14. Alex
Perryand I are deep in conversation discussing colostrum and weaning that I don’t even notice Molly coming around the corner until she gasps.
Perry and I both jerk, and my heart rate spikes, worried that the gasp is in pain or fear, but when I get a look at Molly’s face, I relax. She’s fine, but stares at the baby goat in my arms, feeding from the bottle I’m holding.
“Afternoon, Molly,” Perry says.
She doesn’t answer but slowly, glacially, sinks to her knees. Perry starts forward, concern etched on his posture, but stops short, flummoxed.
Molly’s hands come up to her face, holding her cheeks as she gapes at me—well, at the kid. “What is happening? How can anything be that cute? I can’t take it! Cuteness overload. I’m melting.”
Perry laughs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.
To be fair, I am immune to cuteness overload, having been around baby animals my whole life. But I like this response from Molly. Maybe I should hold and bottle-feed premature baby goats every day.
Nah, that’s a dumb idea. This is cuteness, not sexiness. Or does cuteness like this increase sexiness? I don’t know; maybe I’ll ask Kit.
To my alarm, tears are forming in Molly’s eyes. Oh no, she really can’t handle the cute.
“It’s so small,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
One hand holds the bottle, but I lightly stroke the kid”s flank with my other hand. “Would you like to pet her?”
Molly is by my side in a flash. Her hands are still up on her face, though, and I notice she’s got a red, dry spot on the pinky side of her palm. “How should I pet it? Why is it so tiny?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Perry slip away. It’s just me and Molly out here in the kid pens, though I think she hasn’t even noticed that she’s literally surrounded by baby goats.
Molly’s close to me. Really close. I can see the freckles across her nose and the sky blue of her eyes and the prism of colors in her red hair—it’s not bright red, but she’s got lighter hair, almost blond, at her temples and a deep, auburn shade behind her neck.
I shake myself mentally and focus back on the kid in my arms. “She’s pretty happy right now, drinking from the bottle, so you can pet her just like a cat.”
Molly does as instructed, stroking the back of the kid with her entire hand. The bottle’s almost empty.
I look back up at Molly and her tears have spilled onto her cheeks. “I have literally never seen anything cuter,” she tells me, wiping her cheeks with the back of her free hand. She keeps stroking, and occasionally she brushes against my forearm or my flannel-covered chest. I feel every touch through the animal in my arms; the slight weight of Molly’s affection, the warmth of her standing beside me, even on this summer’s day, and the stroke of her skin, even accidentally, against the hair on my forearm, as if I’m being petted too.
I clear my throat. Right. Molly had asked some questions. What were they? Oh, right. First one: answered. Second one. “She’s so tiny because she was premature.” I explain her birth and how we weren’t sure she was going to survive. She drinks slower than she should at her age, and she’s pretty low energy. But I think she’s going to make it. Molly gets brave enough to stroke the kid’s little head, running a finger over the tiny poll and soft ears.
The kid releases the nipple, causing a few drops to soak into my flannel, and squirms. That’s a good sign, and it breaks the tension between me and Molly.
I place the animal back in its pen, and it ambles away, nosing the ground and then pooping. Molly peers in the cage. “Where’s its mom? Why is the poop yellow? I have so many questions.”
“It’s milk poop,” I explain, and when Molly stares at me blankly, I explain that the color changes depending on what the goat eats. Then I tell her we separate the babies after a few days to take better care of them than the mothers and increase the dam’s milk production. And for their own safety—the sad reality is that baby goats with their dam or other dams is dangerous.
“That makes sense, I guess. They are working animals.” She looks around, noticing the other kids. “Are these ones older?”
We walk down the corrals for a while, me squinting at the numbers on the gates and telling Molly how old each one is. Since we breed en masse, most of the kids are about the same age, give or take a few days. The kid I was feeding is from the second insemination round for the dams that didn’t take on the first one.
“Alex,” Kit’s voice calls from the barn. “You left your phone in the office again.” He strides toward us, tossing me my phone when he gets close enough, and he and Molly grin at each other. Trixie circles the three of us, gives a huff in greeting, and then sniffs the pens. “Hey, Perky.”
“Perky?” I ask. When did he give Molly a nickname?
Molly rolls her eyes. “That’s what some of my friends call me. Short for Perkins, obviously. Mr. Nosy here saw one of them texting me and thinks he’s in my inner circle now.” She hip-bumps Kit, and he slings an arm around her.
I frown and try to ignore the jealousy in my gut. Kit’s friendly to everyone. And so what if they like each other? I’m her boss. I can’t get mad about something that is none of my business.
Unlocking my phone, I see that I have missed calls from the farm shop, Gran, and my brother, Ethan. I swipe them all away, plus some notifications for a few of our social media accounts. Instagram is always trying to get me to post more, but I never do. I glance back up at Molly. “You called me?”
Molly’s face falls. “Oh shit, I left the shop unattended. I put a sign up that I’d be back,” she rushes to add. “I just didn’t expect to be gone for so long. We need more eggs and whole milk.”
My eyebrow raises. “Already?” I’ve usually had Kit run down at the end of the day to grab the unsold products. I also check our sales reports for the shop every day, and I’ve noticed that sales have gone up. They were higher than normal the week Kit was at the counter, but they’re up even more since Molly has been there. At least, compared to when I had a sign on the door to call for service, which isn’t a surprise. I increased the Friday morning stock in anticipation, so being almost sold out of a few things surprises me.
“Yeah. There have been quite a lot of big purchases today. A few people came in and said they won’t be able to make it to the strawberry picking this week, but they wanted to get some fresh milk from you because the one they had last week was so good. And someone came by—Lionel, I think—told me to tell you hello. His daughter is visiting with her kids, and he bought a lot.”
Lionel is the only lawyer in Fork Lick, the one who executed Grandad’s will. That makes me think about the missed calls from my family, and I sigh. “Alright, I’ll send one of the guys down in a few with a restock.”
Molly brightens, befitting her nickname. “Thanks, boss.” She pats Kit’s chest. “Catch you later, Romeo.”
Romeo? God damn it. I’m jealous of my best friend.