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“Paps, what the hell is that?”
“What’s it look like? It’s a goat.”
As if on cue, Gertie hops to her feet and shakes out her tiny frame with a full body wiggle. She hops a couple silly sideways steps in my direction, stopping a few feet short to stare at me, head tilted in curiosity. Or mischief. I’d bet the latter. She has troublemaker written all over her.
Damn thing is cute as hell. But I’m not about to admit that out loud. Not when the frustration welling inside me is overwhelming.
The ranch can’t afford to feed another mouth that’ll never leave. If only I’d come home sooner, maybe I could have prevented this downward spiral from happening. Talked Paps out of homing so many animals. Or at least made him a fucking financial plan. My brothers sure as hell haven’t been paying enough attention in my absence. “You understand that you could lose the ranch, right?”
“She’s just a little goat, Ryder,” Paps says, using the golf cart seat to help push himself to his feet. I hate how stiff he seems these days. I visited several times during my twenty years away in the Army. But it feels as though Paps has aged twice as fast since I moved home. I fucking hate it.
“You have to stop bringing animals home, Paps,” I plead.
Paps turns his back to me, latching the crate door inside the Jeep and closing the back. I spot a Colorado license plate below the spare tire and feel my small shred of hope vanish. It’s unlikely that whoever drove all this way to pawn off the little goat can be convinced to take it back.
“And where else are they going to go?” he asks softly, iron in his tone. A hint of distant thunder if I push much harder.
But I’m just as stubborn as he is. “There are other ranches?—”
“Where do you think I got her?”
“Who’s Jeep?—”
“You boys all right out here?” Grams calls to us in that sing-songy voice she always uses to break tension. A pair of overalls swallows her tiny frame as she rounds the corner of the barn, three cats on her heels. Her silver hair’s pulled back into a ponytail and there’s dirt smudges on her elbows. No doubt she’s been in the garden most of the day.
“Fine, Grams.”
Gertie sneaks up behind Grams, scattering the uncertain cats, and goes straight for a purple glove sticking out of a denim pocket.
Grams startles, letting out a soft squeak.
Gertie lets out another ear-piercing holler half a second before going stiff and fainting. She tips onto her side, frozen once again. The purple glove falls from her mouth. Gumby sniffs at the goat’s face, sneaking a lick to her forehead again before nabbing the glove and offering it back to Grams.
“Got a dramatic one, I see.” Her tone is less accusation than intrigue.
I’ve gotten zero support from Grams when it comes to Paps backing off on the number of rescues he’s allowed to take in. Just another reason I need to get my brothers involved. If we can rally together, we might be able to turn things around for the ranch. Make our grandparents understand that if they keep taking on animals they can’t afford, the ranch they love will end up auctioned off to the highest bidder. I’ve been in town long enough to hear rumors about the greedy corporations eager to snatch up land in the area. I’ll be damned if I see this place turned into some hoity toity dude ranch. Or worse, leveled to the ground so a fancy hotel can be built in its place.
“Nothing else wrong with her, though,” Paps says about the goat, as if that’s a good thing. “Just a screamer.”
Grams chuckles as she wedges her gloves deep into her overalls pocket.
Gertie pops back to her feet, shakes off, and trots after Gumby, the two making playful circles around the nearby golf cart.
“Look, they’re already friends,” Paps says, his gaze locked on Grams.
“That they are,” she agrees with a warm smile that promises Gertie has found her forever home. I know in my gut I’m not winning this round.
I look down at Barney who’s still sitting loyally at my feet. He looks up as if to say what do you want me to do about it? Or maybe he’s just hoping for a treat. I reach into my pocket and produce a bacon-flavored chew. Though he’s not treat motivated, and would never do anything that remotely resembles a trick in exchange, he gives a couple of tail thumps. His once white tail kicks up loose dirt as he takes the offering gingerly and trots off around the barn to enjoy his snack in peace.
“Is it weird that I’m already used to her screaming?” a female voice I don’t recognize asks. I scan the area for movement, ready to rip this woman a new one for twisting Paps’ arm. But the second her curvy figure comes into view, I forget what I was so eager to say.
I forget how to fucking speak.
Sandy blonde hair is twisted into a wild bun at the crown of her head. Enough to suggest it might cascade several inches past her shoulders when let down. Mud splatters dot her fitted blue Dogs Keep Me Pawsitive T-shirt, as well as her gray leggings that accentuate long, sexy legs and curvy hips. She’s wearing flip-flops of all the fucking things, her toes painted the same blue as her shirt.
“You missed the fainting dramatics,” Grams says to the woman, shaking me from my inappropriate ogling of a stranger.
“Gina!” The woman makes quick steps toward Grams, offering open arms until she looks down at her shirt and stops. “I’d hug you, but I’m covered in fresh mud courtesy of your new resident.”
