Fallon, Nevada
June 1916
If she didn’t take a break soon, she was sure her fingers would snap clean off.
Ella Daniels sighed. Despite the fact that it was a warm summer’s day, she was cold to the bone. Butter was a tricky medium. Not only did she have to work in the icehouse so the sculpture would hold its form, she had to continually dip her hands in ice water to keep her body heat from melting her creation. Her hands had had all the abuse they could take for at least a few hours.
She covered the half-formed cow with a wooden box and placed a slab of ice on top of that, just to be safe. As soon as she left the icehouse and shut the door behind her, she began to peel off layers: woolen scarf, long coat, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt that had once been her father’s. She hung each piece on hooks so they’d be easily retrieved later, after the feeling came back into her hands.
If only she worked in a normal medium like clay or marble, she could spend hours sculpting. Not only that, but her creations would last more than the length of a state fair. Still, there was plenty to do. The sculpture she’d just left was a small-scale version of the nearly life-size one she’d be making in a few months. She still needed to make some sketches, decide on the final design, and build the frame to support several hundred pounds of butter. Rubbing her hands together to warm them, she set off for the barn. Time to visit her favorite model.
Geraldine let out a low, soulful moo as soon as Ella entered the barn. The Jersey cow put her pretty head over the half door of her stall and looked at Ella with expressive, doe-like eyes.
“Hello, my pretty girl.” Ella pulled a stub of carrot from her skirt pocket and held it out on a flat palm. The cow slurped it up, her velvety muzzle skimming Ella’s skin.
Unlike the other cows at the Daniels Dairy Farm, Geraldine was a pet. Ella had raised her from a calf, bottle-feeding her after she was rejected by her mother. That had been five years ago, about the time Ella decided to try butter sculpting as a way to grab public interest in the dairy. Naturally, Geraldine had been her first model. Over the years, Ella’s sculptures became a record of Geraldine’s life, getting bigger and more impressive.
“What shall we do this year?” Ella leaned against the door and stroked the cow’s neck. “A garland of flowers around your neck? A sassy hat?”
“Why stop there? How about an evening gown?”
Even before Ella turned at the sound of the deep voice, she knew who was walking toward her. Maxwell Sinclair was just as handsome as the last time she saw him, over a year ago.
“Hello, Max. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Visiting the family.”
“I see.” Ella crossed her arms. “And what brings you to our lowly little farm? Have you finally decided it’s time to leave the fake butter business?”
Max chuckled. “It’s not fake butter; it’s margarine. A completely different and far superior product.”
“You make it in a factory, not a farm.” Ella wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It can’t possibly be better than butter.”
“Ah, yes. Making something from milk drawn from a cow in a barn full of heaven knows what kind of contamination is bound to be much healthier.”
Ella bristled at Max’s sarcasm. How dare he malign the dairy? He’d worked there himself until he left a year ago. He’d started when he was just sixteen, and over the next ten years he’d cleaned the barn, tended to the cows, maintained the milking machine, and done just about everything a dairyman could do. He’d become her father’s most trusted employee. Not only that, but he’d become part of the family. The betrayal of his decision to join the Joy Margarine Company had cut deep.
“Why are you here?” Ella asked, her voice flat.
Max frowned. “I wish we could put the past aside and move forward. Are you going to stay mad at me forever?”
Yes, I am, because I loved you with my whole heart and you broke it the day you left.
But Ella would never say that to him. Instead, she just repeated herself. “Why are you here?”
“I see how it is.” Max puffed out an exasperated breath. “I came because I wanted to talk to your father. We didn’t part on the best of terms, so I was hoping to mend fences.”
Of course. She hadn’t for a moment thought he might have come to see her. Still, the confirmation of that fact left her feeling hollow.
“Dad’s in the milking barn. You’re free to talk to him. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of all the contamination in there.”
His eyes narrowed, and he looked like he was about to toss out a snappy comeback. Instead, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and nodded.
“Thank you. Take care of yourself, Ella.” He walked away but threw one more comment back over his shoulder. “See you around.”
That had been a spectacular failure.
