“Ralph is a Boer goat,” Ian supplied. “They’re a breed from South Africa, and super popular in the US. They’re known for their good temperament.Ralph is actually pretty small for an adult male. They can get up to two hundred and thirty pounds. You’ll need a sturdy fence at least four feet high for his future enclosure. They can be good at getting loose.”
We all turned to stare at Ian.
“What? Iamcapable of research. I went by the library this morning, and Mrs. Crandall helped me find some books on goat husbandry. I thought y’all were farmers. Shouldn’t you already know this stuff?”
“I tend to plants,” Mercer argued.
“Same,” I added. “Although I would like some chickens.”
Ian nodded. “I bet there are some books at the library about raising those, too. I’ll take Georgie this afternoon, and we’ll get some.”
My smile was bittersweet.
But I didn’t actually want to bring up the fact that Ian wouldn’t have any part in my future as a hypothetical chicken farmer. There would be no funny cut scenes or heartwarming montages of us building a chicken coop together.
I didn’t want to think about how my life would change yet again, this time shifting and rearranging to make up for the hole left behind when George and Ian went back to California.
Because Ianwasleaving Kirby Falls in a few months.
And I needed to remember that.
“What?” Ian asked quietly, his forehead creased in sudden concern.
“Nothing,” I said, attempting a smile that felt flat against my teeth. “I should call the vet today and see if she can come out and look Ralph over. He probably needs his hooves trimmed.”
“Let me know when she can make it,” Mercer said, walking toward the goat. “We can learn how to trim them and do it ourselves.”
“I read you’re supposed to trim them every six to eight weeks,” Ian added.
Mercer squatted beside George and smiled at both boy and goat. He reached out a big, gentle hand to pat the animal.
Ian and I both read Ralph’s intent a second too late.
“Mercer, hold up,” I said just as Ian called, “Watch your flannel.”
But the goat had already leaned forward and gripped Mercer’s collar in his strong teeth. My brother-in-law pulled away as the fabric ripped.
Mercer shuffled back and stood. “Aw, man.”
“Oh, no,” Candace consoled as she rubbed her husband’s back. But she was definitely trying not to laugh.
Ian made a whoops face.
George was giggling and trying to tug the end of the fabric out of the goat’s mouth.
“Sorry, Mercer,” I told him. “The goat eats flannel.”
He rolled his eyes. “Good to know.”
sixteen
JOAN
“Hey. Can I come in?”
Candace glanced up from her yogurt cup, where she was digging out the last bit of fruit at the bottom. “Hi! Sure, pull up a seat.”
There was only one guest chair in the small office inside the Apple House, and I lowered myself onto it, feeling awkward.
