7. Angle of Attack
SEVEN
ANGLE OF ATTACK
Jules
Holt’s hiding from me.
It may be because he feels like a jerk for what he said earlier, or it may be that he sincerely just doesn’t like me.
But I’m betting the former.
“Yo.”
Three ranch hands turn in my direction. They range in age from twenties to forties by the looks of it and are taking turns hefting ginormous bags of something or other into the back of a pickup truck.
I stop well out of their way. “Have you guys seen Holt around?”
“Boss?” The older one says, without an ounce of irritation over calling a younger man by that title. “I think he’s checking in at the calving barn.”
The younger one nods after tossing another bag in the truck bed.
I look back to the barn by the main house I passed on my way over to them. “Calving barn?”
With a final grunt, the third guy loads the last bag.
“Yeah, we had to move one of the pregnant cows in there early this morning.” He pushes his work glove up and glances at his watch.
“Might’ve already given birth by now.” He gestures to the four-wheeler next to the truck. “Want me to give you a lift?”
I’m not much for babies and cutesy stuff, but the prospect of seeing a baby cow is kind of appealing. “Lead the way.”
Baby cows are not appealing.
They are gross. And wet with stuff that is not water.
Turns out the cow hadn’t finished giving birth before we got there. By the time Bill, the ranch hand who’d given me a lift, and I arrived, we walked into some very alien looking shit.
Seriously, I’m not even sure Sigourney Weaver could’ve handled what I saw.
“Mother did great.” Holt rubs the mother cow between her large brown eyes, eyes that look way too calm for what she just did.
Bill leans over the railing of the stall, looking down into the freshly spread straw.
“Calf’s strong too.” The youngster in question bows low and rubs its head over the straw like a dog scratching itself.
But instead of getting clean of alien goo, the straw sticks all over the calf’s head, making it look like an amniotic porcupine.
Both Holt and Ray are smiling.
Cowboys are so weird.
“Uh, so, it’s past oh-eight-hundred.”
Both men look up at me tapping my smart watch, startled out of their little happy bubble they had going over a cow birth.
Bill looks at his own watch again. “Yep. Eight forty-five to be exact, ma’am.”
Rose says I shouldn’t purse my lips as it causes premature wrinkles. I try and remember that now. “Don’t call me ma’am, Bill. Jules. I’m Jules.”
Bill blinks. “Yes ma’a—I mean Jules.”
I nod and turn back to Holt. “You’re late for our wedding talk.”
Bill chokes on air.
After a minute of me pounding his back, Bill waves me away. “Sorry, sorry. I’m good now.” He glances between Holt and me. “But I think maybe I should get going.” He lifts a radio from his back pocket and jiggles it. “Radio me if you need a lift back.”
Still wheezing a bit, Bill high-tails it out of the barn.
Holt’s frowning at me. So… the usual.
I frown back. “Wedding.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What do you know?” I can feel the wrinkles forming.
“That we need to plan a wedding.”
There go my flaring nostrils. “Yeah, cowboy. In, like, two months.”
Silence.
“Well? What are your plans?”
More silence. At least this time he has the decency to look unsure.
Unable to stop, I huff out a deep breath and cross my arms. It’s either that or enter the contaminated cow stall and slap him upside the head. “This isn’t string theory, cowboy. We can’t just talk about what might be or what should be, we have to actually get a move on the doing .”
The lines around his mouth get deeper. “Do you actually know what string theory is?”
Fucker.
I know that Jackie knows about string theory, because she lectured me for forty-two minutes on it last week. Seriously, I counted. And I know string theory stuff from one of my favorite shows, Big Bang. But Holt doesn’t know what I know or don’t know.
My eyes narrow on the man cuddling a cow. I swear the two of us are going to prematurely age the more time we spend together. “Do you know what string theory is?”
“Nope.”
“Well, there you go.” My motorcycle boots kick at the straw on the ground. I’m standing in front of the gate to the stall. It’s just a few widely spaced, horizontal bars, so I can see through to the baby cow now being licked clean by its mom.
I nearly vomit. But I woman-up and take a deep breath through my nose.
“Back to the wedding.” I catch an amused grin from Holt, and I’m pretty sure he saw me fight my gag reflex. “Your brother. My best friend. Two months. Barn ceremony.”
His hands pause mid-pet of the cow’s flank. “Barn ceremony?”
“Didn’t you look at the freaking thumb drive I gave you yesterday?”
He has the good grace to look chagrined. “Uh, no. Sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Yes, with your own personal animal planet.”
