I sighed, weary of fighting off Pete’s good vibes and his academy’s bad ones. While I began filling the bottles halfway up with hot water, he retrieved the scoop and finished filling the remaining bottles. Maybe if my life wasn’t quite so pathetic, he could actually like me for real? His acting was so good I actually believed that he really liked me. No warning bells. No queasy stomach. Just a bunch of strummin’ cherubs floatin’ around, stirring up feelings of—I banged a metal bucket down and started scooping grain. What’s he so dang cheerful about?
“Can you please stop all that dadgum whistlin’?”
He immediately stopped to peer at me, one eye half-closed. “Aren’t you supposed to whistle while you work?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.” I switched the faucet to cold and filled the bottles the rest of the way up, then grabbed the rubber nipples from the bucket they were soaking in and started snapping them on. I looked expectantly at the back door for my no-show brothers. This was a three-man job—feeding fourteen hungry calves at the same time.
“I’d better go see what’s takin’ them so long,” I said.
“You go on. I got this,” he assured me, then started whistling again. I whipped around to glare at him. “Sorry—I didn’t realize it bothered you so much.”
“I didn’t realize you whistled so much.”
He looked up from his work, beaming as brightly as the North Star on a lonely night. “I only whistle when I’m happy.”
Arg! I stomped back to the house to fetch my brothers and the truck keys. Gah! Why did he have to be so dadgum irresistible? It was like trying to refrain from reposing in a tropical oasis, after a long, scorching journey through The Sahara Desert—sure, you could decline the invitation to join, but why would you?
A few minutes later, found me backing the old work truck up to the shed. Those crates were pretty heavy, and I had to admit: it was nice to have Pete here to do the heavy lifting for us. (Not to mention how nice it was to see him do it.) I watched as his muscles flexed in his sleeveless shirt, noticing the way the fabric clung here and there along his torso during his movements. It literally made my mouth hang open a spell before I caught myself. He’d insisted on hoisting them up himself, along with the fifty-pound bag of feed and the three bales of hay, claiming this was all part of the “workout portion of the program.” I had to swallow another lump down and remind myself— it was all part of the act.
We jostled together over the tire tracks worn into the pasture, with the boys laughing like mad every time Pete pretended to pop up when we hit a pothole. “Whoa! Crazy driver at the wheel,” he shouted. “Look out!” Mikey was very nearly in hysterics. His infectious laugh even infected me, and I found myself laughing along with the antics.
We arrived at our destination—a large parcel of fenced-in pasture reserved for the calves. These particular ones were bought for a bargain at auction because they were so sick and weak, they were half expected to die. I’d spent all summer long nursing them back to health and was proud as a mother hen of my herd. They all came trotting over like over-grown, hooved puppies, frolicking and kicking up dust, each one butting the other to try to get ahead.
“Hey, babies!” I cooed, getting out to greet them through the barbed-wire fence.
Their dry sandpaper tongues began licking my hands, arms, shirt. I bent over to rub them down while Pete went to retrieve the crates with the boys nipping closely at his heels. On the way back, he paused by the front fender, holding on to the crate handles and just staring at me. I felt silly and self-conscious in my worn jeans, in the middle of a huddle of overgrown babies, licking at me all over. Must’ve been quite a culture shock for Pete because he was still staring.
“Need a hand?” I called out.
“Nope. Just taking a moment to enjoy the scenery.”
I felt myself flush and turned to fight off a particularly effusive lick from a spotted calf, pushing him back a little before rubbing at his pink muzzle. “They like the attention,” I explained.
“Lucky calves,” he said, ambling forward with the first crate of bottles.
I shook my head, fighting a secret smile. “Set it right here.” I indicated a worn spot near the fence. “We have to feed them all at the same time or else they try to trample one another.”
“How do you manage that?” he wondered as we walked back together to grab another crate. Each crate held six bottles, so he took the full one, which left me the one holding two.
“I’ll show you.” I smiled.
By the time we returned with the bottles, the jostling and butting were no longer fun and games. The calves were all business now, automatically lining up across the fence line impatient for their dinner. I grabbed two bottles, turned to my two regular helpers. “Okay boys, let’s show‘m how it’s done,” I said before shoving each bottle into a make-shift slot in the fence that Andrew and I had engineered for precisely this purpose.
“Clever. I didn’t even notice that,” Pete said.
“Thanks.” I smiled proudly. “It’s somethin’ Drew and I came up with this summer . . . with Mikey’s help, of course,” I added quickly.
“Simple and creative,” Pete approved. He grabbed two more bottles and followed suit. Soon we had fourteen hungry calves greedily sucking down milk. Pete grinned over at me feeding a black and white Holstein I’d named Buttercup by hand. “You’ll spoil him.”
I laughed out loud, patting Buttercup’s head as she nudged for more. “Shows how much you know, city boy—Buttercup’s a girl.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “I guess I am looking at the wrong end. In my defense, from this end, she looks like a he.”
Stuffing the bottle between my knees, I covered her ears. “Don’t listen to him Buttercup!” I scolded Pete: “You’ll give her a complex.”
He gave a throaty chuckle, but his eyes turned serious. “I gotta say Kate . . . you’re quite the little mama.”
“Um . . . thanks.” Unable to withstand his constant scrutiny, I decided now was a good time to check their water supply, so I hopped over the fence. A string of calves trotted after me. Pete followed, agilely climbing over to join me like he crossed barbed-wire fences every day. A few of the calves eyed him suspiciously before finally deciding he was okay to also nudge and rub up against. I sighed . . . lucky calves.
“Hey!” He yelped a laugh. “Can you call off your brood? I think I’m being attacked.”
My brothers chorus laughed before climbing the fence and jumping off like mini superheroes to the rescue. Pretty soon all three boys had different calves chasing after them. Everyone was laughing and having a really good time—myself included. This is dangerous. Very dangerous.
“Hey, Kate . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Why are these calves not with their mothers in the pasture?” Pete asked, patting a particularly sweet-natured black Angus.
“Because most of them never even got a chance to meet their mother when they were born before they were snatched away.” Disgust huskied my voice.
“Why not?”
“Because these calves were born on veal farms, and, well . . . you don’t want me to go into it. Suffice it to say, they started off life with a pretty raw deal.”