Chapter 17
The goats were smarter than I expected.
Cincinnatus, the larger of the two, was a big brown and white buck with ears that hung past his chin. He worked the blackberry systematically, starting at the base of each cane and stripping leaves before moving to the thorny stems themselves.
Thoreau was smaller, darker, more deliberate. He circled each bush twice before committing, like he was planning his approach.
"They're good workers," I said.
Scout shifted Cincinnatus's tether to a new anchor point, a stake she'd driven into the soft ground near the water's edge.
"They understand the job. Some goats just eat whatever is in front of them. These two, they know we're clearing, not just feeding."
The pond's northern bank had been a mess when we started that morning.
Himalayan blackberry had crept down from the treeline over the years, maybe decades, sending out runners and establishing new canes until the whole edge was a wall of thorns.
You couldn't walk there, couldn't see the water from certain angles.
The stuff was aggressive, invasive, a plant that would take over everything if you let it.
Scout had proposed this project again three days ago, standing at the edge of my property with her hands on her hips, surveying the encroaching bushes.
"Goats," she'd said. "Faster than cutting, and they'll clear it down to the roots. They won't kill it for good, but the blackberries won't come back for a long time. No pesticides, all natural."
I'd agreed. Partly because she was right, partly because it meant a day working alongside her. Scout was a strange girl, but I'd grown fond of her.
More than fond, really, though it was uncomfortable to think about. Quietly, to myself, I had to admit how attracted I was to Scout. Her naked body, the way she kissed my cheek, her natural beauty... any man would be drawn to Liberty Scout Flint.
Now we were four hours in, and the progress was remarkable.
The goats had cleared a swath maybe thirty feet wide, exposing muddy ground and the remains of older vegetation that the blackberry had smothered.
Scout moved through the tangle ahead of them, using a machete to cut the thickest canes so the goats could reach the tender growth underneath.
"Your father usually uses a net fence for this?" I asked, untangling Thoreau's tether from a root he'd wrapped it around.
"For most of the herd, yes." Scout wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "Especially Aristotle and Beowulf. Those two would be halfway to Port Chasten by now if we tried tethers."
"Troublemakers?"
"Aristotle thinks every fence is a suggestion, like I mentioned.
Beowulf just follows him because he lacks imagination and free will.
" She smiled indulgently. "These two are different.
Cincinnatus has never tried to escape in his life.
And Thoreau, he's too busy thinking to run anywhere. He's my favorite."
"You named him well."
"My father named him. He said any goat that spent that much time staring at the clouds had to be a philosopher.
" She moved to adjust Cincinnatus's position, guiding him toward a fresh section of blackberry.
"Thoreau was my mother's favorite author.
Or so my father says. My memory of her is limited, so I cannot confirm this. "
I watched Scout work. The efficiency of her movements, the way she anticipated where each goat would go next with the practiced ease of someone who had done this since childhood. Scout belonged out here in a way I was still learning to.
But something was off.
Her jaw was tight. Not dramatically, not in a way that would be obvious to someone who wasn't paying attention.
But I had been paying attention to Scout the way a man pays attention to an alluring woman he's been spending more time with.
The way her expressions shifted, the way she held herself when she was relaxed versus when she was thinking hard about something.
Right now, she was holding tension in her jaw. A slight clench that appeared and disappeared. A tightness around her mouth that didn't match the peaceful rhythm of the work.
"You okay?"
"Fine." She didn't look at me. "Thoreau, leave that one. It's too woody. Your digestion will suffer."
The goat ignored her, continuing to gnaw at a thick cane that was clearly beyond its abilities. Scout sighed and pulled him away, redirecting him to easier forage.
"Scout," I persisted.
"I assure you I'm fine. I have declared my fitness."
"Your jaw's been tight all morning."
She stopped and finally looked at me. For a moment I thought she was going to deflect again, brush it off with that directness she used when she didn't want to talk about something. But then her shoulders dropped slightly.
"Tingling tooth," she said. "It's nothing. I'm treating it."
"Treating it how?"
"Clove oil, salt water rinse. It'll pass." She turned back to the goats. "Cincinnatus needs to move again. He's stripped that section clean."
I helped her move the stake, driving it into fresh ground with a mallet she'd brought. The goat followed its tether to the new position and immediately began working on a thick stand of blackberry that had been choking a young alder.
"How long has it been bothering you?"
"A few days." Scout's voice was casual. Too casual. "It comes and goes. Cold water makes it worse, so I've been drinking everything warm. It's not a problem."
I wanted to push, wanted to tell her that tooth pain that lasted days wasn't nothing, that home remedies only went so far, that sometimes you needed help you couldn't give yourself.
But Scout wasn't a person you pushed. She'd grown up outside conventional society, raised by a father who distrusted institutions on principle. Telling her to see a dentist would be like telling her to fly to the moon.
So I let it go. We worked through the afternoon, the goats steadily clearing the bank while Scout and I cut the heavier canes and piled the debris for burning later.
The clouds hung low and gray, threatening rain that never quite came.
The air smelled like crushed blackberry leaves and pond water and the funky musk of working goats.
By late afternoon, we'd cleared most of the northern bank. The pond looked different now, more open, the water visible from angles that had been blocked for years. Cincinnatus and Thoreau stood in the cleared space, bellies full, chewing contentedly, their work done.
"Good job," Scout said, scratching Thoreau behind his long ears. "Both of you."
"You too," I said.
She almost smiled. That jaw tension was still there, maybe a little worse than it had been that morning. I saw her tongue move inside her mouth, probing at something.
