Lost that last trace of puppy fat, she thought. Major improvement in the ass. Too bad he still uses it to think with.
He'd never been plump-more sort of beefy-jock-muscular; now he'd lost the last softness around the edges, gotten ripped and taut.
And his face has firmed up. But he's still a jerk and a teenager. I don't suppose Luanne could do better, considering the meager supply of unattached young guys we've got. But much as I like her, getting enthusiastic about him shows a serious lapse in her taste.
Eric wiped a forearm across his face, where a thin fuzz of yellow beard caught the dust and sweat. He had his old malicious teasing grin on, and hooted back: "Well, then, I suppose you're lowering your IQ weekly with those weights, hey, sis?"
Signe stuck out her tongue, then turned her back, ignoring his horselaugh.
Luanne brought in a cow she'd roped, with its calf bawling along behind. She snubbed off the lariat to a wagon, dismounted, got a bucket of hot water and soap, scrubbed the usual places and began to milk the animal into a galvanized pail. Astrid's Biltis jumped down from some soft spot now liberally dusted with cat hair; probably a basket full of clean laundry, since the animal had a tropism for freshly washed clothing and shed like a bandit whenever the weather got warm.
Which is a lot easier to resent now that the only way to get clothes clean is to beat them on rocks and scrub 'em by hand.
The cat sauntered over to Luanne and began cadging a drink of milk with a weave-around-the-ankles begging routine; she got the first few squirts right into her face, since you weren't supposed to drink that yourself, and then the streams went hissing into the bucket. The cow flicked its tail and did, copiously, what cows and horses were wont to do whenever and wherever they felt like it.
Signe had never minded helping muck out the stables at Larsdalen or the ranch, but.:. I'm getting used to living in a barnyard. Jesus!
Luanne also fended off the calf with a boot now and then, when its indignation at seeing breakfast disappearing overcame its good sense. The cow gave a plaintive moo as Luanne swore and leaned a shoulder into it to get the udder back above the pail, giving it a resounding slap on the rump when it balked.
"Madam, you permit yourself strange liberties!" Signe called, grinning.
"You're channeling cows, now?" Luanne replied.
"Beats milking them," Signe said frankly. Although milking is good for your hand grip too. Which I now know by experience.
The cow shifted and rolled its eyes, obviously weirded out by the whole process, despite several days' practice; at least this one didn't kick… much. So far their cattle were all range beef stock, Herefords and Angus, not dairy types bred for gentleness. Even when they'd become accustomed to milking and didn't need to be secured fore and aft, they didn't like it at all. The amount of work that went into getting a pint of milk out of them was daunting, but nobody they'd met had been willing to part with milch animals.
Yet. It was certainly right up there on the wish list Angelica kept, along with the barrel churn that Ken kept promising to finish.
It had been sort of cool learning how to milk a cow, with Luanne and Angelica teaching her-they were both fun to be around, and Signe had always been good with animals. Doing the milking every second day wasn't much fun at all; it made your hands cramp, not to mention getting your foot stepped on or a well-beshatted tail switched into your face.
Signe put the weights down, waved to Luanne and then went into a set of stretching exercises, head to knee, splits, touching hands diagonally behind your shoulder blades. Both Mike and Pamela insisted on that before you did any serious practice. The two of them had a lot in common, starting with a steady methodical attention to details that left her alternately enraged and awestruck.
She finished the stretches and took her practice sword down from the rack along one side of the wagon, checked that there was no rust on the blade-Mike and Pamela insisted, even with the blunt and nearly pointless blades used for drill-and began a series of cuts, right- and left-handed, to loosen her hands and forearms.
"Good," Pamela said, tossing her a pair of leather bracers. "You're starting to dominate the weapon. Now for real."
"Who would have thought two pounds and a bit was so heavy!" Signe said.
She leaned the sword against her hip for a moment as she strapped the bracers around her wrists-they helped make the bruising, jarring impacts less hard on your tendons. Somewhat less hard; you still had to watch out for the martial equivalent of carpal tunnel.
Pamela grinned. "Anyone who's done more than a few passages with a backsword knows that a couple of pounds is of nearly infinite weight. But don't try to do it all from the shoulder. Back it up from the gut and hips. That's what the rest of your body is for."
After that Signe slipped her targe onto her left arm and began lunges at a solid plank target shaped like a man, with Pamela holding it from behind-and moving it unpre-dictably, along with a running commentary on her form. The impacts ran back up her wrist and arm and back, but as Pam said, you were practicing to ram the blade into someone and out the other side, not pop their zits.
She forced down memories of terror and blood and made herself spring forward, back, again… After a while she stopped, panting. Pamela handed her a tin cup of water and she drank, conscious of the sweat dripping down her face and flanks.
"Thanks, Pam," she said, hesitated, and then went on: "Can I ask you a sort of personal question?"
"Like we have privacy anymore? Sure."
"Tell me… do you think Mike likes me?"
The older woman gave a gurgling laugh. Signe flushed and gave her a glare. "Well, he seems to like you well enough!"
Pamela laughed harder. "Oh, honey, sometimes I forget you're only eighteen!"
"Nineteen in August," Signe said, and ground her teeth slightly at the smile that followed.
"I'm thirty-two," Pamela explained after a moment. "Believe me, Mike thinks of me as a cross between an older sister and one of his Marine buddies. Maybe if I was the last woman in the world, but otherwise-don't worry."
Signe felt her shoulders relax slightly. "You're closer to his age than I am," she said.
"Honey, I'm four years older than him. Let me tell you about another of the manifold unfairnesses of the world from our point of view-" The younger woman nodded reluctantly. Pamela went on: "Besides, if there's any man in the outfit who appeals to me, it's your dad."
Signe goggled at her in horror. "You're kidding! Mom-"
Pamela faced her for a second: "Signe, your mom is dead. I'm real sorry and I would never have looked at your dad if she'd lived, but she didn't."
Signe sucked in a breath. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. Things have changed so fast… actually, I meant, he's so old. Mom was old, and he's older."
"Well, thanks! He's also the only really interesting conversationalist we've got who isn't already taken. But don't worry about it. We're not teenagers, i.e., not in a hurry. Anyway, you were talking about Mike?"
"Well, he's nice, and we've had fun talking and riding together and… but he's never… you know. Tried anything."
Pamela shrugged. "I don't know why. I do know he thinks you're very attractive-"
"What did he say?" she cut in eagerly.
"He's never said a word, it's just obvious the way he perks up when you're there-he's not much of a smiler otherwise. You know, that stoic Finn sisu thing."
"Well, then why doesn't he want to talk about how he feels?" she said in frustration.