Julianne MacLean Page 9

  Sarah sat down, now at eye level with the cow’s broad side.

  Briggs knelt down beside her. “You’re going to have to spread your knees apart to lean forward.”

  Sarah tried to suppress her blush as she slowly spread her legs. “All right.”

  “Now grab hold of her teats and squeeze.”

  Sarah reached forward, but as soon as her fingers wrapped around the warm teats, Maddie took an anxious step sideways and knocked Sarah off the stool and onto her behind. Her head hit the wall and immediately began to throb.

  “Maddie!” Briggs called out. “Be still!” He set the stool on its legs again. “You okay?” he asked, as he helped Sarah up. She nodded, trying to hide her shakiness, trying not to melt into the warmth of his strong hand. “She knows you’re a stranger. She’ll be better this time. Try again.”

  Sarah nervously reached forward, steadying herself for another fall, her heart thumping away inside her chest. Why did she have to do this? Couldn’t Briggs continue with it? Obviously, Maddie preferred him. But when she wrapped her hands around the warm teats, she discovered Briggs was right. Maddie stood still long enough for her to get a tight grip.

  “That’s it. Now squeeze the milk out.”

  Sarah squeezed with all the strength she possessed, but nothing happened. She’d never felt so incompetent in all her life.

  “Keep trying,” Briggs told her. “You have to get the feel of it.”

  Sarah squeezed and squeezed until her knuckles turned white, but still, no milk. “It’s not working. What’s wrong?”

  Briggs stared down at Maddie’s full udder. “She won’t let the milk down. Stand up. Let me try.”

  Sarah moved aside and Briggs sat down. He wrapped his hands around Maddie’s teats and without any effort at all, he drew milk into the pail like a song. “You have to pull and squeeze at the same time,” he said. “See?”

  And Sarah did see. She saw a pair of sun-bronzed hands, capable and strong, yet gentle at the same time, massaging the milk out of Maddie. Coaxing it with a natural rhythm. She wondered ridiculously if Maddie was enjoying herself. When Sarah remembered how Briggs had caressed her on their wedding night, she wasn’t surprised Maddie kicked her aside.

  “Now, you try,” he suggested.

  Sarah squatted down on the stool again, this time trying to imitate her husband’s style. Nothing happened at first. Then a drip fell. “There! It’s working!” It wasn’t long before Sarah, too, was coaxing the milk into the bucket in steady, forceful streams. She was doing it!

  “Good job,” Briggs said.

  She looked up to find him smiling. That smile was so rare, it was paralyzing. It made her skin tingle and her bones turn to jelly.

  The milk stopped coming and the barn went quiet. Sarah tried clumsily to fix her grip, wishing she could understand these feelings that kept rising within her. She was so desperate to please a man who clearly did not want her to please him. If only she hadn’t made such a critical mistake on their wedding day. If only they could go back to those moments just before he’d discovered her secret—when he was touching her and wanting her.

  Sarah dropped her hands onto her lap. Looking up at Briggs, she pleaded with her eyes for some return of affection. He stared down at her briefly, then looked away as if he had something else to do directly.

  Feeling rejected, Sarah looked at the floor. She knew he had seen the emotion in her eyes, felt her desperation, but for his own reasons, he had chosen to ignore it.

  He gave Maddie a pat on the back. “It shouldn’t take you much longer. Just keep going till there’s no more milk.” Then Briggs quickly turned away from her and walked out of the barn.

  Chapter Ten

  Two days later, Sarah was leaning over the butter churn, pumping vigorously and massaging her sore back, when she heard the wagon jingle and creak into the yard. She quickly abandoned her work to prepare the fried salt pork with gravy, corn bread and coffee, Briggs’s usual midday meal.

  She was slicing the bread when his shadow filled the open door. “How was your morning?” she asked, realizing she asked the same question every time he entered the house for dinner.

  He always gave the same answer. “Fine.”

  When he reached the bottom step and went for the coffeepot, Sarah noticed a tear in his sleeve. “What happened to your shirt?” She served up his plate of food and set it on the table.

