by Nicole Snow
I’m still thinking it over when Owl barks, just as my phone navigation speaks. Our destination is a mile ahead, on the right, underscoring just how big the Barnet ranch is.
We drive past a small herd of cattle grazing on a hill. They’re the start of big plans for this ranch from what I’ve heard, though last fall they had plenty of business in the run up to Halloween.
“Uncle Dean says the Barnets want this land cleared for more pumpkins,” I tell the dog, shaking my head at the thought of a rich and famous badass movie star growing freaking pumpkins. “Can you believe it?”
It seems so odd, but maybe it’s his wife’s pet project or something. Almost as odd as the fact that I’m talking to a dog and half expecting him to answer.
“Funny, I can’t remember who owned this property years ago when I spent summers here with Granny, but I know it’s next to Reed land. You know, North Earhart Oil fame, where half the town works. Old man Reed’s granddaughter liked to come here and spend summers with him. We used to play together as kids. Bella was a cool lady.”
Owl barks as soon as I say her name.
“You know her? Oh, wait,” I say, snorting before he can bark another answer. “Don’t tell me. Is that horse still alive? Edison? He must be a dinosaur by now. Like, two hundred in horse years. People always swore he was half dog, so I guess you’d get along. Maybe because dogs are supposed to be smarter than people.”
Owl lets out an agreeable woof twice in quick succession.
I laugh. “I’m glad you’re so opinionated. This job would get lonely if you were the strong, silent type.”
His brown doggie eyes land on me again.
“Hey. Don’t get me wrong, you’re plenty strong, my dude. What do you weigh, anyway? Probably more than me.”
He barks again, tossing his head.
I can’t help but lose it again.
Look, if I’m slowly going crazy, I’ll do it laughing.
The synthetic voice on my phone says our destination is on the right. We’ve arrived.
Finally.
I stop the truck and look out the window. Sure enough, there’s a big patch of overgrown brush in the center of the field, along with two big trees. I recognize it from the photos.
Uncle Dean said Ridge and his family fenced this area off last year when they ran the pumpkin patch, so all I have to do is deliver the goats, let them roam free, and their endless appetite will do the rest.
I thought it was a joke at first when my uncle swore a few goats could clear a whole patch of land in hours, eating up almost anything that grows. But I’ve done my due diligence online and seen the living, bleating proof.
Now, I’m actually a little excited to see it in person.
There’s a metal gate connected to the barbed wire fence that runs the length of the property, both running parallel to a good-sized trench.
I can see how this area was recently fenced off from the rest of the field, but there isn’t a driveway or gravel approach for me to back the trailer over the ditch and into the field. Hmmm.
“Well, Owl, looks like you’re going to have to lead our little friends through the ditch and up into the field. Are you up for that?”
He plants his massive paws on the center console and stands up like a furry soldier. With his black bushy tail curled up over his back, brushing the headliner of the truck, he barks again.
“I’ll take your word for it.” I shut off the engine and open my door. “Hold on, I’ll get your door.”
He lets out a whimper and wags his tail harder. I wonder if he’s just excited to get to work or away from my loud mouth, permanently set to TMI.
Owl doesn’t wait for me to come to his side. I slide out of my seat, step outside, and barely scramble out of the way before he flies across the driver’s seat and lands on the ground beside me with a whomp!
“So nimble!” I tell him proudly, scratching his huge head. “Just try not to knock me over next time, okay?”
He really is quite the dog, looking like he was just flown in from the Himalayas. Owl could probably give old Edison a run for his money in the IQ department.
Maybe that’s his goal in life, who knows?
We all have big dreams.
And when some dreams go sour, we either conjure up new ones or go insane.
Today, my new dream is in sight, making a successful venture out of my uncle’s latest harebrained scheme. Pretty much what Uncle Dean does best.
He’d started up the Rent-A-Goat business earlier this spring, billing it as a fast, all-organic solution to the many properties here in rural North Dakota that need weeds and brush cleared. He promised every farmer in earshot that his crew can chew through anything, leaving no chemicals and no mess.
Easy-peasy.
Except Uncle Dean threw his back out the week after he landed his first three clients.
So he claims.
Ironically, that happened right after I got here.
Surprise, surprise.
I’m the one who’s supposed to be recovering from surgery, and he bribed me into doing his work for him. Still, I’d rather deal with Dallas family drama any time than what’s waiting for me at home.
True recovery wasn’t happening in Chicago with all the stress there, so Granny said I should pay her a visit, or she’d pay me one anyway and drag me home with her.
My parents—especially my father, who was born and raised in Granny’s little house—fought it tooth and nail. That alone said it was the right move.
I think I’m the only one living outside North Dakota who still appreciates this place.
Dad hightailed it out of the sticks as soon as he turned eighteen, and the few times he’d returned were to drop me off with Gran or pick me up again.
He’s in real estate now. High-end, luxury real estate that barely exists in Dallas, not counting the two billionaire families who’ve made fabulous homes here.
Dean, on the other hand, has country written in his soul. Forever the Nascar-loving, beer-drinking, wise-cracking, money-scheming brother. Dad’s tried his entire life to pretend he isn’t family.