"Movie tonight?" I asked. "I've got popcorn with that Mexican seasoning you liked."
I expected an enthusiastic yes, but instead Scout winced. Her hand went to her jaw, a quick touch that she tried to make look casual.
"I think I'll pass on tonight. My tooth's a little sore. Rest will help."
"You sure? We could do something short."
"No, it's..."
She paused, looking at me with lowered eyes.
"Actually, Thomas... I always wanted to see a film version of Pride and Prejudice, I'm embarrassed to say."
"Uh, why would you be embarrassed?"
"My father does not approve of Jane Austen. He finds her frivolous. I agree, and yet..."
Scout shrugged and gave me a rueful grin. I chuckled at the slight flush on her neck.
"Well, I think there are lots of versions of that one," I said. "You can have your pick."
"There are?"
"Pretty sure. We could look at review sites, see which one's supposed to be the best." I started gathering the tools we'd brought, the machete and mallet and extra stakes. "You should invite your father, too. If he wants to come."
Scout's expression softened. "I always do invite him. He always declines. But he appreciates that you offer."
"Standing invitation."
"I'll tell him." She began untying Cincinnatus's tether, her movements quick and practiced. "Thank you for today. For letting me bring the goats. For helping."
"Thank you for fixing my pond."
I handed her the cash we'd agreed upon. I knew Scout and Abner survived by doing these odd jobs, along with Abner's retirement check from the military.
Scout took the money and slipped it into her pocket.
She readjusted the pistol on her hip and led the goats away, Cincinnatus and Thoreau following her up the slope toward the tree line.
I watched her go. The way she moved, the easy grace of it, the strength in her shoulders and the straightness of her back.
But the tension in her jaw...
Scout was obviously bothered by her tooth. It worried me, but I knew I had to let Scout figure out how to deal with it. If she needed my help, she'd ask.
I finished gathering the tools and carried them back to the cabin. I made dinner while watching the Mariners game on my laptop. DJ had been right, Chen had a cannon for an arm. His control was a different matter.
After the game, I read for a while, then went to bed early, tired from the day's work.
The knock came at seven in the morning.
Gray light leaked through my bedroom window. I was awake instantly, that unique alertness that comes from living alone in a remote place. Footsteps on my porch. A knock, not loud but insistent.
I pulled on jeans and a flannel shirt, not bothering with socks. I crossed the cabin in the half-dark and opened the door.
Scout stood on my porch.
Her face was gray. Not pale, gray. The color of someone who hasn't slept, who has been fighting something all night and lost. Her left cheek was swollen, visibly puffy even in the low light. She held herself wrong, her whole body tilted slightly like she was trying to keep her head still.
"I apologize for waking you, Thomas."
Her voice was careful, controlled, each word placed precisely to minimize jaw movement.
"Scout, what's wrong?"
"The tooth has worsened considerably. The pain is no longer manageable."
"Understood. Come in."
She stepped inside the cabin. She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her look. Scout was always so capable, so competent, so certain of herself in the physical world. Seeing her like this, gray-faced and hurting, felt wrong.
"Respectfully, Scout... you look like shit."
"I was up all night," she said. "I tried everything I know. Clove oil. Salt water. Garlic. Willow bark tea. Nothing works anymore. It just keeps getting worse."
"Where's your father?"
"Out at another property. He's tracking a coyote that's been bothering the Hendersons' chickens.
He left yesterday afternoon. Won't be back until tonight, maybe tomorrow.
" She swallowed carefully, wincing at even that small movement.
"I figured you could look something up on your computer.
There has to be something else I can try.
Some remedy I haven't thought of. The wisdom of the crowd to aid a suffering individual. "
I looked at her face. The swelling, the gray exhaustion. The way she was holding herself so still, like any movement might break her.
I thought about what she was asking. Another home remedy, another attempt to handle this herself the way she'd been taught, the way her father had raised her. Outside the system. Outside conventional help.
I made a different decision.
"No," I said.
Scout blinked. "No?"
"I'm not looking up remedies." I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door and shoved my feet into boots. "Get in the truck."
"Thomas..."
"No, Scout. No arguing."
I stopped and turned to face her. She looked so young standing there, so exhausted, so clearly in pain she couldn't hide anymore.
"I've seen tooth infections. I've seen what happens when they get bad. The swelling in your face, the pain that won't stop, a night without sleep. That's not a tingling tooth anymore. That's something that needs help you can't give yourself."
"My father..."
"Isn't here. And wouldn't want you suffering like this." I opened the door and held it for her. "There's a sizable clinic in Port Angeles. They can handle an emergency case like yours. We're going."
She didn't move. I saw the war on her face, the deep-rooted resistance to exactly what I was suggesting. Doctors. Clinics. The institutional world her father had spent her whole life teaching her to avoid.
"I don't..." She stopped, touching her swollen cheek with trembling fingers. "I've never been to a doctor. Not since I was very small. I don't know how it works."
"I'll be with you the whole time. I'll handle the talking, the paperwork, whatever needs handling. All you have to do is sit there and let them help you."
Scout stood there for a long moment. The gray morning light fell through my window. Somewhere outside, a bird started singing.
Then she nodded.
"I accept," she said. Her voice was small, smaller than I'd ever heard it. "Please take me to the dentist."
She walked past me, out onto the porch, down the steps toward my truck. I followed her, keys in hand.
"Let's leave that revolver in the cabin," I told her.
She unslung the holster and handed the heavy pistol to me. I ran it into the cabin, locking the door behind me.
The drive to Port Angeles would take over two hours. Plenty of time to figure out what came next.