The Fall of Shane MacKade by Nora Roberts

looked. But when they didn’t seem the least concerned with her, she moved closer.
    And heard him singing.
    â€œOne for the morning glory, two for the early dew, three for the man who stands his ground and four for the love of you…”
    Delighted with the sound, Rebecca moved to the doorway and had her first glimpse of a milking parlor.
    Whatever she’d imagined, it wasn’t this organized, oddly technical environment. There were big, shiny pipes and large chutes, the mechanical hum of a compressor or some other type of machine. A dozen cows stood in stanchions, eating contentedly from individual troughs. Some of them munched on grain as devices that looked like clever octopuses relieved them of their milk.
    And Shane, stripped down to one of those undeniably sexy undershirts, a battered cap stuffed onto all that wonderful, wild hair, moved among them, still singing, or dropping into a whistle, as he checked feed or the progress of the milking machines.
    â€œOkay, sweetie, all done.”
    Caught up in the process, Rebecca stepped closer. “How does that work?”
    He swore ripely, bumping the cow hard enough to have her moo in annoyance. The look he aimed at Rebecca was not one of friendly welcome.
    â€œI’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. It’s noisy.” She tried a smile, and forced herself not to take a step in retreat. “I was out walking, and I saw the cows out there, and I wondered what was going on.”
    â€œThe same thing that goes on around here twice a day, every day.” It was an effort for him to readjust himself. He’d planned to avoid her for a few days, but here she was, pretty as a picture with those big, curious eyes, right in his milking parlor.
    â€œBut how do you manage it all by yourself? There are so many of them.”
    â€œI don’t always do it alone. Anyway, it’s automated, for the most part.” Deftly he removed inflations from udders.
    â€œWhere does the milk go? Through the pipes, I imagine.”
    â€œThat’s right.” He bit back a sigh. He didn’t much feel like giving her a class in Milking 101. He felt like kissing the breath out of her. “From cow to pipes and into tanks in the milk house.” He gestured vaguely. “It keeps it at the proper temperature until the milk truck pumps it out. I have to take these girls back to the loafing shed.”
    â€œLoafing shed?”
    He did smile now, just a little. “That’s where they loaf, before and after.”
    Rebecca made way, perhaps a bit more than necessary, as he herded the milked cows out. She wondered how he kept them straight, the ones still to be milked, the ones who had been. And when he herded more in, she realized the answer was obvious.
    Their bags were huge. She muffled a giggle as he moved them into place. With approval for the efficiency and organization of the system she watched him pull a lever that poured grain from chutes to troughs.
    â€œSo they feed and milk at the same time.”
    â€œFood’s the incentive.” He paid little attention to her as he went about his business. “They eat, you milk half ofthem. You milk the other half while you set up the next group.”
    Quickly, and with little fuss, he hooked his new stock into their stanchions. “These are inflations. They go over the teats, do the work that used to be done by hand. You can milk a hell of a lot more cows a hell of a lot faster this way than with your fingers and a bucket.”
    â€œIt must be more sanitary. And you use that solution—some sort of antiseptic, I suppose—on their…”
    â€œBags, honey. You call them bags.” He nodded. “You want grade A milk, you have to meet the standards.”
    â€œHow is the milk graded?” she began, then stopped herself. “Sorry. Too many questions. I’m in your way.”
    â€œYeah, you are.” But, as the machines did their work, he