He can’t stand sharing a drop of blood with Uncle Dean. Neither can my mom—she came from money.
Old blue Chicago business money.
The kind that leaves kids with three last names, so everyone knows you have a pedigree.
Mom was a dancer, like me, who, also like me, was injured in her prime. Unlike me, she’d healed in days and went on to dance for years before falling for a young dashing real estate broker new to the big city.
Hence the reason I’m here.
She wanted me back in the studio the first week after my surgery, when just climbing out of bed felt like scaling Everest.
Typical Mom, who always knows more than the doctors and therapists do. Just ask her.
Thing is, I’m not ready to step foot in that studio, and it’s not just because my knee won’t let me.
My heart puts up a much bigger fight. I’m so not ready to watch Jean-Paul and Madeline making eyes at each other, cozied up in the corner flipping through notes, his hands going places they shouldn’t be.
God, if I see either of them face-to-face again, I might just—
A loud bark jerks me out of memory lane.
“Thanks, Bud,” I tell Owl, who’s wagging his tail impatiently. “You’re right. None of that matters. Let’s get these goats in the field. Oh, wait, company?”
I stare up at a tall older man approaching in a starch-white shirt, bright green eyes flickering behind his oval glasses.
The Barnet’s valet and household assistant, Tobin, comes off just as no-nonsense as he looks. Uncle Dean warned me.
We exchange a few words, and I go over the job again, repeating everything I was told to do.
The butler nods with satisfaction and matter-of-factly assures me I shouldn’t have “the least hesitation”—his words—to contact him at the house if I run into any cause for concern.
Oof.
I
shouldn’t be intimidated but...
Meeting Tobin reminds me this is real work. Serious business for a very influential family in town, and I’d better do it right.
It also makes me smile at just how strange little old Dallas can be.
“Okay. Go time,” I whisper to myself as much as Owl, rubbing my hands.
I walk around to the back of the trailer, unhitch the latch for the ramp, and lower it to the ground.
“Look alive! A dozen goats coming right up,” I tell Owl, while walking up the ramp to peek inside.
He runs toward the ditch and barks. I’m grateful it has a natural slope and doesn’t look muddy, so they shouldn’t have too much trouble climbing up and down to the field.
“Yep, that’s where you’re going, guys, straight to the buffet.” I unlatch the door and yank it open as he barks again impatiently. “Give me a minute, will you? I’m working on it.”
Looks like Owl isn’t the only one who wants me to hurry it up.
The goats start bleating restlessly, making these rumbling little grunts that echo off the trailer’s metal sides.
Uncle Dean says it’s just their way of saying hello. Right now, it sounds more like shake your ass, lady. We’re not waiting all day.
The tribe, which is what a herd of goats is called—it’s amazing how much I’ve learned about goats—is a mix of colors. Everything from solid white, spotted black, mottled brown, and one who’s this pretty ginger color. Most of them have horns and goatees, and in all honesty, they’re cute critters. Friendly, too.
“All right, Owl, you ready?” I ask, unhooking the mesh gate that keeps the goats from escaping.
He barks.
I let it rip, pulling back the mesh gate. “Sweet freedom, boys and girls. Do your stuff!”
I hold in a breath.
It’s almost anticlimactic. Slowly, the goats start plodding out of the trailer and down the ramp, looking around curiously. Owl barks and circles the ramp, nudging the first few onward, down into the ditch.
I’m watching the scene with a flicker of satisfaction when Owl sits and woofs at me.
That’s when I realize my mistake.
Oh, crap.
I should’ve opened the gate on the other side of the trench before letting them out.
Jumping off the ramp is my second mistake. The quick movement spooks the goats, and they instantly start running in all directions, kicking up their heels and bleating loudly.
Ugh. Totally not the smooth transition I hoped for into rent-a-goating.
I race down into the steep ditch and up the other side, thankful I’m wearing thick leather cowboy boots. The grass is too tall to see if I’m about to step on anything or not.
It’s steeper than I thought. At one point I feel like I’m running up a mountain.
At the top of the ditch, I’m almost to the gate when I get whacked in the butt so hard it tosses me forward.
“Ow!” I shout, grabbing the gate for balance, narrowly stopping myself from slamming into the big metal pipes. “That’s going to leave a mark, you brat.”
Spinning around, I glare at a large shaggy black goat.
He bleats and puts his head down.
That’s right. You should be ashamed.
But before I can dwell on my goat-wounded pride, I jump up on the bottom rung of the gate and scramble over the top before he can headbutt me in the butt again. “Ha! I’m not making myself an easy target, little guy.”
Too bad the troublemaker veers past me, crashing his horned head against the gate. The metal structure vibrates, and so does the fence it’s connected to.
Sweet Jesus. What have I gotten myself into? I wonder.
Owl barks up a storm, and though he’s busy rounding up goats, forcing them neatly into the ditch, I have a distinct feeling he’s barking at me. Telling me to open the damn gate, already.
“Working on it!” I shout back and run to the edge of the gate.
Of course, the latch is rusty and on the other side.
Of course.
Anything else would be too easy.
Sighing, I scramble up on the metal and lean over the top, fighting for the latch, fingers working for just the right leverage.
