Chapter 15 #2
Despite being tired, I couldn’t settle back into sleep. I was eager to check on Ralph and make sure he was okay. And the part of me that was a vindictive shit stirrer wanted to peek out my back window to see if my neighbor had noticed his goat was missing yet.
There was a text waiting for me when I got out of the shower ten minutes later.
Ian: Good morning, Bo Peep. Your mom invited us over for lunch. I have some things for our goat child. I’ll see you in a few hours.
Me: Bo Peep is a shepherdess . . . for sheep.
Ian: I know, but I’m still picturing you in the frilly dress with a staff. It’s really working for me.
I snorted a laugh and shook my head. He was ridiculous. And I wasn’t even touching the goat-child thing.
My amusement faded when I realized I’d need to come clean to my parents and siblings about Ralph, especially since I was keeping him on the farm. They deserved to know what I’d gotten us all into.
I wasn’t at all surprised that Mom had invited Ian and George over for lunch.
Christmas was in two days, and Sophia and Darren were in California.
My parents were adamant that Ian and George spend the holiday with us.
I wasn’t going to fight them on it or try to put distance between our temporary neighbors and us.
I’d been the one to breach the divide in the first place during Thanksgiving.
George deserved to make memories with his uncle.
And if he wanted to make sugar cookies with my mom and watch the same holiday movies I’d grown up with, then I wasn’t going to stop him.
Ian and his nephew might not have their own Christmas traditions yet, but they were welcome to borrow ours.
Just before noon, Ian knocked quietly and let himself into my parents’ kitchen through the screened porch. George followed, and they both said hello to my mother, who gave the little boy a quick hug.
I was sitting at the table reading Dad’s newspaper, and I immediately took in Ian’s excited expression. He practically vibrated with unspent energy.
Jesus, this guy had no poker face whatsoever.
Folding the paper neatly, I stood and said, “George, would you like to help Amy finish up the pasta salad?”
“Does it have meat?” the kid asked suspiciously.
I bit my lip. He was back to being a vegetarian this week. “Just bacon.”
“Oh, I like bacon,” he replied happily and pulled the step stool over to the sink to wash his hands.
Grinning, my mom met my gaze.
“I need to talk to Ian for a minute,” I told her. What I really needed was to get him out of the kitchen before he eagerly blurted out what happened last night. “We’ll be right back.”
“That’s fine,” Mom replied. “Georgie and I have it covered.”
“Thanks, Amy,” Ian said, before opening the back door for me and following me outside.
He steered me in the direction of his SUV and opened the rear hatch with a flourish.
The back of the vehicle was full of forty-pound bags of alfalfa pellets.
“Someone will be by later today to deliver the hay,” Ian said, while I stared at him. “Once you figure out where you want him, Ralph can graze and forage for most of his diet.”
When I continued to stare, Ian shifted uncomfortably, pink creeping into his cheeks. “I did some research this morning,” he admitted.
I had too, but I suppose I hadn’t really expected Ian to step up and take care of this.
“I’ll reimburse you for the feed,” I said. I’d never been the one in a group project accused of not pulling their weight.
With dark brows lowered, Ian gave me a disapproving look. “No, you won’t. It was my idea to steal—to liberate the goat. I’m happy to keep the little guy stocked in farm food.”
“I know it was your idea, but I went along with it. You barely even had to talk me into it. Besides, it was my problem in the first place.”
Ian shook his head sadly. “Don’t talk about little Ralph Judd-Wells that way. He’s not a problem.”
“What did you just call him?”
Ian tutted. “He’s ours. He should have both of our names. Judd hyphen Wells. Alphabetical seems fair, but I’m open to Wells-Judd. Both have a nice ring to them.”
My mouth dropped open. “You’re ridiculous.”
There were awful, terrible feelings swirling around my middle. Warm, fluttery emotions that had no business reacting this way to a hyphenated last name related to a barnyard animal.
Was this how normal people felt all the time? So vulnerable and helpless in the face of well-meaning, adorable behavior.
Pushing all that uncomfortableness aside, I argued, “Besides, I’m the one taking care of the goat. Hiding the goat and risking a criminal record for the goat. You just met him yesterday.”
Ian shrugged. “We’ve bonded, Joan. It’s too late. Plus, I already told Georgie about him. I promised he could meet Ralph after lunch.”
I stared incredulously at the man before me. “You seriously told George about Ralph and then left him alone with my mother?”
Realization dawned, and panic took over. “Oh, shit.”
