28. Sophie
SOPHIE
By the time the sun began sinking behind the trees, painting the sky in streaks of pink, gold, and soft orange, I’d somehow found myself sitting on Eric’s back porch with an oversized glass of red wine in one hand and my sneakers kicked off beneath the chair.
The porch creaked softly every now and then, the kind of comforting old-house sound that somehow made the whole place feel lived in instead of perfect.
Somewhere nearby, pine needles whispered in the breeze, and the entire property smelled faintly of fresh-cut wood, hay, and summer.
Not exactly how I’d expected today to end. Honestly, I’d expected jail food.
Or at the very least community service involving fluorescent safety vests that announced to the entire town you’d made questionable life choices. Considering my track record over the last twenty-four hours, it could’ve gone either way.
Instead, I was watching a shirtless sheriff build a forever home for four rescued farm animals.
Life was weird. Wonderfully weird. Also wildly unpredictable, which was becoming my new normal.
Somewhere along the way, my life had stopped making any logical sense whatsoever and started reading like someone had shuffled three different novels together.
Oddly enough… I wasn’t entirely mad about it.
Eric was still out in the pasture making what he insisted were “a few final adjustments.”
There was no such thing as finished if you were Captain Competent. There was only almost finished, nearly finished, and I’ll-just-fix-one-more-thing-before-I-sit-down. The man probably alphabetized his toolbox and apologized to crooked picture frames before straightening them.
He crouched beside the fence, tightening one last hinge before carrying over another heavy rubber water trough and setting it carefully near the shelter.
A second one already sat near the far fence line.
Beside them, he’d mounted shiny automatic water bowls to the inside of the shelter where they could drink even if it rained.
Feed buckets hung neatly from sturdy hooks, every one lined up with the kind of precision that suggested he’d probably folded fitted sheets for fun.
He even stepped back every few minutes, his hands on his hips, studying everything from different angles like a contractor performing a final inspection.
If one bucket had been half an inch crooked, I had absolutely no doubt he’d have fixed it.
Seriously. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?
It should’ve been illegal for a sheriff to own shoulders like that. Broad enough to split firewood, build fences, rescue animals, and probably carry stranded grandmothers across flooded streets if the opportunity presented itself.
There ought to be licensing.
Maybe annual inspections. Conducted by qualified professionals. I volunteered despite possessing absolutely no qualifications beyond enthusiastic appreciation.
At the very least a warning label.
CAUTION: May cause otherwise sensible women to forget how language works. Side effects may include excessive staring, poor decision-making, spontaneous kissing, and briefly believing handcuffs could somehow be romantic despite very recent evidence to the contrary.
Bandit, naturally, interpreted Eric’s hard work as a personal invitation to become involved. Or, more accurately, interfere in increasingly creative ways. The goat had appointed himself assistant project manager, despite having absolutely no practical construction experience.
By involved, I meant thoroughly unhelpful. Impressively, almost professionally unhelpful. There was genuine commitment behind the chaos.
Bandit wandered over and stole one of Eric’s work gloves before trotting triumphantly across the pasture with it dangling from his mouth. His little tail wagged so enthusiastically that his entire backside bounced with every step.
Eric sighed. “Bandit.”
The goat kept going without even a slight hesitation. If anything, his pace became just a little more confident, as though being specifically addressed by name confirmed he was on exactly the right path.
“I know you can hear me.”
Bandit looked over one shoulder, made direct eye contact, and then deliberately turned his head forward again, as though choosing crime despite fully understanding the consequences. Then he ran faster, tiny legs but maximum commitment.
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my wine. I caught the glass just in time, which felt like my greatest physical achievement of the day, considering I’d recently attempted grand theft livestock.
Eric pointed after the goat. “You’re encouraging him.”
“I absolutely am.” I took another sip of wine. “I think he enjoys having hobbies.” Productive hobbies weren’t for everyone. Some people knitted. Some painted landscapes. Bandit’s passion involved accumulating stolen accessories one glove at a time.
Eric gave me a look. “Stealing isn’t a hobby.”
