16. Court
16
COURT
W hen we’re finally safely inside the apartment, I have to sit down.
I consider myself to be in good shape, but the mental wear and tear of the last two hours have been more than I’m used to.
Dashing back for Lucy, loading the goat. Unloading the goat. And the mad dash.
The rear of my pants feels weird against the cool leather cushion. I hop up and run my hands over the cloth.
“Yeah, Matilda got a good chomp on those.” Lucy stands with her goat near the French doors to the balcony. “I like your boxers, though.”
I look over my shoulder to spot a long swath of fabric hanging from my ass. What boxers did I put on today? Oh, right, the red silk ones. I’m sure they’re quite the contrast.
“I’m going to change,” I tell her.
“That’s a leather sofa, isn’t it?” Lucy asks.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“It’s all right.” She kneels behind it. “Thank you, sweet cow, for your sacrifice so that we might have furniture.” She pets the back of the cushion as though she’s comforting the long-dead bovine.
I shake my head and move on to my bedroom, phone in hand. I put through a call to Devin as I shuck my suit and put on workout shorts and a T-shirt.
“Everything okay, boss?” Devin asks.
“I won’t be in today. Lucy is with me. We’ll need to figure out a new situation for her.”
“It will probably have to wait a few days.”
“Why?”
“I started looking after I got the car. There’s some farming event happening this weekend, and everything rural is booked for miles. We’d have to go three hours out of the way.”
“When can you get her something? Monday?”
“Yes. Or Tuesday. I’m having to vet everything for anything that might upset her.”
“Of course. Let me know what you find.”
“You’ll be in tomorrow for the Friday staff meeting?”
“I plan to. Text me if you need anything.”
I drop the phone on my bed. Three days with a goat.
Speaking of which, I hear a plaintive meh eh eh from the other room, followed by, “Matilda, shhh! The neighbors!”
I hurry back down the hall. Lucy stands by the bookcase, where the goat is straining toward my collection of Bridgerton special editions.
“Don’t let her eat those. They’ve gone out of print.” I rush forward to move the books higher.
“You read romances?”
“Is that derision in your voice? Men can like romances.”
She pulls on the goat. “You don’t seem like the type.”
“And what type is that?”
She grunts with the effort of keeping my romance collection safe. “Salty sons of bitches.”
This makes me full-on laugh. “You cuss!”
“Matilda! Come on!” Lucy manages to get the goat to turn around. “The place isn’t very goat proof.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning on having a goat here.”
She blows hair out of her way. “Is there anywhere safe?”
“The balcony.”
She nods.
“Let me get some greens.” I rush to the kitchen and pull out an entire bag of carrots. I return to find Lucy with her arms around the goat, trying to keep her away from a shelf of classic records in their cardboard jackets.
“Don’t let her eat those either!” I hold out the carrots.
The goat sniffs, then takes a tentative step in my direction.
“She loves carrots,” Lucy says.
“You can have all the carrots you want,” I say, waving them at her.
I lead her to the French doors and throw one open. I toss a carrot onto the ground.
But the goat isn’t dumb. She knows I have more.
I hold out another and let her nibble on the end. Then I lead her through the door.
“Is there anything out there she can destroy?” Lucy asks.
“No, just metal furniture. I keep the cushions in an airtight box.”
She’s almost out. I toss the rest of the carrots onto the concrete floor. Just a little farther, then yes, her butt is out of the way, and I close and latch the door.
“Is it too hot for her out there?” Lucy asks.
I flip two switches, one for the overhead fan on the balcony, and another for a side fan with a built-in mister.
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Lucy stands by the door as her goat preens in the thin spray. “We’ll get her a spread of hay and some water, and she’ll be all right.” She turns, her face drawn and pale. “I think I should sit down.”
“I have a spare room. Come on.”
She doesn’t move, holding onto the back of the sofa. She’s fading completely.
“Okay, up you go.” I pick her up—I swear I’ve carried her more than any woman in my life—and take her down the hall.
I lay her on the bed and turn on the overhead fan.
She curls onto her side and runs a hand over the blue and white French provincial bedspread. “It’s so lovely in here.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
“And some for Matilda.”
“Some for her, too.”
I fill a glass with filtered water and take it to her.
“Matilda?”
“Right.” She really does care more for that goat than for herself.
I return to the kitchen to pull out a huge Dutch oven from a lower cabinet and fill it with water. The goat is ingesting carrots and pooping them out at a similar rate. I’ll have to warn my housekeeper.
I open the door and slide the water out.
Then I return to Lucy. “All handled.”
“Good.” Her eyes flutter. “I’m sorry I’m so much trouble. She’s all I have.”
“No, you also have me.”
She manages a smile. “I do. And you take good care of us.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “What should I get for you two?”
“Pellets for Matilda and some hay. Can you find that in the city?”
“I’ll figure it out. And for you?”
“You have already done so much.”
“It’s fine. We’re fine.” I frown. “Are you sure you don’t want to call your family?”
At that, a single tear escapes from the corner of her eye and slides to the bedspread. “Not yet. Not unless I have to.”
There has to be more at play than environmental differences. It’s probably a story for later. “Okay. You rest.”
She nods, and I head for the door.
“Court?”
I turn around.
“I hope you believe me.”
“About what?”
“The baby. I know you need proof, but there was nobody else. Not for a long time before. Not after. It can only be you.”
“Okay, Lucy. I believe you.”
“Good.” Her eyes drift closed.
I run my hands through my hair as I walk my apartment, looking for critical things the goat could destroy and putting them away in closets.
When things are reasonably secure, I stand at the balcony to look at the goat. She seems to be asleep, standing stock still, her eyes closed. Water is sloshed out of the Dutch oven, and the carrots are gone.
I head back to the hall and do the same check at Lucy’s doorway. She’s curled around her belly, the yellow dress spread across the bed. Her feet are dirty again. That seems to be her status quo.
Time to arrange for the SUV’s return and my car to come back. Then clean up the garage and fetch her things.
She’s holding to her story about the baby. Maybe it’s true. It’s hard to believe I’ve gotten myself into a mess this huge.
Somehow, I’ve found myself in possession of three creatures who need me. A woman, a soon-to-be-baby, and a goat.