And that was how my parents found out about the goat in the barn.
After lunch, Ian and I were standing outside Ralph’s open stall while George petted and talked to the goat. We’d brought a fresh bowl of feed and replenished the animal’s water. He munched happily while George chatted nearby.
From the entrance to the barn, Candace and Mercer called out a greeting, and then came to stand next to us.
Following the wedding last weekend, my sister and her new husband didn’t want to miss the holidays at home. So they’d decided to wait until February to take their honeymoon. They were probably planning on helping make homemade caramels this afternoon with my mother. It was her holiday specialty.
“Mom said you guys were out here and had something to show us,” Candace said as she eyed the goings-on in the barn curiously. “Are you finally taking me seriously about the petting zoo?”
“Yep,” I said.
My sister’s eyes widened. “Wait, really?”
“This is Ralph,” Ian told her.
Candace appeared confused. “But you were so against it. Even though I said I’d take care of the animals. You just went out and got a goat without telling anyone?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted, crossing my arms over my chest.
My parents hadn’t cared about the goat using the old barn, but they’d been a little concerned about where he’d come from.
Candace straightened and eyed me. “Are we aiding and abetting a runaway goat, Joan?”
“No, Candace. We are not.”
Then Ian helpfully added, “Definitely not a runaway. He’s stolen.”
Mercer’s head whipped in my direction, and my sister’s mouth dropped open. She stood gaping like the largemouth bass mounted on the wall of her office.
Grinning at me, Ian shrugged.
I covered my face with my hands.
It took about five minutes, but Ian happily told the story of how Ralph came to be at the orchard.
Personally, I felt like he needlessly embellished his heroics, but Candace and Mercer didn’t seem to mind his overacting.
Plus, they seemed to appreciate all the goat-name puns he somehow recited from memory. He’d even added a few more.
“I like the name Ralph,” George had said with approval as he hugged the good-natured goat around the neck.
“I understand the need to rescue the animal from that kind of situation,” Mercer said evenly, once Ian had finished his tale. “But we don’t know anything about caring for goats. What kind is it, anyway?”
“Ralph is a Boer goat,” Ian supplied. “They’re a breed from South Africa, and super popular in the US.
They’re known for their good temperament.
Ralph is actually pretty small for an adult male.
They can get up to two hundred and thirty pounds.
You’ll need a sturdy fence at least four feet high for his future enclosure. They can be good at getting loose.”
We all turned to stare at Ian.
“What? I am capable of research. I went by the library this morning, and Mrs. Crandall helped me find some books on goat husbandry. I thought y’all were farmers. Shouldn’t you already know this stuff?”
“I tend to plants,” Mercer argued.
“Same,” I added. “Although I would like some chickens.”
Ian nodded. “I bet there are some books at the library about raising those, too. I’ll take Georgie this afternoon, and we’ll get some.”
My smile was bittersweet.
But I didn’t actually want to bring up the fact that Ian wouldn’t have any part in my future as a hypothetical chicken farmer. There would be no funny cut scenes or heartwarming montages of us building a chicken coop together.
I didn’t want to think about how my life would change yet again, this time shifting and rearranging to make up for the hole left behind when George and Ian went back to California.
Because Ian was leaving Kirby Falls in a few months.
And I needed to remember that.
“What?” Ian asked quietly, his forehead creased in sudden concern.
“Nothing,” I said, attempting a smile that felt flat against my teeth. “I should call the vet today and see if she can come out and look Ralph over. He probably needs his hooves trimmed.”
“Let me know when she can make it,” Mercer said, walking toward the goat. “We can learn how to trim them and do it ourselves.”
“I read you’re supposed to trim them every six to eight weeks,” Ian added.
Mercer squatted beside George and smiled at both boy and goat. He reached out a big, gentle hand to pat the animal.
Ian and I both read Ralph’s intent a second too late.
“Mercer, hold up,” I said just as Ian called, “Watch your flannel.”
But the goat had already leaned forward and gripped Mercer’s collar in his strong teeth. My brother-in-law pulled away as the fabric ripped.
Mercer shuffled back and stood. “Aw, man.”
“Oh, no,” Candace consoled as she rubbed her husband’s back. But she was definitely trying not to laugh.
Ian made a whoops face.
George was giggling and trying to tug the end of the fabric out of the goat’s mouth.
“Sorry, Mercer,” I told him. “The goat eats flannel.”
He rolled his eyes. “Good to know.”