  He tipped the coffeepot over a cup. “Gem tried to nip me.”

  She walked toward him to examine the rip. “The horse did this?”

  “Yes, but I deserved it. I nearly knocked her tooth out setting the bridle in place. Clumsy, I guess.”

  The torn fabric hung down to reveal his bare, muscled arm. Sarah folded the sleeve back in place to see if it was a clean rip. “I can fix this while you eat. Why don’t you take it off?”

  He paused with the coffeepot still in one hand, the battered tin cup in the other. Their gazes met and locked, and Sarah was suddenly aware that she still held the torn fabric in place to cover his skin.

  “It can wait till tonight,” Briggs said.

  Sarah steeled herself, fighting the oncoming blush. “But what if you hook it on something? I’ll have twice as much sewing to do. Take it off and I’ll be done before you finish your dinner.”

  He hesitated, then set down his cup and turned away from her. The muscles in his back tensed and relaxed as his arms came back to shrug out of the sleeves. Sarah stood behind him as the shirt fell into her waiting hands. It still held heat from his body and moisture from his hard work. She had to fight the urge to raise it to her face and smell the outdoors mixed with his male scent.

  “I’ll be quick,” she assured him, turning to find her needle and thread. Her hands trembled as she dug through her belongings, all too aware of his shirtless presence at the table. When she finally found what she was looking for, she headed for the door without looking up.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, his mouth full.

  She stopped on the bottom step. “It’s too dark in here. I need better light to thread the needle. I won’t be long.”

  She hurried up the stairs with the shirt draped over her arm. Why did he have the power to reduce her to this? She was melting like butter at the sight of him. With a huff, she flopped into the chair outside and began to stitch the seam.

  When she was nearly finished, she heard his boots tapping slowly up the steps. She quickened her stitching, wanting to be done before he reached her, and in the panic, pricked her middle finger. “Ouch!”

  She immediately slipped it into her mouth but only for a second, then returned all her attention to the task of mending his shirt. Before she could complete it, his shadow fell across her lap.

  “Stick yourself?” he asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  “Don’t hurry. I’m not ready to face the haying just yet. I think I ate too much.” He moved past her and sat down in the grass.

  All was silent as she stitched his shirt at record speed, refusing to look up for even the space of a heartbeat. Yet she knew exactly where—and how—he was sitting. He was leaning back on one elbow, one leg bent and a bare arm draped across his knee.

  She was beginning to perspire.

  When she tied the thread into a knot, he sat up. “All done?”

  “Yes. Good as new.” She examined her work then flapped the shirt into the wind.

  They both stood. With the pretext of smoothing her skirt, Sarah handed the shirt to him with her gaze lowered. But she was more than mindful of the haste in which he pulled it on, fastened the buttons and tucked the tails into his trousers.

  He cleared his throat. “Back to work, I guess.”

  Sarah smiled nervously. “Yes, back to work.”

  He walked toward the wagon, examining where the tear in his shirt used to be. When he hoisted himself up into the seat and gathered the reins, he paused there, staring straight ahead. Sarah raised her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes, watching and wa
iting for him to slap the reins and be off. Instead, he glanced down at her.

  “Thanks for mending my shirt.”

  Sarah gazed up at his perfectly angled face, his jaw shadowed with stubble. For the first time, she felt as if she’d been rewarded. Joy swelled within her. He did appreciate her. Whether he would admit it or not.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  With elbows to knees, he flicked the reins. The harness jingled as the wagon ambled forward and out onto the vast prairie. Sarah wanted to leap up and down and squeal with delight. Instead, she returned to the house, skipping once on her way to the door.

  Later that day, with a shiver of disgust, Sarah flicked a grasshopper off the tablecloth. Before she could blink twice, another one leaped into its place. “Get away!” she cried, swiping him with the back of her hand. Gooseflesh erupted on her back and arms like a thousand wriggling spiders.

