Chapter 3
GIBSON
Ifinish securing the perimeter, keeping one eye on the weather. This wasn’t the day I expected. Early spring is busy, and I was on the far side of the property, clearing branches to prevent problems before the forecasted ice storm blows in when I got an alert at the nursery fence.
I figured it was just a blip. Some of the goats are playful and I’ve got a few little escape artists, which is why I had the fence installed in the first place.
But when I got there and saw what had happened, I knew it hadn’t been an accident. Someone got far closer than I imagined, the fence wire bent low, a clean cut.
My mind races over the possibilities, but one really stands out.
My sanctuary, my peace, has been breached.
Dread sits heavy in the back of my throat, like a handful of colorful pills that are too big to swallow. Anger simmers in my chest, the sharp bite growing as I survey the damage.
I ought to have taken even more precautions after my agent called me last month to mention someone had been calling to try and locate me for an interview.
At the beginning, when I walked off the stage after our last disastrous tour, the calls were incessant. Our manager held them off with explanations about grief and the healing process, but there’s no healing in that world. It’s just survival and numbness, if you’re lucky.
And eaten alive if you’re not.
After a while, the calls and texts slowed, people realized I wasn’t coming back and then there was blessed silence for months at a time. Occasionally, someone would run a story on Gibson Hart’s fall from grace. The typical bad-boy, drug-fueled meltdown that’s too easy for everyone to believe.
I straighten, sucking in a deep breath and unclench my jaw. I was just starting to believe I was safe here. Anonymous.
Just . . . me.
I finish tying off the netting to secure the temporary fix and double check the goats, cursing when I realize I must have counted Ozzy twice earlier in the confusion. I look around for a downy, white head, my stomach sinking.
Stevie is missing.
Securing the gate, I circle around the fence, noting the boot prints that lead to the enclosure and then away. I zip up my coat and follow the tracks through the woods.
Whoever it was might as well have left a trail of gingerbread crumbs. The carelessness makes me wonder if it could have just been a lost hiker, or someone who saw the goats and got curious.
But the deliberate slash in the fence isn’t something an innocent hiker would do.
Either way, they had no business anywhere near my land.
And now one of the babies is gone.
A sharp wind whistles through the trees, and a few light flakes brush my face.
Up here the weather can change in an instance and the spring sunshine from earlier has all but disappeared behind rolling dark clouds.
This ice storm is going to be a doozy and the last thing I should be doing is tracking one of the young goats through the woods.
Inhaling the scents of crisp pine and snow, I push past the trees, something dark growing in my chest when I notice the slip-slide tracks visible in the rapidly freezing mud.
This place is mine. Private. Isolated. Safe. I made it that way.
Because I needed it to be.
“Stevie,” I call into the trees, my voice rough. “Come on, girl.”
I wander a bit farther, watching out for exposed roots and pushing heavy trees limbs out of the way as the sleet starts to slant sideways.
“Stevie,” I call again. Most of the goats respond to my voice, but Stevie is still a baby.
She can’t have gotten far. I just hope she didn’t run into a mountain lion or a lynx.
A thin bleat reaches my ears, and I quicken my pace, relief clearing some of the darkness from my chest.
The terrain on this side of the property is steep and pick my way down blinking the snow out of my eyes.
Then I spot the clearing.
A woman sits hunched on a boulder, her bright pink jacket standing out against the dense greys and browns.
She’s got the coat partially wrapped around a familiar bundle.
She’s shielding the little goat from the icy sleet, her bare hand trying to cover Stevie’s bobbing head.
Even from here I can see the panic on her face, but she’s gently rocking the animal even though she must be getting soaked with Stevie in her arms. She tucks Stevie deeper into the shiny pink fabric, even though doing so leaves her back more exposed.
That stops me cold.
I step out of the tree line.
The woman’s head jerks up. Fear flashes across her features before her gaze locks on me and sticks.
I assess the situation all at once, moving slowly towards the woman.
Mud-streaked leggings, pushed up over what might be an injured ankle by the angle she’s holding her leg.
Dark hair falls out from under her bright pink hood, plastered to her cheeks by snow.
Her eyes are too bright, too wide, the panic I noticed earlier holding her features frozen.
She blinks once, twice, not releasing her hold on Stevie.
“You’re real,” she says breathlessly. “I was starting to think I’d finally lost it.”
