OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Chapter 31: My Symbolic Cow (Lillabit)

A cow.

I was so not expecting that. Nope, I was busy flip-flopping between being madly in love and, well, resenting how separate from the real work of the cattle drive I remained.

Oh, I kept myself busy. Amos swore that my willow-bark tea, brewed to Dr. Maddie's recipe, helped with his body aches. I was now mending a lot of clothes. I'd written letters home for two more of the boys, and I still worked on my full report (read: memoir) of what had happened to me, to eventually send forward to the 21st century.

I visited with Valley Boy and Billie Holiday daily, to groom them or give them a treat, but I didn't usually ride. Whichever horse I rode--Lady Billie or, later in the week, a fully recovered Boy--wanted to go faster and farther than the wife cart, and I got tired of holding them back.

Especially since I wanted to go faster and farther too.

Seriously! It's wonderful to be in love, to have your heartbeat race whenever you spot your husband in the distance, commanding man and beast. I loved discovering what passion means every night, and sleeping cuddled in his arms to a lullaby of coyotes, cattle, night birds, crickets, and the singing night guard. No complaints there! And yet, when all your colleagues are working from before the time you wake up until after the time you go to bed? When they exhaust at least three horses a day, per man, in their efforts? When they eat and breathe dust for hours on end with no shelter, sweating through their shirts or even their hats?

Somehow "I wrote, I sewed, I petted my horses and I brewed some tea" doesn't feel like much of a contribution.

I owed it to my unborn baby not to overdo things. But surely doing things, without overdoing them, should be okay!

No, Jacob kept saying, increasingly recalcitrant and bossy. No. No. No.

There had to be a better compromise.

And then my husband rode into camp--stopping a respectful distance from the chuck wagon--with said compromise following him on a leash like a very large dog.

Before dismounting, he pointed at me and beckoned with two gloved fingers.

Me? I almost pointed at myself, almost looked over my shoulder to see who he might really be beckoning to, but he wouldn't have noticed; he was busy unsaddling his fourth mount of the day. So I took the chance, got up from where I'd been surreptitiously trying to learn how to cook dinner by watching Schmidty, and answered Mr. Garrison's summons.

By the time I actually reached him, he'd slapped his horse off in the direction of the remuda and was reeling in the cow, coiling his rope as he did. In reluctant steps the animal came, nose first, a little closer. It was a fairly skinny cow, with sharp hips, and it--her--fat udder put me in mind of a child with a loose diaper.

Occasionally she bugled at us.

I eyed her suspiciously, wondering if this was supposed to be a lesson of some sort for me, a warning of why I was not allowed to work with the cattle. This cow seemed an odd choice for that, though. Her horns were surprisingly wee, little six-inch crescents on either side of her head.

Also, the fact that she walked on a leash and wore a rope halter didn't exactly scream Danger! Danger!

Jacob kept on reeling her in, making an encouraging, clucking sound at her, until the cow stood right beside us. Then, finally, my husband glanced at me, satisfied.

No, not just satisfied, proud. Expectant, even. But of what? Was I supposed to leap back and say, No Sir, I'm not supposed to get this close to cattle! What?