Page 13 of The Goat Next Door

“Oh, I walked!” I say brightly, trying to sound like a whimsical, eco-friendly fitness enthusiast instead of a complete idiot who misjudged a map. “Gotta get those steps in, right?”

The store goes silent again. The camo-jacket guy actually stops looking at his lures just to stare at me in disbelief.

“You’re gonna walk a mile and a half with eighty pounds of gear?” Billy asks.

“I am a woman of the soil now, Billy,” I say, hoisting two of the massive paper bags into my arms and gripping the plastic handle of the five-gallon water jug with my left hand. “We are resilient.”

I manage to kick the front door open, the brass bell chiming a frantic goodbye as I stagger out onto the sidewalk.

The first fifty yards are a triumph of human will. The next quarter-mile is a descent into physical torture. Then I start actively negotiating with God.

The paper bags are tearing into my ribs, the five-gallon water jug is banging violently against my shin with every step, and the twenty-pound bag of goat feed is balanced precariously on my shoulder.

As I stagger down the shoulder of the county road, my breath coming in pathetic gasps, a sleek black sedan drives past.

It’s the maple syrup woman.

She slows enough that our eyes meet. I give an awkward little wave. She hesitates.

For one hopeful second I genuinely think she’s going to roll the window down and offer help. Instead she keeps driving.

Well.

Community building is clearly going beautifully.

“Kind country folks, my ass,” I wheeze, my knees shaking. “So neighborly. So rich in community spirit.”

By the time I finally stagger onto the dirt path of Old Mill Lane, my arms feel like they are about to detach from my torso.

I look toward Brooks’s house.

His driveway is still empty. His truck is still gone.

Part of me is profoundly relieved that he isn’t here to witness this pathetic, neon-pink trail of tears, but another, darker part of me is like, Where is a grumpy fire chief when you actually need someone to leverage basic physics?

I practically collapse onto the front porch of the Gilded Goat, dropping the bags with a series of heavy thuds.

I sit down on the top step, my head between my knees, my chest heaving.

“Why,” I whisper to the dirt. “Why did I do this.”

My phone buzzes. I pull it out with trembling fingers.

Mom: Emmy, darling! Your father and I just finished a spectacular scene involving a hayloft and some silk restraints. Have you met any rugged farmhands yet? Your father wants to know if they really wear flannel without shirts underneath.

I stare at the text, a hysterical, breathless laugh bubbling up my throat.

Ember: No farmhands. Just a very grumpy neighbor who is the fire chief. And an old man who told me my lead goat is named Kevis and only eats saltines.

Mom: A fire chief?! Oh, the tension! Ember, that is brilliant. Tell him your house has a ‘spark’ that needs extinguishing. Your father is taking notes.

I groan, dropping my phone onto the porch.

They are entirely unhelpful.

Beautiful, brilliant, wildly successful, and completely useless in a structural crisis.

I force myself to my feet, dragging the groceries and supplies inside the house. The parlor is still dark, still damp, and still smelling of dead mice.