“You’re on my land,” I say, bluntly. Was she the mastermind behind the breach in my security? Did she think she’d increase her views on Instagram or Tiktok by stealing one of my goats?
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t flinch away, not when Stevie bleats again, twisting towards my voice. A strong gust blows through the clearing nearly knocking her sideways.
“I didn’t know it was your land,” she says quickly. “I swear. I was hiking and… well, I was hiking with someone and then I fell and then this baby goat showed up and—”
“That’s my baby goat.”
Her mouth drops open. She looks down at the bundle in her arms like she’s been caught with a sack of jewels. Right on cue, Stevie lets out a loud bleat.
“Oh. Oh, thank God.” She laughs, a shaky sound. “I knew she had to be a pet. You must be the farmer.” A frown wrinkles her brow as she looks me over.
“What do you mean?” I take a couple of steps closer.
The woman’s lips twist and despite myself I notice the fullness of her lower lip. “Well, I don’t know many farmers, or any if I’m being truthful, but you don’t really look like a farmer, or at least what I assume a farmer must look like.” She looks me up and down. “You are wearing plaid, however…”
I hold my hand up to stop the stream of consciousness coming out of her mouth and she falls silent. It takes me a second, but I realize I liked the sound of her babbling, like a stream trickling fast and melodious during the spring melt. It takes me another second to remember why I stopped her.
“No, I meant what did you mean by ‘you must be the farmer’? Were you looking for me?”
She shakes her head. “I was—well, I was with someone, and I fell, and he went to find something to help me get back to the car. But when he came back this little goat followed him. He said it was probably wild or from a farm he spotted.”
My eyes narrow. There’s no deception in her voice, but God knows I’ve not always been the best a detecting it.
It’s why I prefer my goats to most people. Why I went from living my life constantly surrounded by people, to here, where I can go weeks without seeing a single soul if I choose.
“Anyway, I can’t imagine a farm up here, but I wasn’t sure a wild goat could have this much personality.”
Stevie bleats again, as if she knows that personality could likely be easily replaced by attitude. She tips her head up and licks the chin of the woman holding her.
“Where’s your friend now?” I ask.
The woman bites her lip. “He left.”
My head snaps back. “I’m sorry?” I look up at the sky, the sleet and snow are only going to get worse.
“Um,” she tips her chin towards her ankle. “I can’t really walk on my ankle, and I refused to leave this baby for a grizzly bear to snack on. He’d have a hard enough time carrying me, let alone me and him.” She snuggles the goat.
The darkness is growing in my chest again. “There are no grizzly bears in the San Juan mountains.”
“Oh, well that’s a relief.”
I take another step closer, crouching to examine her ankle.
It’s swollen for sure but the stiff way she’s holding it tells me it’s not broken.
“There are no grizzlies, but there sure as shit are mountain lions, lynx and black bear. And while a black bear isn’t usually aggressive, they’re still bears and if you have food in that pack they’ll find it. ”
“Oh.” Her voice is small now.
“Is he coming back?” I don’t particularly want company, but I can’t imagine why she’s sitting here in the cold with an injury. I can’t very well pick Stevie up and leave this woman by herself, even for a minute.
Her head bows while she checks her watch. “It’s been about an hour, so I don’t think so. He was angry that I wouldn’t leave the goat.” The wind nearly swallows her quiet words.
Even Stevie seems to sense her predicament, her soft ears going back as she butts her head against the woman. An hour? What kind of monster leaves someone out in the woods during a storm, let alone someone who is injured?
The type of person who would cut a hole in my fence, that’s who.
I try not to go looking for trouble. That’s the whole point of my sanctuary, but it seems like today, trouble has found me.
I stand back up, hoping the anger doesn’t show on my face. “The goat’s name is Stevie. My fence was cut, and I came looking for her.”
Her features sharpen with indignation. “Someone cut your fence? Did any other animals escape?” Her big, blue eyes meet mine. “Who would do that?”
“Someone that thinks they can take what isn’t theirs.”
She frowns. “I didn’t take her. I wouldn’t let her wander back alone. The storm…” she trails off, shivering and I wonder exactly how long she’s been sitting here.
“I know.” The word comes out gentler than I mean it to. Those small boots didn’t make the tracks I saw around my place. I sigh and shrug out of my jacket, draping it over her without hesitation. “You did right.”