“For Bandit, I think it might actually qualify as a lifestyle.” At this point I was fairly certain he’d list “petty criminal” under special skills if goats had résumés.
Eric shook his head while walking after the goat with the patient resignation of a man who’d somehow accepted that this was simply how his evening was going to unfold.
There wasn’t an ounce of real annoyance in the way he moved, just quiet acceptance that this tiny horned menace now lived on his property and had no intention whatsoever of respecting personal boundaries or workplace etiquette.
Halfway there, the little donkey wandered over. Ears twitching curiously, he watched Eric for a long thoughtful moment as though carefully evaluating the situation before deciding whether further involvement was required.
He sniffed Eric’s back, conducting a complete donkey-approved assessment.
Then, without the slightest warning, he headbutted him squarely in the backside.
Eric stumbled forward one step. He caught himself immediately, turned slowly toward the donkey, and stared at him in complete disbelief while the donkey blinked back with such spectacular innocence that, if I’d been on a jury, I’d have acquitted him on the spot.
Even I almost believed it hadn’t happened. Almost.
I burst into another fit of laughter, the kind that started somewhere deep in my stomach and refused to leave, bubbling out before I had any chance of pretending to be a dignified adult.
Eric straightened with the resigned patience of a man who already knew exactly which four-legged suspect was responsible before he’d even completed the turn. “You stop that. You don’t headbutt the guy who just saved you.”
The donkey looked back, his ears forward and eyes wide. His expression remained utterly angelic.
Then, Bandit came wandering back. He snatched up the other glove and trotted proudly away with his newest prize swinging from his mouth.
I laughed even harder. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, and I had to set my wineglass down on the little table beside me before I accidentally watered the porch instead of the flowers.
“I’m being overthrown by livestock.” Eric looked around the pasture as though trying to identify which member of the rebellion he’d lost control of first. Frankly, I thought he’d already lost the entire organization.
“You kind of deserve it.” I shrugged innocently. “You can’t just move in and expect to become management overnight. Trust has to be earned.”
“Oh?”
“You arrested their lawyer.” I hooked a thumb at myself. “They’re still processing the betrayal.”
He looked over at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched despite his obvious attempt to remain serious. “You were representing them?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“I must’ve missed that during processing,” commented Eric.
“I think Deputy Jenna did too.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before reaching down to scratch the donkey between his ears. His big hand disappeared into the shaggy fur, and the entire movement looked so natural it was obvious he’d been around animals long before today.
The little guy leaned happily into it. His eyes drifted half closed, and he let out a tiny contented sigh.
“You know…” I said, studying him for another second. The more I watched him, the more certain I became. Some names just belonged to certain faces. Like meeting someone named Steve who clearly looked like a Steve. This little donkey absolutely had Douglas energy.
“What?”
“I think I’ve finally figured out his name.” The realization settled over me with ridiculous confidence. There would be no committee meeting. No further discussion. My brain had already filed the paperwork.
Eric looked over. “And? What is it?”
I nodded slowly with the absolute certainty of a woman making an extremely important life decision that had somehow become my responsibility despite absolutely nobody asking me to name someone else’s donkey.
“Douglas.”
The donkey lifted his head almost immediately, which I chose to interpret as active participation in the naming ceremony. He brayed once, long, loud, and ridiculously dramatic.
I pointed triumphantly. “See? He likes it.” Frankly, I considered the matter legally binding now.
Eric raised an eyebrow. The skeptical one. He possessed separate eyebrows with entirely different personalities. “That’s your scientific evidence?”
“It was an enthusiastic acceptance.” I nodded with complete confidence despite possessing absolutely none of the credentials required to make donkey-related behavioral assessments.
“It sounded more like a complaint.”
“You clearly don’t speak donkey.” Which was unfortunate for him because I was becoming increasingly fluent through absolutely no training whatsoever.
Eric let out a laugh. “No. No, I don’t.”
“I do.” Apparently. Another unexpected skill I’d discovered this week. Festival planning. Emotional catastrophes. Advanced donkey interpretation. My résumé was becoming wonderfully confusing.
Another bray.