  Rubbing her palms on her skirt, she collected herself and turned back to the hot stove. Earlier that afternoon, she’d collected some wild greens Martha had told her to look for, mixed them with some salt pork, onions and potatoes, chopped everything up, and made a stew. She bent forward and removed it from the oven, breathing in the aromatic tendrils of steam. She wondered what Briggs would think of it.

  Sarah looked up at the open door when she heard the wagon roll in. It seemed a little early for Briggs to return. She went to see what had brought him home. As she emerged from the tiny dugout and into the sunny afternoon, a hot and drowsy stillness enveloped her. It seeped uncomfortably into her skin.

  “What are you doing home so early?” she asked, trying to shake away the uneasy feeling.

  Briggs hopped down from the wagon and landed with a thud. “There were too many grasshoppers.” He walked toward her, his brow furrowed.

  “I noticed a couple of them, myself.”

  He removed his hat and stared at the darkening horizon.

  “Would you like some supper?” Sarah asked. “It’s just about done.”

  “No, not yet.”

  He stared at the sky for another few minutes, pacing back and forth, then donned his hat and moved past her toward the house where Shadow was dozing. Briggs stopped outside the door. Shadow stood up, his long ears tilting back. Whimpering, he padded toward Briggs, who squatted down to scratch behind his ears. “What’s the matter, boy? Do you smell something?”

  The dog looked around and began to bark. Sarah walked to the edge of the house to see if someone was coming, but nothing moved, not even the grass. Nothing chirped or sang or squawked.

  A single nervous breeze lifted Briggs’s hair, then quickly disappeared as if it had hurried to take shelter. Feeling anxious, Sarah hugged her arms around herself.

  “Darn,” Briggs grunted, then marched angrily toward the geranium plant Sarah had set outside the front door. “What’s going on?”

  He removed his hat and used it to slap at the petals, shaking his head the whole time. Only then did Sarah notice the grasshoppers falling from the shivering leaves, flitting about in a panic.

  “Do you usually get this many insects?” she asked.

  “No, never.” His tone was laden with concern.

  Sarah stood in silence, not knowing what else to do.

  Briggs replaced his hat again and looked at the dusty window. Grasshoppers were beating against it as if trying to gain entry to the house. “I think you better close the door.”

  Briggs picked up the broken geranium plant to give to Sarah to take inside. They stared at each other, both of them pale with worry. “The vegetable garden,” Sarah said.

  He nodded once, as if that exact thing had been registering in his mind, then gave over the potted plant. He turned to run around the house. “Go inside and get some blankets!”

  Without another thought, powered by fright and courage combined, Sarah bolted into the house and down the steps. She dropped the plant onto the table and ripped the red blanket from the tacks in the ceiling. Quickly, she tore the quilt and sheets from the bed and the flour sack from the tabletop. Snatching a fistful of her skirt and yanking it up to her knees, she ran up the stairs with the pile of blankets in her other arm, slamming the door behind her.

  Grasshoppers were flitting about, banging into the wagon and tormenting the horses, who swung their long tails and shook their heads in a feeble retaliation. Her chest tight with fear, Sarah darted around the house. She felt a sting on her cheek as she collided with one and then another of the vexing insects.

  Keeping her head down, she rounded the house and reached the little garden where Briggs was slapping his hat over the defenceless tomato plants. Shadow was pacing back and forth, growling.

  Briggs looked up and gestured with his arm. “Bring the blankets. Cover what you can.”

  Sarah dropped the pile onto the ground. Without a second’s hesitation, four or five grasshoppers leaped onto the mound of bedding. “Shoo!” Sarah hollered, as she picked up the top blanket and flapped it hard into the air. The bugs were flung heedlessly about, disoriented, then they righted their course toward the garden.

  She covered the plants, knowing she was trapping dozens of the hungry insects beneath. Briggs continued to wave his hat over the green leaves, slapping and fanning the trembling plants.

  “Maybe we should cut what we can and take it inside,” Sarah suggested, blanketing the last corner of the garden.

  “Go get a knife. I’ll stay here and fight them off.”

