Bessie Holstein's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Bessie Holstein wanted the blue ribbon, and she had lost it to a stranger. The county fair judges hung it around another girl's neck that afternoon. Bessie stood at the back of the crowd, her cow horns catching the light, her cow-pattern top straining as she folded her arms. She had trained all year to be the top milk producer. Now a line of buyers snaked past her, waiting to sample someone else. The winner had curves that made men forget their own names. She out-produced every girl at the fair. Bessie watched the pails fill under her, one after another, and felt her stomach turn. Her own ribbon, third place, sat crumpled in her pocket. "You're the Holstein girl," a buyer said. He wiped his mouth and looked her over. "You've got the body for it. But numbers win ribbons, not looks." Bessie set her jaw. "Then I'll get the numbers." She drove home to Barnview House with the sun sinking behind it. The rustic wood glowed, the broad porch empty, the wide windows dark. She had inherited the place and the herd. She had also inherited a promise to herself: to be the best producer in Oleander. Third place was not best. Inside the barn she stopped at the milking stocks. The wooden frame stood ready, holes for her head and wrists, the machine bolted to the side. She had built it for control, for measuring every drop. Tonight she looked at it with new eyes. She knew why the winner beat her. The girl milked longer. She pushed past comfort. Bessie always quit when the ache set in. That soft habit had cost her the ribbon. Bessie stepped into the stocks. She lowered her head through the top hole and slid her wrists into the lower two. The wood pressed cool against her throat. She reached the release, then stopped her hand short of it. She flipped the machine on. The cups sealed over her and pulled. The rough steel hummed and dragged. Her breath caught. The gauge on the box climbed. She had never let it run this long before. The ache came, sharp and early. Her old self would have quit. Instead she stared at the gauge and held. One minute. Two. The pails below her filled faster than they ever had at the fair. She counted them without moving her head. When the machine finally slowed, she had beaten her own record by half again. Sweat ran down her face. Her wrists were red where the wood held them. She smiled through the pain. But the stocks would not release. She pulled her wrists and they held fast. The wood had swollen tight around them from the strain and the heat. The machine kept its steady pull against her, and no one else lived at Barnview House to hear her call. Bessie had found the way to win. Now she could not get free.