Finding Home in Comfort (Saddle Up #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Jasper

“Noooo, goat-a-roonies, come back. Please. Pretty please, with sugar on top.”

This was not the plan for my morning. Or my day. Or my life.

In an incredibly grown-up, responsible move, I’d jumped—fine, rolled—out of bed and made a to-do list. A serious list. It had columns and bullet points and sub-tasks. I scheduled my day hour by hour: clean out rooms, scrub said rooms, and make more lists about the other lists.

I was going to be productive. Efficient. Mature.

By the second hour, I was already behind. Turned out, you couldn’t clean a room that hadn’t been cleared out, and I’d wildly underestimated just how much stuff there was to move. And that was before the goats decided to be their goatiest selves.

“Ladies, what are you doing over there?”

I’d left them in the side yard with very clear, very intentional instructions to mow the grass. I’d already searched the yard, the field, and the barn. Nothing. They were gone.

Maybe a real cowboy would’ve known goats could teleport through imaginary fence holes, but I wasn’t one of those. I was a wannabe bed-and-breakfast owner and, as my dad liked to remind me often, a failed coffee shop barista.

There was a slight widening in one panel of the fence, but since it only seemed big enough for a goat head, I thought we were good.

Spoiler alert: we were not good. Turned out that goats operated via magical portals, and now my sweet babies—Dolly, Tammy, Loretta, and Reba—were in my neighbor’s field.

Which would be fine, except I hadn’t met the neighbor yet. And I’d only lived here three days.

Goats had been on my vision board from the moment this place became a possibility.

So when I saw someone selling a herd just outside Comfort, it felt like fate.

I didn’t even wait to settle in—I picked them up on my way into town, loaded them into the back seat like tiny, bleating passengers, and hoped for the best.

The previous owner hadn’t named them, which felt criminal. So I did what any respectable gay boy with a love of country divas would do: I named them after the legends. Dolly was a classic blonde. Tammy had roots. Loretta was all black and stubborn. And Reba? Red and ready to kick.

Luckily, the gate was easy to climb because opening it required solving some kind of medieval puzzle lock. I wasn’t about to spend half my morning decoding that nonsense.

My madras pedal pushers and flip-flops were made for air-conditioned cleaning, not field frolicking. Ideally, I’d be indoors, vibing to something danceable while looking adorable. Instead, I was dodging prickly pear and questioning every life choice that had brought me to this dusty pasture.

I tried to sneak up on them, but my girls were too fast. Every time I got within ten feet, they pranced, danced, and bounced just out of reach. My only hope was to catch one and hope the others followed. A classic Pied Piper manifestation. Brilliant in theory, absolutely useless in practice.

All I accomplished was getting sweaty, scratched up, and completely covered in dirt.

“Ugh. Gross.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

The disgust in that voice straightened my spine. And he was close enough that I felt the breeze of annoyance on the back of my neck. I couldn’t catch a goat, but apparently, he could sneak up on me like a damn poltergeist.

“Well,” I said, lifting my chin, “I’d say it’s pretty obvious. I’m sharing the joy of my sweet girls. Your field looked barren.”

“It’s a pasture, not a field.”

Lord save me from gravel-voiced men. My greatest weakness.

“My apologies to the cactus.”

“You need to get your goats out of here.”

I bit back the snarky comeback. One of the items on my to-do list—buried under make more lists—was be less sarcastic. I only wrote it so I could check it off, but still. I hadn’t planned on speaking to anyone today, yet here I was, being judged by a stranger.

“I’m working on it,” I said through clenched teeth, spinning around to look him in the eye. He wasn’t winning this. I would get my checkmark.

Oh. Dear. Sweet. Baby. Goats.

My second biggest weakness was pretty eyes.

His eyes were ridiculous—hazel, mostly brown but flecked with green and gold, ringed with lashes so thick and curled they looked like a commercial for mascara.

And because apparently the universe hated me, I had to crane my neck to take him all in. He was tall. Like, real tall. Muscles lean and sun-warmed, skin tanned from actual work. I needed a fainting couch, smelling salts, and some strategically placed fans.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Oh great. Gravel again. From a mouth that was thin-lipped with disapproval but still somehow criminally kissable.

His lips were that perfect natural pink that lipstick companies try to recreate and always fail.

When you added in his dark hair, scruff at just the right level, and that stoic cowboy thing he had going, I was a goner. Carry me away, Daddy.

“Do you not want that?” I purred. “Because I can think of a lot of things I’d like to watch you do.”

The only reason I didn’t smooth a hand down his chest was because I still had some dignity. Though not a lot.

“Does it involve recapturing your menaces?”

No. No. No. Sexy and scowly was one thing—but sexy and judgy of my ladies? Unacceptable.