  Sarah ran, waving her arms around to scare them away, but bumping regardless into the hard, winged creatures. Frightened calls came from the barnyard—the cow bawling, the pigs squealing. The horses snuffled and whinnied and shook their harnesses.

  Sarah dashed into the house, her shoes tapping quickly down the dirt steps. It was dark—where was the knife? Her gaze darted to the table. The stove. There. Her fingers closed around the wood handle and in a flash, she was scurrying back up the stairs and outside. Sarah slammed the door behind her.

  She dashed around the side of the house to the garden. Then she found herself frozen in space, staring in confusion at her husband. He stood in the center of the garden, ignoring the grasshoppers on his shoulders and sleeves.

  What was wrong? Why was he just standing there?

  She lifted her skirts and approached. The yellow sunshine of only moments ago was turning gray. There was a loud ringing in her ears, a violent pounding against her rib cage. Briggs looked pale.

  Sarah gazed into his empty eyes, then found herself turning slowly, without conscious thought, toward the horizon that had captured her husband’s attention.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  A peculiar cloud moved from the west, too light in color to be a rain or dust storm, too dark to be fog. It advanced all too quickly, as if powered by some unearthly energy, floating higher until it blocked the sun. Sarah moved closer to Briggs, who protectively closed his hand around her forearm. “This can’t be happening,” he said, his voice flat with disbelief.

  “What is it?”

  Seemingly calm, he escorted her out of the garden. “I think you better go inside.”

  Sarah stopped and pulled her arm out of his grasp. “Why? Tell me what it is.”

  Without taking his eyes off the darkening sky, he answered. “It’s a swarm of locusts.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Briggs watched the grasshoppers pass like a dense shadow over the wheat field. The stalks hushed, as if they were too frightened to even breathe. The dark cloud whirled about like snowflakes in the chaos of a winter storm.

  Shadow barked while Sarah and Briggs stood astonished, hypnotized as they watched the seething, fluttering mass. It roared like a prairie fire, rasping and ringing and crackling.

  After a few moments, Briggs snapped out of his daze and began dragging Sarah toward the house. “What about the crops?” she cried, the full meaning of this invasion settling into her brain.

  “I’m going to cut what I can.”

  Sarah pulled him
to a stop. “You’re going to fight them?”

  “As best I can. Give me the knife.”

  “You have to let me help you.”

  He stared at her for a second, then took her by the arm. “No. You stay inside. Seal up the house.”

  “I will seal up the house. Then I’ll come and help you.”

  The pests suddenly came upon them, flying into their faces and lodging in their clothing. Sarah screeched, waving her arms.

  “Sarah, I don’t think you—”

  “You need my help!”

  Surprised at her willingness, he looked around the yard. The horses, frightened and restless, were still hitched to the wagon, the pigs scrambling inside the pen. Briggs shot his gaze back to Sarah. “Okay. Cut what you can from the vegetable garden. Get the animals into the barn and close the doors. I’m going to get my corn knife. We’ll start there.”

  “What about the wheat?”

  “We can only be in one place at a time. Go!” He touched the small of her back and sent her off.

  Crunching grasshoppers under her feet with every step, Sarah ran first to the barn to seal it before it became infested. She screamed at the pigs—“Yah! Yah!”—and herded them, squealing and snorting, inside. Sarah slammed and latched the door.

  Next, she ran to the edge of the yard where Maddie stood at the water trough, lowing and stomping about.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Maddie.”

  Sarah led the cow to the barn and slapped her rump. Slam, the door was shut—click, it was latched. She swung around. What next?

  A grasshopper hit her in the eye. “Ouch!” she cried, rubbing it. Sarah gazed across the yard and saw Shadow. “Come, boy! Come!”

  The dog ran toward her, but stopped a few feet away. His ears rose and fell as if he knew she meant to lock him up and keep him from his duty as guard dog. He sat down.

  “Shadow!” Sarah yelled, her patience snapping. “Get in here!” She clapped her hands and opened the door for him. “Hurry up! There’s no time for this!”