“Yes.” Holt’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare and I’m inordinately pleased that I’m getting to him. Then he goes and takes a deep breath, his facial features relaxing, calming himself down. “It’s no excuse though. I should’ve looked it over.”
Huh. Now I feel kind of shitty for digging at him. I shrug. “It’s like you said, you were busy.”
Something wet touches my hand and I jump back. “What the fuck?”
A rich, rumbling sound comes from Holt. Wow. He has a great laugh. It’s also enough to distract me from baby cows gone wild.
Almost.
Holt maneuvers around the edge of the stall, bending down to pat the calf. “She’s just trying to say hello.”
Ignoring how handsome Holt is when he’s smiling, I focus on the baby cow, who is apparently female, poking her shiny head through the bars in the gate.
“Girl, you still have vagina snot on you.”
Gagging, Holt straightens. “That’s disgusting.”
“ That’s disgusting? Of all the things you have seen in the last twenty minutes, you think the metaphorical phrase ‘vagina snot’ is gross?”
“Yes.” I’d describe his facial expression as mutinous.
I snort, his prudish qualities making me grin. “Whatever, cowboy.”
The baby makes a weird bleating sound and pushes its nose toward me more.
The damn thing is kind of cute. She chuffs again and I tentatively reach out my hand.
Wet, yes. But also soft. Huh.
She rubs her face on my hand, breathing puffs of air out of her large nostrils.
“Great,” I mumble. “Now I have snot on me on top of all the other stuff.”
“What was that?” Holt’s grin is back.
“Nothing.” I raise my other hand and scratch the side of her neck, though I make a note to buy a nail brush ASAP.
The three of us spend a few minutes in silence while I pet the cow and Holt watches. Probably doesn’t trust me with her.
“I’ll, uh, look over it at lunch time.”
I pull my gaze away from my new best friend to Holt. Who is looking oddly intent. “Look over what?”
“The thumb drive.” At my blank look, he raises an eyebrow. “For the wedding?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
Cookie nudges my chest.
Yes. I named the cow Cookie. Because she needs a name.
And even with all the vagina snot she’s covered in, I can’t bring myself to call her Vag. And once upon a time I heard the Southern lady Trish call her nether regions ‘cookie.’
Euphemisms, people. Euphemisms.
Holt
I still need to apologize.
My boot heels kick up the dirt as I walk down the main drive. I took the long walk back to the house to think things over. The ranch. The wedding. Jules.
I hadn’t been expecting Jules to show up at the birthing barn.
At first I’d been annoyed at how grossed out Jules was ’bout the whole thing.
My feelings didn’t improve when she reprimanded me about the wedding, bringing up string theory like her knowledge on such subjects made her superior or something.
But then she petted the calf. She named the calf, for God’s sake. Who names a calf? Cookie, no less.
I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the chip I’m now well aware is perched there.
It’s not like me to be so judgmental. I’m not sure what it is exactly about Jules that riles me up, but my grandparents would be ashamed.
Because Jules is right—I should’ve looked over the wedding stuff. Especially as I couldn’t sleep last night anyway.
Plus, if I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure I did throw up the first time I saw a cow give birth. Although to be fair, I was eight years old at the time.
A few of my men wave as I come up on the family barn. We have a few around the property, some for storage, some for calving and the like. The family barn is the one that shelters our horses. The barn my little brother wants to get married in.
That’ll take a lot of work. A lot of relocating. But if Jules can take time off from her high-powered job and cuddle with a just-born baby cow, I can get my behind in gear and clear a barn.
First things first—apologize.
Determined to do just that, I sweep my boots through the boot brush by the front door and step inside the house.
During the week, I’m used to a stillness in the house. A lonely quiet I tell myself is relaxing. Today that quiet is gone.
“Miss Starr, if you wouldn’t mind, we have some questions.”
“Shoot.”
Great. She’s doing an interview.
Toeing off my boots and leaving them on the mat by the door, I turn the corner into the family room. With Jules being so tall, the back end of upper cabinets hanging between the family room and kitchen island cuts off most of my view, but I can see a red shirt tucked into khaki pants.
It reminds me of the first time I saw Jules, floating on television, being filmed while on the International Space Station. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her wear such preppy clothes.
A different voice cuts through, and I wonder if she has some sort of conference call on speaker. “Miss Starr, did you face any challenges on becoming an astronaut as a woman?”
“Oh yeah.”
Quietly, not wanting to interrupt, but equally curious as to what sort of press conference this is, I step lightly on my socked feet.