Bessie Holstein's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Word of Bessie's record spread fast through Oleander. By morning, it curdled into gossip. The girl who beat her for the blue ribbon told anyone who would listen that the numbers were fake. No one milked that much in one night, she said. Not without lying. Bessie heard it at the feed store, at the trough, from a neighbor over the fence. Her record meant nothing if people thought she cheated. Bessie found Nyx lounging in the barn, tail flicking, licking cream from one finger. "They're calling me a liar," Bessie said. "That ribbon girl. She says I faked the count." Nyx grinned, slow and pleased. "So show them the truth." "How?" Bessie paced. "They won't take my word." "Then don't give them words." Nyx slid off the hay bale. She nodded at the wooden stocks against the wall. "Do it again. In front of them. Let them watch the pails fill." Bessie's stomach dropped. Doing it alone had nearly trapped her for good. But a public run meant witnesses. Numbers no one could deny. She sent word out. Come to Barnview House. Watch and count. By afternoon a small crowd gathered by the barn, the ribbon girl at the front, arms crossed, smirking. Bessie changed into her red bikini. She stepped into the stocks and bent her head through the top hole. "Nyx holds the release," she told the crowd. "Anyone can check the machine after." Nyx locked the wrist rings snug. She leaned close to Bessie's ear. "Beg me sweet if it hurts," she whispered, then hit the switch. The machine hummed to life. The steel cups pulled. Bessie gritted her teeth and held still. The crowd went quiet. Minutes passed. The pails below began to fill, one after another. The gauge on the box climbed higher and higher. The ribbon girl stepped forward and peered at the pails. Her smirk faded. "That's real milk," someone murmured. Heads nodded. The count climbed past the fair number, then past Bessie's own record. Nyx watched Bessie's face tighten. "Say it," she said softly. Bessie's pride cracked. "Please," she breathed. "Now." Nyx pressed the red button. The machine died. She poured water on the swollen wood and worked Bessie's wrists free. Bessie stood and lifted a full pail high. "Count them yourselves," she said. The crowd crowded in. They counted. The number held. It was true, and now they had all seen it. The ribbon girl's face went red. She spun and pushed through the crowd without a word. Bessie's record stood, proven. But a woman in a fine coat lingered by the fence, watching the pails, then Bessie, with sharp eyes. She stepped forward and offered her hand. "I judge the Oleander dairy prize," she said. "I want to see you compete for it. Officially. Under my rules." Bessie shook the hand. She had beaten the doubt. Now the real contest had found her.