25. Sophie #2
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Mrs. Peterson. “They’re gone.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain needed a reboot before processing those two words. “Gone?” Surely not. I’d only just gotten here. I hadn’t even delivered my passionate speech about friendship, second chances, and the emotional value of alpacas.
“The sheriff came,” said Mr. Peterson.
Everything inside me froze—every thought, every heartbeat, every remaining shred of optimism.
“The sheriff?” My voice came out more wounded than angry. I hated that.
Mr. Peterson nodded. “Nice fellow.” He leaned against the fence post. “Seemed to have everything under control.”
Mrs. Peterson smiled. “He arranged everything.”
I frowned. “Arranged… what?”
“He picked them up,” said Mr. Peterson.
My pulse doubled. Then considered tripling for dramatic effect. “Picked them up?” I repeated slowly, hoping maybe if I said the words differently, they’d suddenly mean something reassuring. “Where did he take them?” Please say another farm. Please say somewhere nearby. Please don’t say auction.
The couple looked genuinely apologetic. They weren’t hiding anything.
Then Mr. Peterson shook his head. “We don’t know.”
“He just said everything had been sorted out.” Mrs. Peterson shrugged. “Sounded like he’d worked something out with the owner.”
“Sorted out?” I repeated. “What does that even mean?” People kept saying those words as though they represented useful information. They did not. They represented the exact opposite of useful information.
“He seemed to know what he was doing,” replied Mr. Peterson.
Of course he did. Captain Competent always knew what he was doing. That now included making livestock disappear.
“Thank you.” The words came automatically. Manners survived even when common sense packed up and left.
I barely remembered getting back into Sarah’s car. One second I was standing beside the tomato plants. The next I was slamming the driver’s door hard enough that somewhere, Sarah probably experienced a mysterious disturbance in the force.
The second the door shut, I dug through my tote bag until I found the sheriff’s business card. Receipts. Lip balm. Two pens that probably didn’t work. Insurance muffin crumbs. Ah. There it was.
I’d been carrying it around like some lovesick idiot.
I stabbed the number on my phone with considerably more force than necessary. The poor screen had done nothing wrong, but unfortunately it was the closest available object.
The station answered on the second ring.
“Sheriff’s Office.”
“Jenna? It’s Sophie.” I skipped every socially acceptable greeting in favor of immediate panic.
“Sophie?” She sounded surprised. Which, considering my recent track record, seemed optimistic on her part.
“Can I speak to Sheriff Walker?”
A tiny pause. I could practically hear her raising one eyebrow.
“He’s not here. He took the rest of the afternoon off.”
“What?” I nearly dropped the phone. “He what?” Sheriffs weren’t supposed to disappear in the middle of my emotional crisis. There had to be rules.
“He left a while ago.” I heard papers rustling in the background. “Said he’d finished everything that needed finishing.”
“I need to talk to him.” Understatement. I needed answers. Preferably in complete sentences.
“Is it an emergency?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Four innocent animals absolutely qualified as an emergency. So did emotionally constipated sheriffs making mysterious livestock decisions.
Another pause. “Okay. I can give you his cell.”
She read it out. I typed as fast as my thumbs could manage, nearly entering one digit twice because adrenaline reduced typing accuracy by at least forty percent.
I thanked her and disconnected before she could ask questions. If Jenna started sounding curious, she’d keep me on the phone another ten minutes. I didn’t have ten minutes.
One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail.
I hung up. Enough with phones. Clearly verbal communication had become unfashionable.
I tapped my Google app on my phone and wrote Eric Walker Maplewood Falls. Please let the internet continue doing what emotionally unavailable men refuse to.
The internet was far more helpful than law enforcement. An address popped up, complete with a little map pin cheerfully announcing exactly where Captain Competent had chosen to hide himself from difficult conversations.
I shoved the car into gear. “You are going to tell me where those animals are.” And if he attempted one more mysterious sheriff answer, I was fully prepared to commit the minor offense of being spectacularly annoying until he gave me what I wanted.
Forty-five minutes later I bounced down another gravel driveway, my tires throwing dust behind me. The Jetta protested every pothole with tiny squeaks.
