Inn the Spirit of Legends

“I’m still not touching that cow.”

His tone brooked no argument. “Yes. You are.”

It was difficult to maintain eye contact with the man. “I guess you use that steely-eyed glare on the jury, swaying them to do your bidding.” Her tone was accusing. “But it won’t work with me,” she claimed.

Eyes locked on hers, hands clasped around her wrists, he stepped backwards, pulling her with him. Before she knew it, she bent down in tandem with him, and he pressed her fingers around two dangling appendages. They were smooth and swollen, like the fingers of a water-filled glove. The strength of both their hands—his fingers pressing into hers, forcing her to make a grip—massaged the plump vessels. Walker jerked her hands downward, then up again. Soon, he had a rhythm going. One hand went up, the other down. And finally, the reward came. The ping of milk, hitting the empty bottom of the pail.

Hannah forgot to be angry. She forgot that she was doing this under duress. That she said she would never milk a cow. In the excitement of the moment, she forgot to sulk.

“I’m doing it!” she cried, her face alight with accomplishment. She turned to make certain Walker witnessed her victory, and found his face disturbingly close. Her hands faltered.

“Don’t stop now,” he urged, his smile wide. “We’re just getting started.”

“But…”

“Stay with me, Hannah. Right hand, tug. Left hand, tug. Right hand, tug. That’s it, tug. You got it, tug.”