Hitched

by Pippa Grant

  Hoof massages with a side of adorable are one thing.

  A haircut or a ’stache trim by baby goat, however, is not what any of these Zen-seeking citizens signed up for.

  Sadly, I don’t realize the flaw in my carrot treat plan until it’s too late.

  One minute, I’m giving Vinnie Van Goat a carrot. The next, George Cooney, the world’s most gluttonous pet raccoon, is charging through the temporary fence, shaking off the orange netting stuck in his back paw as he snatches a baby carrot from Biscuit the Kid’s mouth.

  Poor Biscuit rears up in surprise, which would be one thing if he weren’t standing on the fire chief’s back. But he is, and a beat later he’s sliding down her neck, making Jessie flinch as he somersaults onto the grass with a bleat of terror.

  And following the law of Baby Goat Chaos Theory—when one kid goes down, they all go down.

  Or off-their-rockers in panic, as it were.

  “George!” I shriek as he takes off after another goat, who has dropped his carrot and is running in hysterical circles in response to Biscuit’s alarm.

  His lordship the trash panda flips me off—I swear he does—and scampers around what’s left of the enclosure, making yogis and goats scream. He tosses aside mats and knocks down more of the fence in his quest for baby carrots, careless of the Zen and property he’s destroying as he literally steals snacks from the mouth of babes.

  “George, STOP! Bad raccoon! Bad!”

  When did the little beast get so fast?

  How is he so fast?

  He’s the size of three normal raccoons, but he’s dashing around like he’s half-cheetah, and of course the babies are freaking out in response. In nature, a predator of George’s size would be big enough to pose a survival threat to little goats, especially if he came crawling around with a few hungry friends.

  George wouldn’t hurt a fly—he’s after the carrots, not the babies—but the little guys don’t know that. They’re acting on instinct and instinct is apparently telling them to hurl their tiny bodies at me, the yoga class, the fence, and anything else that might possibly offer protection or shelter.

  “George, please,” I beg as Star, the yoga teacher, implores her class to, “Take a deep breath, and let it out with a call for peace.”

  But no one is listening. To either of us.

  The yoga class is on their bare feet, dodging flashing hooves, and George is in a carrot-feeding frenzy.

  Normally, he’s far too lazy and spoiled to actually hunt for his food. But I guess being on an ice chip and cricket diet since his run-in with the peanut butter has made George hangry.

  And hangry George is actually kinda terrifying.

  People are screaming, while Jessie tries to help me catch the rampaging trash panda.

  But all too soon, I realize I have bigger problems. Namely—my baby goats are escaping, because George has destroyed the fence.

  “No!” I shriek. I toss the rest of the carrots on the ground and take off, unsure which direction to start. The baby goats are even faster than George, and the streets of downtown soon echo with the frantic hoof beats of my runaway charges.

  Passing motorists are honking, shouting, and weaving.

  Terrified toddlers out for a pre-school field trip at the fire station squeal as Pepper crashes into their orderly line, tangling their toddler leash system.

  “First things first, first things first,” I mumble. Scanning my immediate surroundings, I spot a goat climbing into the slide and decide to start there.

  I need to get my little buddies back into the trailer on my truck. One at a time.

  Which is going to take forever. If I manage to get the job done at all.

  There are goats all over downtown.

  In the streets.

  On the tables in the picnic area.

  Digging up—oh, geez.

  Ankle Biter’s found a dildo that must’ve gotten buried under a pine tree during a prank last year, when the factory’s products were used to litter the square. He’s clutching it sideways in his mouth like an overgrown cigar and using it as a sword to fend off Widow MacIntosh, who’s trying to corral him.

  Actually—that dildo looks awfully familiar.

  It could be Dildo Shaggins’s older cousin. In blue, instead of purple.

  I shake my head, because not the time, Hope.

  Especially now that I’m hearing sirens.

  “Oh, no.” I clutch the kid I’ve just pulled from the slide tunnel, where he was curled up in a trembling ball, to my chest and stand, scanning the square.

