“On your mark, get set—Go!” Milly calls out as she books it toward the door. I give her a head start before running after her and lose by a boot. “Ha! I win.” She sashays through the door, then runs to the kitchen to get out of my reach. Back inside, we pack the truck: folding tables, three pop-up tents, two coolers, the med kits she restocked last night with practiced precision—skills they only teach in vet school. She hands me a roll of duct tape like a blessing.
“You sure you’re up for a crowd?” I ask.
She meets my eyes, steady. “I’m up for anything. Did you want to test my wrangling skills?”
There it is. The thing I couldn’t protect but can stand beside, her courage.
I set the alarm, watched the light blink to armed, then the two of us left. On the porch, Milly locked the door and tested the handle twice out of habit. A routine we’ve fallen into.
“Ready?” I ask.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She flexes her muscles, then slides into the passenger seat, tucks the clipboard on her lap, and gives me that grin that looks like she’s just about ready to jump out of her skin with excitement.
I start the engine. The road to the fairgrounds runs straight as a promise. She leans her head back, humming again. I drive, and the melody threads through the morning like a banner that says:In with the good.
By the time we hit the fairgrounds, Everwood’s already awake and half-laughing. Sunlight glints off aluminum pens, bales stacked like barricades, and the smell of hay mingles with cinnamon from the bakery tent across the grass, where they’re starting their morning coffee and muffins. Cassie’s SUV is parked sideways, boxes labeled“Forms,” “Feed Samples,”and“Possibly Snacks”spilling out like a confession.
Milly’s out of the truck before I even park. “They’re early,” she says, tying her braid tighter.
“You make it sound like a good thing.”
She throws me a grin over her shoulder. “It is when you’ve got forty-six animals to check in.” She looks thrilled at the thought.
The fair animals are everywhere—rabbits twitching noses, calves bawling, a sheep wearing a patriotic ribbon and red glitter in its mane. Milly moves through it all like she was born in motion, clipboard tucked under one arm, that little bounce in her step back again.
Doc Wilson ambles up, coffee in one hand, a small brown pill bottle palmed in the other like he’s smuggling contraband.Without missing a beat, Milly slides it into her apron pocket but gives him a look.
“Placebos,” he says with a wink. “In case Savannah drops by. She’s convinced her hound’s depressed. He’s not—just ancient and tired of fetch. Tell her these’ll perk him right up. Chewable lies.”
Milly salutes him. “Yes, sir. Secret mission accepted.”
He chuckles, already turning to leave. “You’ve got this, Doc Thomas.”
She does.
Within half an hour, the pop-up’s alive. Two long tables for triage, crates stacked behind them, and a hand-painted sign that readsEVERWOOD FAIR ANIMAL CHECKS – FREE HEALTH CERTIFICATES.
Cassie handles forms. I set up fencing and keep watch as part of a perimeter sweep. Mrs. Winslow, armed with binoculars, corners a farmer holding a rooster roughly the size of a volleyball.
“Tell the truth,” she demands, “did this bird see anything suspicious near the feed store last week?”
The man stares. “He’s a rooster, ma’am.”
“Exactly. Witness protection.”
Milly’s halfway through a lamb inspection when she notices the commotion. Before she can smile a sigh, I step in—gentle hand to her elbow, a quietI’ll handle it.She nods once. Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Winslow is redirected toward the refreshment tent, none the wiser.
“Smooth,” Milly murmurs as I pass.
“Learned from the best,” I tell her.
For hours, the place hums. Goats bleat, kids giggle, dust hangs golden in the air. Milly moves from pen to pen, checking hooves, trimming a bit of wool here and there, reassuring 4-H handlers who look one frayed ribbon away from tears.
Levi and Mason wander over with grilled-corn smudges on their hands. “Doc Wilson retired already?” Mason asks.
“Temporary leave,” I say. “The apprentice union took over.”
They laugh, but Mason’s glance slides toward the edge of the grounds, scanning as naturally as breathing. He nods once—no trouble.
