Chapter 12
In With the Good
Austin
Iwoke to the soft sound of Milly humming in the kitchen. I stood there, listening. It wasn’t a song I knew. It was something she made up as she went along, all sunshine and melody. I repaired the window yesterday, and it throws a clean square of light across the floorboards.
Coffee’s already on. Milly’s at the counter with that focused-joy face, her hair looped into a loose braid that keeps losing the argument.
There’s a clipboard beside her elbow, a neat stack of forms clipped together.
She doesn’t see me yet. I watch the way her shoulders loosen while she reads the day’s list, how her mouth tips up when she checks a box.
Courage looks good on her. It always did.
“Morning,” I say.
She glances over, eyes bright. “You’re up early.”
“I heard singing. Figured we were being burgled by a cheerful soprano.”
“Tragic,” she says, pouring a mug and sliding it my way. “The only loot you’ll get is decaf.”
I taste it. Not decaf. Mercy in a cup. “Liar.”
She bumps my hip with hers, light contact thundering in my chest. “We need to be in town by eight. Tents, tables, the whole traveling circus. Doc Wilson promised to appear, grumble, and then leave before noon.”
“Good. He deserves the afternoon off.”
She taps her list. “We’ll set up triage in the back. Cats on the left, dogs on the right, goats wherever they please because goats. I’ve got Cassie and two 4-H kids for intake. If you run perimeter and keep Mrs. Winslow from interrogating everyone, we might even finish on time.”
“Perimeter is my love language.”
“I thought fixing coffee machines was your love language.”
“Multilingual,” I say.
We eat at the table, and Milly places enough of Sarah’s homemade raspberry jam on her toast to be illegal.
She takes a bite, and jam smears along her mouth.
My eyes dart to her lips, and before my mind can catch up, I slowly reach up and brush the jam from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.
A simple domestic gesture, but Milly freezes and watches my every move, a smirk lifting her mouth just slightly.
A moment so boyfriend-coded it should come with a warning label.
Inspector watches from the windowsill, tail sweeping approval or judgment—I never know with that cat. When we head out for the morning check, the air is crisp with that pre-festival feeling, Everwood stretching its arms before the day gets loud.
At the barn, Milly and I walk shoulder to shoulder.
The air between us feels almost commonplace.
When we both reach for the gate latch, our hands brush, and our fingers tangle over it.
Her skin is warm against mine, and my brain does the world’s least helpful math: one touch equals a thousand thoughts.
I tighten my hold for half a second, then let go.
I cover her fingers with mine. Milly smiles, all sunshine and roses.
The metal is cool under our palms, and we open the gate together.
“You know I can open my own gates,” she says, but her voice is smiling.
“I know,” I say. “Sometimes I like being the backup gate.”
“Backup gate,” she repeats, pretending to write it on the clipboard. “Noted.”
Chores go fast when two people pretend they’re not racing.
I haul feed; she rolls her eyes and steals half the bag.
Sherlock trails us like a foreman with short legs and high standards.
When a breeze lifts strands from her braid, I want to tuck them behind her ear and don’t.
Discipline, Adams. She’s not porcelain. She’s a wildfire with a license.
“Any dreams?” she asks, nudging my boot with hers.
“Just one where the porch swing was a helicopter.”
“Therapist Milly says you need fewer power tools.”
“Tell Therapist Milly I will not be taking questions at this time. And I’d have to agree it’s the exact opposite. One can never have too many power tools.”
After the rounds, we head back inside.
“On your mark, get set—Go!” Milly calls out as she books it toward the door.
I give her a head start before running after her and lose by a boot.
“Ha! I win.” She sashays through the door, then runs to the kitchen to get out of my reach.
Back inside, we pack the truck: folding tables, three pop-up tents, two coolers, the med kits she restocked last night with practiced precision—skills they only teach in vet school.
She hands me a roll of duct tape like a blessing.
“You sure you’re up for a crowd?” I ask.
She meets my eyes, steady. “I’m up for anything. Did you want to test my wrangling skills?”
There it is. The thing I couldn’t protect but can stand beside, her courage.
I set the alarm, watched the light blink to armed, then the two of us left. On the porch, Milly locked the door and tested the handle twice out of habit. A routine we’ve fallen into.
“Ready?” I ask.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She flexes her muscles, then slides into the passenger seat, tucks the clipboard on her lap, and gives me that grin that looks like she’s just about ready to jump out of her skin with excitement.