“The things I do...” I mutter. “Climbing gates isn’t on my list of physical therapy exercises. Neither is running through ditches the size of Royal Gorge!”
I’m exaggerating, but in my mildly panicked state, it doesn’t feel like it.
Then the gate vibrates again, courtesy of another horn-strike by my agitated, impatient jet-black alpha goat.
Owl woofs again, this time louder.
I let out a growl and dig my heels in, pushing against the rusty latch with all my might.
There’s a loud pop as it releases.
Hallelujah.
The gate swings open, its metallic hinges screeching beautifully. I’m about to turn around and give Owl a triumphant grin when I notice how it keeps swinging.
Oh, no.
With my weight giving it momentum, it flies all the way open, taking me with it, until I’m hovering over the ditch.
The very steep ditch.
“Crud!”
Now I’m suspended over the Royal Gorge of North Dakota.
This just gets better and better.
I can’t jump down. My knee won’t take an eight-foot tumble, maybe more.
So clutching the top rung, I try walking along the bottom pipe inch by inch, but my movement causes the gate to swing back toward the fence and the mischievous buck.
I swear to God he’s staring at me now, head down, and smiling—can goats actually smile?
He’s definitely waiting to headbutt me again. I know that much.
“Owl! Get that rascal inside,” I call out.
The dog barks, but he’s busy rounding up the rest of the dirty dozen, trying to keep them in a neat formation.
Pursing my lips, I keep still, holding on to the top pipe for dear life.
Maybe I’ll just wait. Once Owl has them all inside the field, I’ll edge along the pipe, making it swing shut. That’ll work, I think.
That dog is so smart, I have half a mind to tell him to shut the gate with me on it.
Over my shoulder, I watch as Owl does his job, general of his own little goat army. The animals make their way down one side and up the other of the steep ditch and through the gate, taking their sweet time.
Relief is almost in sight, but then I get this odd tingle at the base of my neck.
Almost like...I’m being watched?
Slowly, I turn my head to the road, half expecting to see that damn dark ringleader goat eyeing me again, plotting his next move.
Nope. Not him.
It’s a big blue pickup truck, and it’s slowing down to take in the glorious sight of my helpless butt swinging on the gate like a stranded raccoon. The flash of the driver I get looks younger than Tobin, too.
Awesome.
My very first job and the property owner finds me in a shamefully precarious position. Hardly part of the “expert crew” Uncle Dean promised.
Well. Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’ll just keep driving.
If it’s Ridge Barnet himself, surely he’s a busy man? The rich and famous have better things to do than stare at some hapless goat-chick completely out of lucky breaks...right?
Right.
I think the odds of me dancing in Paris next week are better.
And I know I’m completely out of luck when the truck stops and I hear a door popping open.
Oh, here we go. I turn away from the road and close my eyes, somehow hoping that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
This is already so ridiculous, what’s one more absurd wish?
“Hey, lady, you all right?” he shouts. “Looks like you’re fixing to play stunt woman in Ridge’s next Western flick.”
The voice is familiar...I think?
A tingle zips up my spine and I open my eyes.
I probably recognize it because I�
��ve seen more than one Ridge Barnet movie. The guy is Captain McHottie and a half. And newly, happily, till-death-do-they-part married.
Totally off the market for this damsel in distress.
Not that I’d ever be in the running in an alternate universe. Or that I’m even looking.
I’ve logged off the male gender for a good long while after Jean-Paul showed me just what lying, conniving, heartless backstabbers some guys can be.
“I’m fine!” I call out as loudly as I can in my mortified state. “Got it all under control here. Just waiting until they’re inside to shut the gate!”
“You sure about that, Peach?”
Sarcasm is the last thing I need right now. “Yes, really.”
Peach?
Again, this weird sense of familiarity hits.
I chance a glance at Owl, see he’s still chasing down a couple of goats, and then make a quick count of the beasts already inside the fence. Nine. Including the black one standing in the opening, watching me with a glint in his eye identical to Lucifer’s. “Just three more to go.”
“You know goats can sense rain coming, don’t you?”
“Rain?” I glance up.
Where the hell did that dark cloud come from? Me, probably, considering I always have a black cloud over my head. The chaos today proves it.
“Yep. They’ll go right for the closest shelter at the first hint of a storm coming. Which, right now, appears to be your trailer.”
Crap, he’s right. Two goats are sprinting toward the gate from inside the fenced-in field.
“Oh, no, no, no.” I rock the gate, trying to make it move, but now it’s like the stupid thing is stuck. “Son of a biscuit eater!”
“Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey? Shitfire, it is you,” the stranger says.
It bops me like a boulder to the head.
That Oklahoma twang I haven’t heard in years.
I whip my head around so fast my neck pops.
I’m staring at a dangerously handsome, wickedly amused, very built man smiling dead at me.
He’s older, bigger, and broader than I remember, but he has the same boyish dimples behind a dark scratch of beard.
The same emerald-green eyes drinking me in with a gaze that used to stir me up like a blender.
The same forehead, aquiline nose, and neat ears perched in a face that still looks like it was crafted by Michelangelo.