Page 32 of The Goat Next Door

“You’re a stubborn one,” Marge says, shaking her head. “Get out of here. Go wash your face.”

I grab my keys and the bread, stumbling out into the blinding evening sun like a survivor escaping a cave collapse.

Every step feels like my boots are filled with sand.

I am too tired to even listen to music.

That’s how I know the situation is serious.

By the time I clear the final ridge and my gravel driveway comes into view, the sun is beginning to dip below the tree line, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the pasture.

I don’t even make it to the front door.

I collapse onto the bottom step of my porch, dropping the sourdough loaf onto the wood beside me. Leaning my back against the weathered railing, I stretch my legs across the gravel and let my head tilt back against the peeling paint.

I close my eyes, the deep, heavy weight of exhaustion crashing over me.

I am ninety percent asleep within thirty seconds.

“Are you a sleeping princess?”

The voice is tiny, high-pitched, and entirely too close to my left ear.

I twitch, my eyelids fluttering open with a heavy, uncoordinated blink.

Standing three feet away from me in the gravel driveway is a little girl. She is about five years old, wearing a pair of bright pink rubber boots, denim overalls, and a bright green sweater with a giant, cartoon dinosaur embroidered across the front.

She has two messy blonde pigtails and a pair of massive, intensely curious green eyes.

She is holding a plastic scooter with glittery purple wheels, and she is looking at my flour-covered gray jumpsuit like I am an exhibit in a museum.

“I… what?” I croak, sitting up slowly, my screaming back protesting the movement, and rub my eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sophie,” the little girl says matter-of-factly, taking a step closer and leaning on her scooter handles. “My daddy said you were a lot of work, but you look like a ghost princess. Why is your hair so big?”

My hand flies to my head. The golden-brown curls have fully exploded into a massive, frizzy halo. “My hair is… going through some issues, Sophie.”

“Sophie! Sophie, stop!”

A deep, frantic voice calls out across the pasture line.

I look up, my heart doing a sudden, violent jolt that has absolutely nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the fact that Brooks is currently running across the field from his house.

He isn’t wearing his fire station uniform today—he is in a pair of oil-stained jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal in a rural zip code.

He lunges forward, his hands scooping Sophie off the ground, pulling her tight against his chest before she can even let out a squeak.

“Sophie, what did I tell you about leaving the yard?” Brooks says, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily. “I turned my back for two seconds to check the oil and you crossed the property line? You don’t ever run off like that. Do you understand me?”

Sophie pouts, her lower lip trembling slightly as she wraps her small arms around Brooks’s neck. “But daddy, the pink lady was sleeping on the stairs. I wanted to see if she was okay.”

Brooks freezes, his grip on his daughter tightening as he slowly turns his eyes down toward the porch steps where I am sitting.

He takes in the entire scene in a single, sweeping evaluation.

He looks at my gray canvas jumpsuit, which is thoroughly coated in white flour dust from head to toe. He looks at my massive, exploded gold curls hanging around my face like a wild mane.

And finally, he looks at my face, which probably looks like a crime scene of exhaustion and frustration.