I leaned back, rubbing my stomach. “Well. Day one: survived. No livestock mishaps. Only minor hedgehog complaints.”
Austin gave a soft grunt that could have meant agreement, or amusement, or both. I wasn’t sure.
Later, upstairs, I unpacked the rest of my things with nervous bursts of energy. Fairy lights draped across the headboard. My notebooks stacked like colorful bricks on the dresser. Each familiar object was a stitch in the quilt of my new life.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open in my lap, pen scratching furiously:
Day one. This house feels like a dream I borrowed from someone else. Can anyone actually start over? Be brave.
When I finally set the pen down, the silence pressed close, quiet and vast. Outside my window, the field shimmered under moonlight, and against the fence line, I saw a silhouette: Sherlock, standing tall on a stump, bleating once as if to announce his nightly patrol.
I smiled, soft and shaky. “Goodnight, king of goats.”
Somewhere below, I could picture Austin at his desk, methodical and steady, probably assessing the estate’s books. We were under the same roof now, carrying Penny’s strange, hopeful instructions like a secret language. And yet, a small part of me felt a smidgen of relief and contentment.
Chapter 4
The Protector’s Perspective
Austin
The first sound I hear in Everwood is a goat.
Not a city siren, not my alarm, not the neighbor’s dog. A goat. His bleat carries across the ranch like reveille, followed by the lighter thud of paws on wood. Inspector has taken the windowsill above my bed, his tail flicking against the glass as if marking time.
I lie still for another moment, assessing. No traffic hum. No buzzing refrigerator from the apartment next door. Just a creak in the rafters, the distant knock of a breeze on shutters, and the tick of the wall clock I reset last night.
This house is alive. Alive with a lived-in comfort, but less impersonal than I expected.
I rise before dawn out of habit, stretching in the small downstairs bedroom I claimed. My duffel’s contents are squared on the dresser. The crates—already delivered—stand lined against the wall, still sealed. They look unremarkable in the half-light. Only I know what waits inside.
The quiet is familiar, but there’s something layered under it—feminine energy already creeping in. Milly’s fairy lights twinkled upstairs long past midnight. I heard the muffledfootsteps, her low laugh at some private joke, the faint shuffle of a hedgehog wheel.
Not silence, then. A different rhythm.
By the time the sun edges over the ridgeline, Milly is outside, scattering grain from a coffee tin. The chickens hustle after her in a flurry of feathers, some so tame they squat when she bends to touch them. Inspector follows her from the porch rail, tail twitching.
I told myself it was practical to watch her routines. My heart disagreed wholeheartedly, but agreed that it felt suspiciously like, dare I say, fond?
She doesn’t look like a stranger here. She looks like she’d been here all along.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. Three precise raps at the front door.
Browne.
He’s in the same gray suit as yesterday, though dust from the drive clings to his shoes. “Just checking in before I head back to Missoula,” he says. “May I borrow a moment of your time?”
I step into the study with him. The house still smells faintly of peppermint tea and vanilla. On the desk lie the papers he handed me in Denver—contracts, ledgers, will extracts. I’d scanned the financials last night, leaving the rest sealed.
“Before I go,” Browne says, placing a hand on the stack, “there’s one item you may want to read sooner rather than later.”
I break the wax seal. Inside: Penny’s unmistakable scrawl.
Austin, this job is more heart than muscle.
Milly’s lost almost everyone—her mother, even me, in a way. She won’t admit how much it still haunts her. Watch for what’s not said.
You’ll need to mind finances, but mostly, mind her hope. Don’t fix everything unless she asks. Let her prove she belongs—for both of you.
