Cold Soak
by Thomas Kleaton
The cow mooed, her udder full.
“Never known it to get this cold in the mountains, Gracie,” Evelyn grabbed a frosty metal pail. “My sorry husband should be milking you but all he’s done in fifty years is drink. And hit. And kick the baby dead when I was pregnant.”
Evelyn’s attention shifted to Gracie’s watering trough.
“One little shove, Walter, and in you went,” she shivered. “Never seen water refreeze that quick.”
Lifeless eyes gaped at her through thick ice.
“Always the little devil,” she smiled. “Leering at me like you did through the window when I was sixteen.”
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