Page 97 of The Worst Possible Plan

After we hung up, I stared at my phone for several seconds. The black screen reflected my face back at me.

Temporary.

That word echoed around my head. Temporary wasn’t forever. Temporary meant the story wasn’t finished yet. Temporary was good. Not ideal. Definitely not ideal. But I’d lowered my standards considerably over the course of the day.

Temporary meant there was still time. Time hadn’t run out. It was merely jogging a little faster than I’d like.

Time to convince someone.

Farmers were practical people. Practical people could sometimes be persuaded with practical solutions. I hoped. I had absolutely no evidence supporting this theory, but optimism had climbed back into the driver’s seat.

It was time to stop those animals from disappearing into an auction where Bandit could end up on one farm, Theo somewhere else, Daisy somewhere else again, and the little donkey… I couldn’t even finish that thought. My brain simply slammed on the brakes every time it reached that part of the sentence. Separating them suddenly felt wrong in a way I couldn’t properly explain. They belonged together. The same way families belonged together. The same way weird little groups somehow became exactly the right group.

The Petersons just needed convincing. Reasonable people could be reasoned with. I was choosing to believe that very aggressively until proven otherwise.

Maybe they thought they couldn’t afford it. Which, admittedly, was a perfectly sensible concern. Hay wasn’t free. Neither were vet bills. Or fences. Or whatever else animals required besides unlimited affection and occasional grass cookies.

I could help. I’d pay for the feed, the hay. I’d even learn the difference between good hay and bad hay if necessary. Until recently I’d assumed hay was just… hay. Apparently adulthood contained an alarming number of specialized hay categories.

I’d pay for veterinary bills if I had to. Dr. Keller already seemed fond of them. Maybe he’d even give them the occasional please stop stealing medical equipment discount.

I’d eaten instant noodles through most of my twenties. I could survive on peanut butter sandwiches for a few months if it meant keeping four ridiculously lovable animals together. I’d lived through ramen, discount macaroni, and whatever mysterious canned soup happened to be on sale that week. Compared to those years, voluntarily funding goat food almost sounded luxurious.

My plan was brilliant. It arrived in my head with such confidence, as though I’d already solved every problem despite possessing approximately twelve percent of the necessary information.

But compared to stealing a livestock truck, this actually represented measurable personal growth.

I jumped to my feet so quickly my chair nearly tipped backward. I caught it at the last second with one hand, earning myself several curious looks from the guests eating lunch. I couldn’t even stand up like a normal person anymore.

Sarah looked up from the front desk where she was checking in a guest. She smiled warmly, slid a registration card across the counter, answered a question about breakfast hours, and then handed over a brass room key attached to one of those oversized wooden keychains that looked heavy enough to anchor a small fishing boat.

Once the guest was headed toward their room, she walked toward me, one eyebrow already lifted. Sarah had developed an impressive ability to recognize the exact expression I wore whenever I was about to suggest something that sounded completely reasonable inside my own head.

“Everything okay?”

I smiled brightly, possibly a little too brightly. “Now, before you say no. I need a favor.”

She folded her arms. “Which is?”

I took a breath, deep enough to make this sound like a perfectly ordinary request instead of the beginning of another spectacularly questionable adventure.

“Can I borrow your car?”

24

ERIC

Ilasted exactly twelve minutes.

I’d once sat through a six-hour hostage negotiation without losing focus.

Hartwell had beaten that record by a considerable margin.

I pushed back from my desk, grabbed my truck keys, and headed for the door. There wasn’t any dramatic moment of decision. Just the quiet realization that sitting in my office pretending to work while thinking about Hartwell every thirty seconds wasn’t accomplishing much of anything. The paperwork would still be there when I got back. It always was. Paperwork provided remarkable job security.

Jenna looked up from her paperwork as I crossed the bullpen. She’d somehow managed to review reports, answer phones, drink coffee, and keep one eye on me the entire time. It was one of the reasons she was a good deputy. Also one of the reasons it was impossible to get away with anything around her.

“Everything okay, boss?”