Free Words Get In the Way by Nan Rossiter

lifted several rings of hose from the rack, dropped them to the ground, and lifted the pump handle. Water splashed onto the ground and splattered his jeans. He tipped the water trough, gave it a quick scrub, and filled it with fresh water. The cows trundled over, followed by the inquisitive little mule that waited patiently for the cows to finish. Linden held the hose out to him and he curiously stuck his long, gray tongue into the stream of water, but when it splashed into his cavernous nostrils, he turned away. “You’re such an e.e. ore!” Linden teased affectionately, scratching his boney head.
    Turning his attention back to the cows, Linden stroked Reba’s belly and remembered the first time he’d heard about the plight of the Randall breed. He’d been walking through the cow barn at the Tunbridge Fair and had stopped to admire the unusual lineback coloring of the two cows that were munching contentedly in the last stall. A young woman, standing nearby, had handed him a pamphlet.
    “They’re pretty, aren’t they?” she’d said with a warm smile. Linden had nodded, and accepted the pamphlet. “They’re purebred, native to Sunderland. They were originally bred by a farmer named Everett Randall. The problem is, their numbers are dwindling.” She had looked Linden over. “Are you a dairy farmer?”
    “Me?!” Linden had laughed, but when he left the dairy barn that day, he’d had the pamphlet tucked in his pocket with Cindy’s phone number on it, and he’d had something new to think about. A couple of months later, a rickety cattle trailer had pulled into the yard with Reba and Rosie inside, and Reba was already pregnant.
    Cindy had climbed out; looked at the fresh hay in the barn; admired the pretty, sun-swept meadow lined with stone walls; and declared, “This little place is perfect.” They’d chatted over coffee, and then she’d climbed back into her old pickup, given one last look at the cows grazing in the Indian summer sun, and pulled away with her empty trailer rattling behind her. “Just call if you have any questions,” she’d shouted. “I’ll come down when she’s close!”
    She’s getting close now, Linden thought. Another week or so at most. He wondered where he’d tucked Cindy’s number, and he decided he’d better find it and put it near the phone. The cows, finally satisfied, moseyed away and e.e. ore pushed his nose into the water while Linden splashed the stream from the hose into the cats’ bowl.
    He pushed down the pump handle, lifted the hose back into place, brushed off his hands, and stepped into the dusty heat of the barn. Maude emerged from her favorite sunny spot and began to brush against his legs, purring loudly. He knelt down to talk to her, and she put her front paws on his knee and talked back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small flash of gray fur scurry between two hay bales and said, “Looks like someone’s not doing their job.” Maude ignored his comment and pushed her orange head into the palm of his hand, purring contentedly. She finally hopped down, and Linden, respectful of his aching muscles, stood up slowly. He looked around the barn and decided that it definitely needed some attention too. He located his wheelbarrow leaning against the back wall and wheeled it around the old red pickup that was parked in one of the bays. When he’d first moved in, Mr. Coleman had explained, with a slow sigh, that he hoped to restore the truck someday. Linden had nodded knowingly.
    He set the wheelbarrow down outside the first stall and reached for a pitchfork that was hanging on the rack. A dusty transistor radio was sitting on a crossbeam next to the tools, and Linden clicked it on. He adjusted the antenna and turned the knob slightly to tune in the local rock station. The announcer was just finishing the weekend sports report, and Linden listened with mild interest.
    “As for all you NASCAR fans, in case you weren’t paying attention, Saturday night