Chapter Two #2
“Ah FriendFriend, isn’t that your Noah?” asked Benji, taking in the political landscape with a quick glance.
“I don’t have a Noah. Two weeks. Got it?”
“Oh, yes. Town drama. I got it. Deliciousness awaits.” He steepled his fingers together like Dr. Evil in one of those Austin Powers movies. “I want it.”
A flash of movement caught Rachel’s eye. The goat with NO NURSE PRACTITIONER, NO PEACE strapped to its sides approached her driver’s side window and began enthusiastically chewing on her side mirror.
“Hey,” she yelled, leaning on her horn. “Stop that, Billy Jean King… whoever you are. Get!” She rolled down her window to shoo the animal away.
“MRRRRAAAAAAAAAAOOOOWWWWWWWW!” ClamClam bellowed at a volume that should have been physically impossible for a ten-pound cat, sending the goat skittering backward in alarm.
“Well, that’s one way to handle a stubborn old goat,” Benji chuckled.
With the window down, the humidity cut through her styling mousse with X-Acto blade precision.
She could feel her red spirals swelling to twice their size, an expanding red sponge, with errant spikes cemented at wrong angles.
“You’re enjoying this, which is why you, Mr. Wiles, are always a chronic platonic. ”
As if the situation weren’t surreal enough, a gleaming black pickup appeared from around the bend ahead, pulling to a stop on the opposite side of the goat barricade. Rachel’s breath caught as a tall figure emerged from the driver’s side.
Not Noah. Thank heaven.
“Dad?” she called out, hurriedly unbuckling her seat belt and climbing out of the truck. “What—how did you know I was here?”
“Kanaan phoned the house. Said he thought he saw RJ’s truck driving in.” And just like that, she’d transformed from Rachel Johnson, licensed architect, into little RJ, whom the whole town had to look out for because she didn’t have friends or a mommy at home.
“Wow,” Benji laughed. “That’s one efficient information pipeline.”
He had no idea. Rachel hoped Kanaan had concealed her arrival from his first cousin. She needed to prepare before any interaction with the youngest of the Calvarys.
Matthew Johnson, dressed in a sky blue button-down paired with navy work pants and boots, looked younger with his beard trimmed, but no less distinguished, with his long mane grayer than she remembered.
His face carried lines of age and wisdom, the same kind amber eyes, stood staring at her in astonishment.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until later tonight. ”
“Surprise.” She waved a crazy array of jazzy hands, weaving her way through the protest goats to wrap her arms around her father.
He felt solid, but his embrace was as soft and comforting as ever.
She closed her eyes, letting love sketch a new and precious memory on her heart.
All the comforting memories of the home she’d left so many years ago came rushing back.
Inhaling the smell of fresh hay combined with the scent of juniper pine, was unmistakable.
“Daddy,” she whispered, and that one word was filled with a thousand different emotions: unconditional love, support, and the feeling of being part of a family.
“I wanted to get here early to help with wedding stuff,” she said, burying her face, staving off tears.
Her father pulled back, keeping his hands on her shoulders as he studied her face. “Welcome home, kiddo,” he said, his words choked with emotion. “I’ve been fine, but the horses really missed you.”
She choked on a sob and hoped it wasn’t an ugly cry. Her skin broadcasted her emotional state. No one needed that fair-to-red blare visual. “I missed you, too.”
He used the pad of his thumb to brush away her tears. “You look good, RJ. City life must agree with you.”
“It does,” she assured him, though something in her chest tightened at the words. There was no room for her in Service. Maybe… even less with him embarking on a new life. Speaking of. “Dad, why are there protest goats blocking the road to the farmhouse?”
Before he could answer, the front passenger door of his truck swung open, and a woman with warm brown skin, cocoa eyes, an elegant twist of smooth auburn tresses, wearing a gentle smile, stepped out. Nice job, Dad.
“Rachel.” She said her name with a flourish that had Rachel tempted to curtsy before royalty.
“Bethany Walker. Well, soon to be Bethany Johnson.” She cheered at that, which had to be a good sign that Cupid had gotten it right for at least one Johnson.
Bethany rushed forward to envelop her in a warm hug that smelled of exotic spice and sunflowers.
“I’m so excited… and nervous to meet you.
” Bethany placed one hand briefly over her heart.
“You’re not supposed to be here… Oh dear, that came out wrong.
” She looked from Rachel to her father and then back.
“I meant to say, we weren’t expecting you until after supper.
And, I’m so glad you’re here early. Aren’t we, Matt? ”
“We sure are, sunshine,” her dad said, with a pink hue rising in his cheeks. Aw, young love in old people. This was so stinking cute.
Rachel returned the hug, genuinely pleased to see the woman whose touch warmed her father’s skin like a brushstroke of sunlight. Though she knew they’d only been dating for a little over a year, Rachel had never seen her father so at ease.
“Me too,” Rachel said in a rush to meet the woman who’d stolen her dad’s heart. Cue awkward silence. Great, the dorky daughter had messed up the first impression. Way to tear down walls, Rachel.
“Well, that’s a start. I’ll take it,” Bethany laughed, the sound as light and breathtaking as the lady herself.
“Guess we’re both a little on edge. But it’s going to be marvelous…
all of us together for the wedding,” she buzzed, and Rachel imagined summer bees air-dancing from one flower to another, dropping a poopy-pollen mixture on all their bee wedding guests.
“I came to help,” Rachel repeated, then gestured to the bizarre roadblock. “But it seems I’ve arrived in the middle of… whatever this is.”
“Oh, we need all the help we can get,” Bethany said with an affectionate eye roll. “We return the protest team to the fields at night. Your timing is impeccable. They’ll be back on the job tomorrow. Making a point about the mayor and his priorities.”
“And that involves goats wearing sandwich boards?” Rachel quizzed.
“Service politics have gotten considerably more theatrical since you left,” her father said dryly.
“MRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOWWWWWWWWW!”
All three turned to see ClamClam, who had somehow escaped her carrier, and was now perched on the roof of Rachel’s truck, her fur bristling as she stared down the smallest goat.
“Oh my goodness,” Bethany said, laughing. “I heard about the cat.”
Rachel shot a side eye at her father, who looked away. Obviously, he’d overshared about Rachel’s last visit.
“ClamClam. Get down from there,” Rachel called, moving toward her truck. “Now.”
“ClamClam?” her father repeated, bemused. “That’s the name you decided on?”
“She earned it, Dad. Trust me,” Rachel explained hurriedly. “Benji, don’t you dare pull out your phone.”
Too late. Her supposed friend had exited the truck and was filming the standoff between cat and goat, narrating in his best nature documentary voice: “Here we observe the rare Urban Architect Cat, ClamClam Johnson, asserting dominance over an indigenous Protest Goat, Billy, Jean, or Diana. A fascinating cross-species stare off.”