Up North of The County Line by B. P. Herrington

She sensed an approaching presence, and immediately understood what was happening. In a voice tailored for Millie’s benefit, Cate said, “Please, don’t come any closer,” and resumed mooing along with Millie. “Officer?” The voice didn’t sound so harsh. Perhaps it hadn’t been at all. Perhaps, Cate decided, she was prejudiced against voices outside of she and Millie’s precious bubble. Cate sensed the intruder take another step forward. “I said don’t,” Cate said in her rosiest voice. “Officer, I need to examine the little girl,” the soft voice said. The well-meaning plea incensed Cate. She’s fine. I checked her when I pulled her out of the car. Some scratches, a few bruises, but she’s fine. I checked her. And I named her. She knew someone close to Millie must have known her real name, but for tonight, in her arms, the little girl would take the name of the first girl Cate had lost on the job. Footsteps crunched behind them. “Don’t,” Cate emphasized, momentarily breaking her character of utter serenity. Before the intruder could interject, she added: “I... just give us a few minutes, okay?” And then what? she thought. Once again, she caught Millie’s silhouette in the cow’s eye. Do you have a father? Grandmother? Grandfather? Uncles? Aunts? Anybody? Do you know your name? What would become of Millie when Cate decided enough “few minutes” had elapsed? What would become of the little girl when the cow was gone? The intruder’s footsteps—a paramedic just trying to do her job—retreated, but Cate sensed she hadn’t gone far; Millie did need to be examined.

She realized the screaming had died. It made sense to her, not because the outcome was inevitable, but because the paramedic now had time to check on the only survivor. But they still had a few minutes. And so Millie mooed. Cate mooed with her. The cow stared at them.

B. P. Herrington

Up North of the County Line

I. That Blood’s Too Red

A faint ache like a half-remembered tune calls her out to the porch. She staves off the sun with a raised hand and sees at the faraway fence line one son, the eldest, coming in from the fields. His brother is not at his side. Her gaze hooks his eyes. The son stops in the waist-high patch of bluestem, a hoe slung over his gaunt shoulders. Along his lifted arm, the sleeve of his white shirt clings red. The mother sets a hand high on her hip and hollers out, “How come that blood?” He glances away tight-mouthed. “I say, how come—” “Blood of the gray mare,” he curtly yells. “One that pulled the plow for me.” “That blood’s too red for that.” She leans on a weathered wooden pillar in the burdensome heat. No, no. Where is my youngest? The son stammers, “Blood of the hound that chased the hare.” Her knees give. She discerns and she will not give answer to a liar. That blood’s too red. Oh, my youngest. The son strikes the earth with the hoe blade and sobs. The tired woman holds fast to the pillar. It bears her faltering down to the splintered porch planks. Oh, my son. Grasshoppers rasp in sere weeds.

II. Baby Galvez

When her mean cuss of a husband hightailed off to a rowdy life of bear hunting and hard drinking, he left his wife with grief in her heart and a secret in her womb. Through the autumn, her store of kindling and firewood dwindled, and her belly tightened. With no kinswomen to comfort her or lay a cold rag on her brow, she took to her bed, wailing and panting curses.

The child came at last and she set him on her breast, never muttering so much as a gentle word, only wincing as he suckled. When the last embers winked in the stove, the creek whispered to her. She set her feet down on the cold pine floor and rose with the babe in her arms. She went out from the cabin and drifted through pines to the dimpling waters. The cold muddy bank held her pearly feet fast. She closed her eyes to the moonlight, raised her arms and tossed the boy. The creek gulped and received him and whispered again.

III. Loving Henry

The silver shears glint in hearth light. She slices the last length of fabric and, turning down the fold, she whipstitches the felled hem. The needle pierces the coarse fabric at her fingertip just shy of pricking. The dress’s calico print, a field of tiny bluets, is vivid nearest the flame, trailing off to dim stars out of firelight. Far off where her ears are tuned, hoofbeats pulse through the high forest slope, coming down through the throng of hollies, onto the wide, even field. She springs up in her chemise and pantalets, bundles the corset tight and fastens the busk. The hooves drub closer. She slips the newly made dress over her head and laces the high-top kidskin shoes. The horse neighs in its halting. She pulls the latch and opens the door to a wide harvest moon. Her beau stands waiting, his hair slick to the skull, his black frock coat draping his frame. Cold wind hisses in the dropseed grass. “Been three lonesome months,” she whispers, slipping through the gate. He snatches her and she fights his arms. “You staying the night with me?”

He loosens his hold and looks off at the moon. She paws his chest and laughs, “What is it now?” Even his black eyes drain. “I cannot.” “And why is that?” Her laughter withers. He braces on the split-rail fence, wagging his head. “I got a girl”— her silence pains him—“back on the Arkansas line.”

She slings her arms over his shoulders and wets his face with kisses. He cannot unhitch her grasp. He speaks and she fills his mouth with her tongue, as hard and tart as dewberries. The old desire pangs him. But a passion keener than lust stings him right through—it is a ripping, then a fire. It drowns him. The wind dwindles. There is only her quiet breath and his rasping. She tugs the silver shears out of his ribs, her chilly hands warming. He wonders at her wide eyes, each iris crowned by a reflected moon.