “So what is this one’s name? Licorice?” He sat on the stool to start milking but froze when she slid her hand across his back. The unexpected sensation was not unpleasant. He looked up at her.
The delight on her face was plain. “That’s right! Now, you need to wash her first.” From the other side, she took another pail and a rag, scrubbing down the udder.
“Got it.” And he did.
***