  There, on the other side, is a sheriff’s cruiser pulling up in front of the yoga studio.

  “I’ve got one,” Star says breathlessly, trotting across the playground with Mickey, a white baby goat with mouse ear markings in black on his back. She follows my gaze, her smile falling away as she sees the flashing lights. “Oh, no. I’m going to get a ticket for violating my permit and letting goats run wild all over downtown. Aren’t I?”

  “No, you’re not,” I promise, panting from the running and the adrenaline and the worry. “I’ll tell them it’s my fault.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just what the universe had planned for this morning. Raccoon chaos and a goat chase.” She shrugs. “This is why we practice staying in the moment. So we’re ready for whatever comes next.”

  “You sound like Olivia,” I say, nibbling on my lip as my mind races in frantic circles, proving I need more yoga in my life.

  Or a shot of whiskey.

  Or a Valium.

  Or all three.

  I would say a long run, but I had to give up training for a marathon last year when it made my energy field so strong that I shorted out the cash register at the grocery store.

  Do not get between tired Southern mamas and Publix fried chicken on a Friday night. They will run over your feet with their cart and not even bother to bless your heart after.

  Star beams. “Thank you! I adore Olivia. She and Clover come to my mommy and me class. They have the best energy. Like starlight and honeysuckle blossoms, you know?”

  “I do.” I eyeball her arms and decide she’s got the biceps to handle two babies. “Here, take this little buddy too, and drop both of them off in the trailer behind my truck. I’ll head the ticket off at the pass and hopefully grab another baby or two while I’m at it.”

  “Will do, good luck.” Star flinches as I pass Biscuit into her arms, where he and Mickey greet each other with reassuring licks to each other’s faces.

  “You okay? Are they too heavy?”

  “No, it’s fine, I just got a little shock in my back pocket. I guess my phone is short-circuiting or something.”

  I wince. “Send me the bill for the new phone.”

  “But it’s not your—”

  “Trust me, it is my fault.”

  I jog away with a wave, heading for the deputy. He’s a youngish guy I don’t recognize at first glance, but he’s got a no-nonsense gleam in his eye. I have to get to him before he reaches Star, and I need to take the heat. She barely makes enough teaching yoga to pay for her basic necessities. A ticket could mean the difference between grocery money and surviving on ramen for a month.

  I wave a hand above my head, forcing a smile and willing my energy to simmer down. Instead, an electric feeling shoots up my arm and a moment later the streetlight above me shatters.

  I squeal in surprise, covering my head with my hands as the glass rains down around me, fighting tears as a few shards break the skin at the back of my neck.

  But it isn’t the sting of the slivers digging in that makes me want to cry—it really doesn’t hurt that badly—it’s the certainty that my entire life is on the verge of spinning out of control, and that it will always be this way.

  I will always be one electrical surge away from making something or someone explode. I will always be scrambling to fix the things I’ve broken and make it through another day without causing more damage than I can fix
in the time allotted to me on this spinning orb. I will always be tired and stressed because being this weird thing that I am is exhausting.

  Until Olivia gave my issue with electronics a name last year, and assured me it was totally normal, I assumed it was something I was doing wrong. But even knowing there are other people like me doesn’t make it all better. I still have to deal with the crazy, and probably always will.

  Sex would help calm your energy, Olivia’s told me more than once.

  Gently, of course, as only Olivia can.

  But I’m not getting sex—I’m chasing goats and making lights explode in public.

  I don’t have any energy left to stop the tears filling my eyes from falling. I lift my head, sending them spilling over the edge of my lids to trace hot trails down my cheeks, and reach a tentative hand back around to pull the glass from my skin.

  I’m still sliding slivers free, crying, waiting for the officer to reach me, while considering digging a hole in the sandbox and hiding there until my entire life goes away, when a familiar truck pulls around the corner from the fire station.

  It’s Blake’s truck.

  Pulling my bigger trailer.

  And from the looks of it, there’s someone sweet, fluffy, and very good with baby goats inside.