Max left the small barn and stalked toward the bigger one, shoulders hunched and hands still in his pockets. What had possessed him to look for Ella? He should have known she still had a chip on her shoulder. Why couldn’t she understand that he left the dairy for something better, but he didn’t leave her? He’d hoped that time would have softened her, dulled the sharpness of his departure. Obviously that wasn’t the case. Hopefully, Walter Daniels would be more sensible than his daughter.
Upon reaching the milking barn, he took one more deep breath of semifresh air. Then he opened the door. Just as he remembered, the smell of cow hit him in the face like a warm, moist wall. That was one of the many reasons he preferred margarine. No cows were involved.
As dairies went, the Daniels Dairy was one of the best. Walter made sure the place was clean, the equipment well maintained, and the cows taken care of. At the moment, about a dozen cows were lined up in a row, their halters attached by rope to a feeding trough in front of them. They happily munched and swished their tails while being milked. Four men were doing the milking, so the other eight cows waited their turns.
The clank of an empty milk pail hitting the ground got Max’s attention. Walter Daniels was walking toward him, looking serious.
“Well now, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Max Sinclair stopped by for a visit. But that can’t be, since Max works for the enemy now and knows better than to darken my door.”
Obviously Walter’s sensibilities were aligned with his daughter’s.
“Come now, Walter.” Max grinned and used his best let-bygones-be-bygones voice. “It’s been over a year. You can’t still be upset.”
“Can’t I?” He quietly gazed at Max, as if taking inventory. “You broke her heart, you know.”
He looked Walter straight in the eye. “I know. But it was never my intention. I’ll always regret hurting her. And you.”
It was unusually quiet in the barn. The only sounds were the cows chewing and the occasional clink of a harness when one shook its head. Even the ping, ping, ping of milk shooting into the tin pails had ceased as the men stopped to watch the exchange.
Walter looked in their direction and swatted his hand through the air. “Get on with you, then. Nothing going on over here that’s any of your concern.”
That was all it took for the milking to resume.
Walter turned back to Max and sighed. “My father used to say life is too short to hold grudges, and I suppose he was right.” He held his hand out.
With a solemn nod, Max took his hand and shook it. “Thank you.”
“Just don’t make me regret it.”
“Of course.” Max smiled and looked around the barn. “The place looks as good as ever. How many head do you have now?”
“About fifty Jerseys.” He pointed in the direction of the men on their stools. “I’ve got four hands that do nothing but milk.”
Max knew that. Each cow was milked twice a day, and each man was probably responsible for about a dozen cows. Walter most likely took up the slack. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ella pitched in, too, when she wasn’t sculpting.
“Quite a few dairies are using the new milking machines,” Max said. “Have you considered switching over?”
Walter pulled a face. “Not a chance. I don’t trust those things. Hard to keep all the tubes clean, so it’s easier to contaminate the milk. Besides, they’re not good for the cows. Nope, we get a cleaner, healthier product doing it the right way.”
Max held back a laugh. To Walter, there was his way, and there was the wrong way. Anything new and innovative couldn’t be trusted. He’d undoubtedly fought pasteurization tooth and nail.
They spent awhile talking about the business, the milk yield, how much butter was produced. Talk of butter naturally brought the conversation back around to Ella.
“I assume she’ll be going to the state fair this year,” Max said in a way he hoped sounded casual.
“Oh yes, she’s coming with me. And Geraldine, of course.” Walter chuckled. “You know, people who go every year have watched that cow grow up, in real life and in butter.”
Max nodded. “People do love the butter sculptures. That really was a stroke of genius, using them to advertise the dairy.”
The pride was so apparent in Walter, his chest seemed to puff up on the spot. “Wish I could take the credit, but it was all Ella’s idea. That girl is something else.”
“Yes, she is.”
And she should be something else. She shouldn’t be tied to a dairy farm with her hands in a greasy, smelly cow byproduct. She should be someplace where she could use her creativity in something permanent and beautiful. But that would never happen as long as she felt responsible for the dairy’s success.
Max steeled himself. The real reason he’d come to see Walter could very well get him unceremoniously booted out of the barn. But it could also pave the way for something better for everyone concerned, especially Ella. There was no turning back now.
“Walter, there was something I wanted to talk to you about….”