Page 20 of The Gallagher Place
“Pet them?” Marlowe laughed at the thought.
Cows were foreign beasts, and besides, they belonged to the Gallagher brothers. Playing around in the hayloft was one thing, but interfering with the cows was something different. Just as Marlowe knew not to touch the paperwork strewn about her father’s desk, she also knew not to mess with the Gallaghers’ dairy cows.
“I bet you’ve never touched one,” Nora said. “Cows aren’t scary, trust me. You could even ride one if I give you a leg up.”
“People don’t ride cows.” Marlowe was resistant, but she could already feel the corners of her mouth curling into a smile. Nora was going to convince her; she always did.
“Come on, let’s go. It’s not raining anymore, and we can’t let the boys have all the fun.”
Giggling mischievously, the girls ran down the stairs, pulled on their galoshes, and headed out to the pasture. The Gallaghers were nowhere in sight, and their old green truck was gone, which meant they were probably in town, purchasing supplies.
The field was so saturated their boots sank up to the ankles in the mud, making loud squelching noises. They only giggled more and clasped hands to keep their balance as they trudged in the direction of the lingering herd.
Marlowe grew hesitant as they drew near. The cows seemed bigger up close. One of the black-and-white heifers plodded right toward her, and Marlowe steadied herself and slowly lifted her hand to pet its nose. The cow huffed through its wide nostrils—its breath was warm and slightly damp on Marlowe’s fingers. Feeling brave, she stepped closer and gently slid her hand along its smooth, muscular neck.
The cows remained placid as the two girls wended among them, patting their rumps and stroking their velvety soft ears.
“I thought farmers always branded their cattle, like in the Old West,” Marlowe said. “Right here on their flanks.”
“No brands on these,” Nora said.
“Guess the Gallaghers aren’t scared of cow thieves.”
Nora’s eyes lit up, the way they did when she had a spectacular idea. “We should brand them!”
Marlowe raised her brows. “You mean like with a hot iron? We can’t do that.”
“No, no, you coulddesignthe mark,” Nora said. “You could sketch something cool, and then we could paint it on.”
“I don’t know. They’re notourcows.” But even as she spoke, Marlowe was dreaming up possible designs.
“The Gallaghers won’t care; we’re not hurting them. Anyway, nothing ever happens around here—they’ll probably think it’s hilarious,” Nora said.
That was all the urging Marlowe needed. The girls ran back to the Gray House, where Marlowe dug out her art supplies. Nora leaned on her elbows and grinned over Marlowe’s shoulder as Marlowe started to sketch. Some of Marlowe’s school friends in the city teased her about how serious she was about art, or worse, they seemed to resent the attention she got for her drawings and watercolors. Lately, she’d become more guarded about drawing at school, but she didn’t need to pretend she wasn’t talented around Nora, who would brag to her parents or anyone who would listen: “You shouldseehow good Marlowe is!” It was one of the reasons Marlowe couldn’t wait for weekends in the country, where she could be herself.
“It’s perfect!” Nora said, as Marlowe put down her charcoal pencil. She’d sketched a simple circle, about the width of a hand, with an infinity sign in the center. Intersecting the middle of the signwas a rudimentary tree, its branches stretching up to the top of the circle, with thinner lines at the bottom to indicate roots.
“I thought about doing a lion or something like that, but I think this will be easier to paint,” Marlowe said.
“I agree,” Nora said. “I’m the branches, and you’re the roots.”
Marlowe flushed with pleasure. That was exactly what she had intended; somehow, Nora always knew. They understood each other so well.
They took the sketch and walked up the road to Nora’s house, where they grabbed a can of bright blue paint and some brushes from the garage and headed back to the pasture, so delighted with their plan that the mud and distance were hardly a bother.
“How many city blocks do you think we’ve walked?” Nora asked as they plodded by the southern hayfield and the Gray House came back into sight. This was a game they played. Nora was obsessed with hearing about the city and liked to guess at the number of blocks they would have walked if they were in New York instead of trampling through woods and fields.
“Maybe forty—I feel like we could have walked from our apartment on East Seventy-Fourth all the way to the Empire State Building by now,” Marlowe said, though it was hard to judge. Blocks were flat, and no distance in the country was ever on even terrain.
Luck was on their side that afternoon. The Gallagher brothers were still off-site when the girls entered the cow field.
Nora picked out a lazy-looking cow and patted its neck, whispering soothing things in its ear, while Marlowe dipped the brush into the thick blue paint and began to work her magic. The heifer didn’t seem to notice or mind as Marlowe made quick brushstrokes over its coat, making sure to angle the brush in the direction of the cow’s bristles.
The blue paint glistened against the cow’s white flank. Even with the rudimentary brush, the etching of the tree intersected with the infinity sign was clear as day. Nora squealed with glee when she saw, and grabbed her own brush.
They were meticulous in their mission. They didn’t miss a single cow.
When they were done, the whole herd of milk cows bore Nora and Marlowe’s brand, shining bright and blue on their black-and-white bodies.