  A sob of relief wrenches from my chest. I swipe my tears away and take a deep breath.

  It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.

  The officer stops beside me, casting a worried look at my blood-speckled hands as he asks, “You okay, miss?”

  Blake already has Chewpaca on a lead, trotting down the trailer ramp, and the relief flooding me is so overwhelming, I feel more like dew-kissed spring grass stretching to wave good morning to the sun than a walking electrical disaster who never learned how to do love right.

  “Yes, I’m fine, just a few scratches.” I take a deep breath and brush away the tears. “And we’re going to get the goats all gathered up, I promise.” I motion toward Blake, who’s leading Chewy down the sidewalk by the donut shop, where he instantly attracts Dorito, a tiny ginger goat who’s often too bold for her own good. She emerges from the alley between the donut shop and the mortuary trotting after her surrogate alpaca father, wagging her little tail. “My husband brought reinforcements.”

  My husband.

  The words just slip out—warm and easy.

  “Congrats on your marriage, by the way,” the officer says. “The O’Dell brothers always make the water cooler gossip. Heard the wedding was memorable. Glad to see Blake so happy. He’s a solid guy. Good friends with my oldest brother when they were in school. One of the only guys who didn’t want to kick the little brother out of the pool when he came over to swim.”

  “He is a solid guy,” I agree, cheeks flushing. “And thank you. I’m Hope, by the way.”

  He extends his hand. “Wesley Vance.”

  I wiggle my fingers and apologize. “I’m sorry. I would shake, but my hands are filthy.” I’m feeling calmer, but Wesley has a lot of electronic stuff hooked onto his belt and there’s no point risking further destruction.

  “No worries.” He smiles as he nods toward where Blake and Chewy have collected another wayward baby, proving my sweet alpaca truly is the Pied Piper of little goats, and my husband—husband!—is brilliant. “Are you sure you don’t need help? It’s slow at the station. I could call a few guys in for goat wrangling.”

  I blink. “You’re not here to give me a ticket?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. We know it wasn’t your fault. Ruthie May filled us in on the details when she called to report the goat in the bakery.”

  My eyes go wide. “There’s a goat in the bakery?”

  “Yep. Hiding under a booth apparently. Not in any rush to come out.”

  I sigh. “Okay, I’ll go get that one personally. Thank you, Deputy. I really appreciate it.”

  “Thank your brother-in-law,” he says with a wink. “Ryan’s promised to buy the entire department drinks after work if we hold off on citing his raccoon. Again. He really should keep that rascal on a leash.”

  I nod as I back away. “George is so good with his hands, he’d probably slip right out of it. Thank you again.”

  He points to the shattered streetlight. “And I’ll report this. Let me know if you need the paperwork for your insurance. I hope you aren’t hurt too badly.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I promise, waving as I turn and trot toward the bakery. When I pass close enough to Blake and Chewy to be in hearing range, I shout, “Going to fetch a baby from the bakery. Get everyone else loaded into the trailer?”

  “Will do.” Blake flashes a thumbs-up.

  “Thank you so much. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

  My heart swells as he smiles.

  “Me or Chewy?” he asks.

  “Both, but mostly you.” I blow an impulsive kiss, tummy flipping as he smiles even wider.

  God, it would be so easy to get addicted to that smile.

  To come to crave that combo of tummy flip and warmth spreading through my chest that only Blake has ever made me feel.

  It would be so easy to fall madly in love with him and forget who I really am. Forget where I came from and all the lessons I learned growing up one of the casualties of a toxic marriage.

  I could do it.

  I could forget, but the amnesia would only be temporary.

  Sooner or later, I would remember why marriage isn’t for me. Maybe not in a year or two years, but eventually I’d start to feel trapped and it would make me crazy. I’d make Blake miserable, break his heart, and we’d end up hating each other even more than we did before we gave marriage another shot.

  And I can’t bear to have him hate me again.

  Or even dislike me.