I start the engine. The road to the fairgrounds runs straight as a promise. She leans her head back, humming again. I drive, and the melody threads through the morning like a banner that says: In with the good.
By the time we hit the fairgrounds, Everwood’s already awake and half-laughing.
Sunlight glints off aluminum pens, bales stacked like barricades, and the smell of hay mingles with cinnamon from the bakery tent across the grass, where they’re starting their morning coffee and muffins.
Cassie’s SUV is parked sideways, boxes labeled “Forms,” “Feed Samples,” and “Possibly Snacks” spilling out like a confession.
Milly’s out of the truck before I even park. “They’re early,” she says, tying her braid tighter.
“You make it sound like a good thing.”
She throws me a grin over her shoulder. “It is when you’ve got forty-six animals to check in.” She looks thrilled at the thought.
The fair animals are everywhere—rabbits twitching noses, calves bawling, a sheep wearing a patriotic ribbon and red glitter in its mane. Milly moves through it all like she was born in motion, clipboard tucked under one arm, that little bounce in her step back again.
Doc Wilson ambles up, coffee in one hand, a small brown pill bottle palmed in the other like he’s smuggling contraband. Without missing a beat, Milly slides it into her apron pocket but gives him a look.
“Placebos,” he says with a wink. “In case Savannah drops by. She’s convinced her hound’s depressed. He’s not—just ancient and tired of fetch. Tell her these’ll perk him right up. Chewable lies.”
Milly salutes him. “Yes, sir. Secret mission accepted.”
He chuckles, already turning to leave. “You’ve got this, Doc Thomas.”
She does.
Within half an hour, the pop-up’s alive. Two long tables for triage, crates stacked behind them, and a hand-painted sign that reads EVERWOOD FAIR ANIMAL CHECKS – FREE HEALTH CERTIFICATES.
Cassie handles forms. I set up fencing and keep watch as part of a perimeter sweep. Mrs. Winslow, armed with binoculars, corners a farmer holding a rooster roughly the size of a volleyball.
“Tell the truth,” she demands, “did this bird see anything suspicious near the feed store last week?”
The man stares. “He’s a rooster, ma’am.”
“Exactly. Witness protection.”
Milly’s halfway through a lamb inspection when she notices the commotion. Before she can smile a sigh, I step in—gentle hand to her elbow, a quiet I’ll handle it. She nods once. Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Winslow is redirected toward the refreshment tent, none the wiser.
“Smooth,” Milly murmurs as I pass.
“Learned from the best,” I tell her.
For hours, the place hums. Goats bleat, kids giggle, dust hangs golden in the air. Milly moves from pen to pen, checking hooves, trimming a bit of wool here and there, reassuring 4-H handlers who look one frayed ribbon away from tears.
Levi and Mason wander over with grilled-corn smudges on their hands. “Doc Wilson retired already?” Mason asks.
“Temporary leave,” I say. “The apprentice union took over.”
They laugh, but Mason’s glance slides toward the edge of the grounds, scanning as naturally as breathing. He nods once—no trouble.
A teenage girl leads up a skittish calf. Milly soothes it, murmuring nonsense that somehow works. The kid’s eyes are bright with pride when she thanks her.
Watching her like this—confident, dirt on her jeans, hair falling loose—I realize the clinic is more than a place for animals. It’s her environment. Her happy place. Her place to shine. She gives to the town, and the town loves her in return.
When the line finally shortens, Cassie drops into a chair. “We should start charging admission,” she groans.
“Donations accepted,” Milly says, wiping sweat from her forehead. “In the form of cold lemonade.”
I fetch two cups from the stand and hand her one. “You’re good at this.”
She gives me that lopsided smile that could talk a bear out of hibernation. “You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised,” I say. “Just proud.”
“Careful, Adams,” she teases. “Compliments are addictive.”
“Guess I’ll risk the habit.”
Cassie groans again. “If you two start flirting near the livestock, I’m calling animal control.”
Milly laughs, full and unguarded. The sound settles something restless in me.
For a moment, the world feels perfectly balanced—sunlight, laughter, the rustle of straw, her beside me. Then a hawk’s cry slices through the air, sharp and lonely, echoing off the metal roofs. I glance up, spotting the blur of wings over the fairgrounds.
Something in my chest tightens—a small reminder that peace never lasts forever.
By mid-afternoon, the noise thins. The parade of goats and calves dwindles to a few lingering stalls. The fairgrounds smell like dust and clover, and the sweet metal scent of clean tools cooling in the sun.