Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Faye gathered her things and made for the door, where Laken met her.
Already checked out, I laid my head on the table and debated smashing it into the surface, but before I could, their conversation caught my attention.
Like a puppet controlled by awkward conversations, my head yanked up at the sound of “So does this mean it’s official now? Can I tell Goldie?”
My eyes bugged and my cheeks inflated with everything I held back. Thanking the Gods Laken stood at the door and not me, I relished his gentle “Tell them what you want, Mother.” Who was I to be kicking my feet and blushing?
“Oh, joy! You know I’m terrible at keeping my mouth shut.” She grinned and patted his chest. “Oh! Before I forget, mine and your father’s thirtieth anniversary is coming up. We’re having an anniversary party next weekend!”
Laken assured her we’d be there, they said their goodbyes, he shut the door, and he stalked over toward me. From where I’d laid my head down, he bent over to kiss the back of my head. “Come on, we got goats to milk.”
Grunting, I mourned our little almost moment. Almost sweet.
I stood from my chair, the wooden feet scraping the floor. Shrinking into my skin at the sound, I peeked through one eye to catch his stare aimed at me. I hummed, “So how’s your ass?”
Laken peered at me over his shoulder and frowned as he thought. “As good as new.”
Rolling my eyes, I drew my hand back and gave his safe cheek a good slap—then hauled mine outside.
Spooked a bit from my hurried sprinting, the chickens bocked, their feathers jumping around.
My feet pounded as I ran, knowing he chased me.
Taking a right and darting for Finneas and Finnigan’s enclosure, my smile grew too wide, and, as expected—a firm arm wrapped around my waist.
“If we didn’t have goats to milk, McCarthen…” The trouble in his voice sent a chill down my spine. Too bad.
Sitting on a child-size wooden stool in front of Finnigan’s udders, it took effort from me not to scowl. Nonetheless, I grabbed the udder and began my milking duties. Not that it was weird; it was a texture thing, like squeezing a warm, limp, raw sausage filled with juices. Squeeze. Squeeze.
If we didn’t have dassin goat milk, we couldn’t make the healing cream.
And if we couldn’t make healing cream, we couldn’t make money at the market.
And if we didn’t make money at the market, we couldn’t pay our debts.
Then we’d be a sad, starving, and homeless little bunch. So I squeezed the limp sausage.
Laken sat next to me, milking Finneas. His hair dangled in front of his face, and it had to be the utmost inappropriate time to be staring at his forearms under his scrunched-up shirt, bunched around his elbows, but a girl can’t help it.
I did have the decency in me to look away—after he caught me.
Sensing his ego rising too high behind a cheeky grin, I rolled my eyes.
“Why are you so good at milking goats?” I said snidely, nodding to his hands working seamlessly.
Laken’s pants were rolled up around his ankles, and I noticed he hadn’t put shoes on, just socks. A man who walks outside in his socks might secretly be an axe murder. Don’t ask me to explain. “Because I’ve done it before?” He didn’t ask, but his arrogant tone did.
I frowned and drew my attention elsewhere—or I tried to, but I couldn’t distract myself enough. “Hey… have you done the market before? Like selling the cream, eggs, and stuff?”
Sky Hollow’s market occurred the first weekend of every month. People from all over came into town; it’d be a couple hours’ ride for us. Everything magical would be sold there. It was one of the biggest sale days for McCarthen’s, if not the biggest.
Laken hummed an mm-hmm. “I went with your father twice.”
Good to know. Because as usual, I hadn’t the slightest clue of how selling at the market worked. I didn’t know where to set up, who to talk to, how much to charge, or even how to get there. The last time I’d gone, I was around seven or eight with my mother, when it was a fun family event.
“You know, if I weren’t mistaken, I’d say you weren’t too fond of milking the goats,” he accused, and despite the fact that he was absolutely right, my jaw dropped. “You know I can do both of them; you don’t have to.”
“I can do this as well as you can, you know. You aren’t anything special around these parts.”
“Oh, really? Is that so?”
“That is so, yes.”
Laken laughed to himself, nodding. He really thought I couldn’t milk a goat, as if it were so hard. Finnigan moved and my hand shifted and, as if the stars said, “To hell with Reece McCarthen,” milk shot into my open, shit-talking mouth.
A warm cream filled my mouth, and my throat locked up as a rush of retching and yelps escaped in a slobbery mumble.
Jumping up, my stool shot back, frightening Finnigan enough for her to run in the opposite direction.
I didn’t care; not one thought crossed my mind other than to secure the bucket and throw up.
Laken wasn’t even there as far as I was concerned.
“You good over there?” he called, and I’d have liked to strangle him. His cheap laugh, the enjoyment in his tone.
Without turning, I said, “Go get Moon.” We needed Laken’s horse to get the milk to the shop. “I’ll be scrubbing my mouth with mint leaves.”
Metal rattled behind me as he presumably gathered the collected milk, followed by the sound of deepened chuckles. “Yes, milady. Be right back.”
Thank the Gods he listened because I might’ve actually tried to strangle him otherwise.
By the time Laken came back with Moon and secured the milk in the cart, my taste buds burned with the taste of mint leaves.
Our mint plant sat bare and leafless in the window.
The load wasn’t much, but carrying two buckets of milk wasn’t easy with the swooshing and sloshing.
The risk of spilling and the inevitable outcome of noodle arms didn’t seem worth the work.
Using Moon and the cart felt much easier and came with half the risks.
I didn’t know which was sourer—Finnigan’s tit milk or my attitude.
Riding in the front, sunlight slammed into my skin, and it should’ve made me feel better. It didn’t. Nor did the cool spring breeze, or the scent of wildflowers and honeysuckles in the air.
We dropped the milk off at Oron’s shop, our local lotion and soap maker. He used our milk and essential oils to make the healing cream, taking a percentage of his own, of course. Oron would have it done tomorrow, and Laken agreed to pick it up. They knew how this worked; it was routine for them.
I waited outside in the carriage, the taste of goat milk faint in my mouth. If I moved much, I might’ve thrown up. So I waited. And my mind unraveled.
My gut twisted like someone had wrapped rope around it and double knotted. One more load of lotion and we’d be ready for market, one of our last chances to make up our debts.
To tomorrow, I thought. To tomorrow.