  It’s too perfect to be on his good side, basking in the glow of that sexy-sweet smile, knowing he’s got my back and I’ve got his. I like being his friend. Love it, in fact.

  It’s almost as good as being the woman he loves.

  Almost…

  I fetch Honey from Maud and Gerald’s bakery, apologizing profusely for the puddle my scared little kiddo left behind on their tile.

  “It’s fine,” Maud says, already headed in with a wad of paper towels. “We all make messes when we’re scared, and she’s a sweet little girl. I’m sure she just wants her mama.”

  “I’ve got her uncle outside,” I say, tipping my head toward the square. “I’ll get her over to Chewy and she’ll calm right down.”

  “He’s a lover, that one.” Ruthie May’s grin doesn’t quite reach her narrowed eyes. “But don’t rush off so fast, honey. You’ve got to tell us all about your wedding day! What on earth happened? I’ve heard bits and pieces of the story, but nothing I can put together to make good sense.”

  I freeze, sweat breaking out along the valley of my spine as I remember how important it is that Blake and I make sense to Ruthie May.

  If Kyle and Dean can’t prove conclusively that my marriage is a sham, they’re coming to her for any hint of marital discord. I have to keep her gossiping on the side of Blake and Hope are so in love, so Chewy can stay home with me and his BFF and goat babies where he belongs. I don’t know if gossip is admissible in court, but in Happy Cat, Ruthie May’s word is gospel.

  I’ve got to say something, and I’ve got to make it good.

  But my head has suddenly gone blank.

  I genuinely cannot come up with a series of words to string together to save my life. I’m on the verge of stammering out a lame excuse and bolting for the door, when the bell tinkles behind me, and I catch Blake’s smell drifting through the sugar-scented air.

  Hmmm…I’d take him over cinnamon buns anytime.

  I turn to him with a tight smile. “Ruthie May was just asking for our wedding day story,” I say. “Says she hasn’t heard one that makes sense yet.”

  He flashes Ruthie May a grin before fixing his gaze on me, the look in his eyes making my panties melt and my heart leap out t
o beat on my sleeve.

  “That’s funny,” he drawls as he wraps his arms around me and Honey. “’Cause I’ve never heard anything that makes more sense than me and you, baby.”

  And then he kisses me, a just-barely-fit-for-public-consumption kiss that, even with a baby goat squirming between us and Ruthie May, Maud, and Gerald looking on, makes me feel like we’re the only two people left on earth.

  It’s just me and this man who I’m beginning to realize will always own a piece of my soul. No matter where we go from here or how many years stretch out between now and the day we finally go our separate ways.

  And maybe that’s okay, as long as I leave a piece of his soul better than it was before I found it.

  I emerge from the kiss bleary-eyed, but clear in my heart. I need to do something nice for this man, something very nice, to show him how much he means to me. And I have a pretty good idea what will put a smile on his face.

  “Well, well,” Ruthie May says, clearly pleased by the performance. “My gossipy side still wants details, but all in all it looks like this is a pleasant surprise for everyone involved.”

  “Except the goat,” Gerald says, as grouchy as ever. But even he sounds like he might be a little touched, and when I look his way he’s got his arms around Maud, patting her hip with obvious affection.

  But Maud and Gerald spend their share of time fighting too. Sometimes here in the bakery, arguing over who burned the muffins or who keeps shoving more trash in the can instead of emptying the bag.

  Last week, their shouting match was enough to get the Happy Cat sheriff’s department involved. Or at least the deputy who lives next door.

  All over whether or not to buy a new dryer.

  A bird had pooped on Gerald’s boxers while they were hanging out on the clothesline, and he decided he’d had enough of conserving energy, while Maud insisted birds wouldn’t poop on his boxers if he’d wear the tight kind that make a smaller target.

  That’s the kind of marriage I don’t want. The only kind I’ve ever seen, where even people who sometimes look happily married can be miserable underneath.

  The reminder is enough to make me pull away from Blake and step toward the door. “We’ve got to get the babies home. See y’all later.”