“Who are you talking about? Not Tammy. Or Loretta. Maybe Reba, but definitely not Dolly. She is perfection in goat form.”

“Did they come pre-named, or did you decide on that ridiculousness?”

“The previous owner hadn’t gotten around to it.” I sniffed. “What’s wrong with their names?”

“They seem kinda…I don’t know…gay?”

“Well, I am gay, so yeah. Most things I do are gonna be gay. Super gay. The gayest of gay. Be prepared for a Pride parade out my door.” I stepped forward and looked up at him directly. “We gonna have a problem?”

His eyes widened slightly. “What? No. I don’t give a shit about that. Faust and Bert play them all the time.”

“Faust and Bert sound like a Broadway power couple.”

“Don’t tell Bert that. He’s never met a show tune he didn’t love. Hello, Dolly! and Six were bad enough, but the Hamilton phase almost broke me. 1776 I liked though.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure how or when I’d be in a position to share secrets with Bert, but I made a mental note to do so.

“What did you say your name was?” I asked, throwing in a little innocent curiosity.

“I didn’t.”

“I’m Jasper Greer.”

Silence. The cowboy just stared at me like I was some weird creature that might suddenly abduct him onto my mothership. “And you are…?”

“Hank Vogel.” He sighed.

“Well, Hank, it’s your lucky day.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

I ignored that bit of nonsense. I wasn’t about to be dragged down by a gorgeous, broody guy in jeans that deserved their own Instagram account.

“It’s not your luckiest day,” I clarified with a wink. “But close.”

Direct hit. His cheeks turned a soft pink.

“What I need from you right now is help getting my girls back. They’re going to be late for their tea and nap.” I gave him a look. He was the cowboy. Surely he had tools or tricks for this kind of thing. “Then we’ll get out of your hair, and you can go back to being handsome and grumpy in peace.”

“Tea and nap?”

As he spoke, his long fingers—nails bitten down to the quick—pinched the bridge of his nose like I was the migraine he hadn’t invited.

“Yes. Since I’ve been here, my ladies enjoy afternoon tea followed by a lie-down in the barn. It refreshes them for dinner. They’re fancy.”

The tiniest flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth before it vanished into the void.

“You know they’re not babies, right?”

“Of course not, silly. If they were actual babies, their outfits would be even more adorable.”

At some point during our bickering, the girls had stopped running and were now standing in a clump, watching us like we were the entertainment. Good. Maybe they’d learn something.

“Loretta doesn’t do sparkle,” I added, “but the rest of them love it. She’s a practical girl.”

I’d found the perfect collars—rhinestones for most, woven leather for Loretta.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Oh, you don’t need to say anything. Just help me and we’ll call it even, cowboy.”

I added a shooing motion for emphasis. With a resigned sigh, Hank let out a piercing whistle.

From nowhere, a black-and-white dog launched into the field.

“Oh! Who’s this cutie patootie?”

“Mac. And he’s not cute. He’s working.”

Mac ignored me completely and locked eyes with Hank like he was waiting for divine instruction. One whistle and a head jerk later, the dog was off, rounding up my scattered babies with professional ease.

“How did you do that?”

“Training. And a smart dog.”

Without any fanfare, Hank headed toward my property while Mac guided the girls back. He unlatched the gate without a problem—because of course he did—and Mac herded the goats inside like it was nothing.

“Ladies,” I scolded gently as I jogged behind, “you gotta stay on our side of the fence. The neighbor doesn’t want you in his field.”

“Pasture,” Hank repeated.

“In his pasture,” I echoed sweetly.

“Keep them fenced, or the coyotes will get themselves a snack.” His voice softened just slightly. If I didn’t know better, I might’ve thought he was actually concerned about my girls, who were now happily nose-deep in clover.

“Thanks for the advice, cowboy,” I said with a wink and a smile. Hank flushed again.

My work here was done.

Vaughn

How’s it going down there?

Jasper

I’m still here, so that’s a win.

Gage

I give it a week tops.

Jasper

You wanna put money on it because I could use some.

Gage

Sorry, baby boy, I’m tapped out.

Jasper

Ew, don’t ever call me that.

Vaughn

WTF, Gage

Gage

Are we pretending we don’t know he’s a little?

Jasper

Yes, pretend that forever.

Gage

That’s dumb.

Rowan

Do you really need anything? Gage, stop talking.

Gage

We’re texting.

Rowan

Sorry, let me clarify—shut the fuck up, Gage.

Jasper

OMG, stop fighting because I’m not driving all the way over there to break it up. And I’m good, Rowan.

Vaughn

Let them fight it out. It’ll be quieter.

Rowan

You’ll tell us if you need us?

Jasper

Yeah, TTYL