The property opened before me. Trees gave way to a wide clearing, sunlight spilling across open fields in soft golden stripes. It wasn’t what I’d expected. Somehow I’d pictured something… sterner. More sheriff. Less peaceful.
Acres of trees. Tall pines mixed with old maples surrounded the property like quiet sentries, their branches swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. The whole place smelled faintly of cedar, fresh-cut grass, and warm earth.
A big craftsman house stood between the trees with massive timber beams and a covered porch. Very manly. Very Captain Competent.
My heart hammered so hard I could hear it. Or maybe that was just blood rushing through my ears. Either way, my body had officially entered full dramatic heroine mode.
I didn’t even bother closing Sarah’s car door—again. It remained hanging wide open behind me, the engine ticking as it cooled. Future Sophie could apologize to Sarah. Present Sophie had bigger priorities than automotive etiquette.
I climbed out and hurried toward the house. Gravel crunched beneath my sneakers while every terrible possibility marched through my head. Auction. Different farms. Somebody buying Bandit. Somebody separating them. My stomach twisted tighter with every step.
“Sheriff Walker!” My voice echoed across the clearing before disappearing into the trees. No answer. Just birds singing somewhere overhead and leaves rustling softly in the wind.
Then…
Bang.
A hammer. Sharp. Solid. Definitely nearby.
Another bang followed by the scrape of wood against wood. It was coming from somewhere behind the house, around the back, hidden from the driveway.
Good. At least he hadn’t escaped into the witness protection program.
I’d finally cornered him, assuming I didn’t lose my nerve in the next thirty seconds, which remained a very real possibility.
I marched around the side of the house rehearsing everything I intended to say, my hands fisted because, well, why the hell not.
This speech had been improving steadily for the last forty-five minutes. It had drafts now. Possibly appendices.
You had no right… Strong opening. Direct. Good energy.
Where are they… Also important. Possibly lead with that instead.
How could you… Nice emotional punch. Maybe point dramatically for emphasis. Not aggressively. Firmly. There was a difference.
I rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt.
My entire body forgot the basic concept of forward movement. Forgot how breathing worked. Inhale? Exhale? Those were advanced skills I’d temporarily misplaced.
Because… because I was staring at a brand-new wooden fence that enclosed part of the backyard.
What the…
New posts. Fresh rails. The wood still pale enough that it hadn’t yet weathered under the sun. Sawdust lay scattered across the ground, and a hammer rested beside an open toolbox. Lumber was stacked neatly in one corner beside extra fence boards and unopened bags of wood shavings.
There was a new gate with heavy-duty hinges. A water trough, full and clean. Sunlight sparkled across the surface while a garden hose still lay stretched across the grass beside it.
I spotted hay bales. Three of them. Maybe four. Stacked carefully beneath a tarp beside the fence. Somebody hadn’t exactly thrown this together in five minutes.
I saw a red shed, which looked like it had recently been converted into a little barn with clean straw spilling out the doorway. The windows had been propped open for fresh air. Feed buckets hung neatly from hooks. I could even make out a salt lick mounted inside.
My brain struggled to keep up. My eyes moved slowly across the pen, almost afraid to trust what they were seeing. Like the whole thing might disappear if I blinked too quickly.
Bandit. Standing proudly on top of what looked suspiciously like an overturned water bucket because even rescue situations couldn’t convince him to behave like a normal goat.
Theo. Lazily chewing grass while pretending not to notice Bandit attempting to headbutt absolutely everything within reach.
Daisy. Calm as ever. Regal. Looking faintly disappointed in everyone else’s energy levels.
The little donkey, his ears flicking back and forth while he wandered toward the fresh hay with complete confidence, as though he’d already decided this place suited him just fine.
All four of them. Together. Exactly the way they’d been at the festival. Nobody separated. Nobody missing.
And alive. More importantly, looking wonderfully, gloriously unconcerned. And safe.
My chest tightened for an entirely different reason.
Bandit looked up. His little ears shot straight into the air the second he spotted me. Recognition exploded across his tiny goat face. And then he let out one enthusiastic little bleat before sprinting straight toward the fence. His entire backside bounced with every step.
And then it hit me.
Captain Competent had taken the animals.