I might be twenty-five years late, but I’m here.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, each step leaving a print in the fresh powder. I fill my lungs with fresh air.
We’re mostly a dairy farm, so the closer I get to the barn, the less fresh the air smells, but there’s always an underlying scent of apple, thanks to the orchard next door.
The barn looms ahead, its familiar silhouette a darker shadow against the lightening sky.
I hum one of my favorite songs from our last album. One that’s about coming home. I wrote it with Mik before everything changed. It’s about finding home everywhere we are, as long as our people are with us. Little did we know.
A small shape materializes from a gap between the fence posts, and I stop short. A goat—a goat?—stands in my path, its white coat almost invisible against the snow except for a ridiculous red ribbon tied around its neck. The animal regards me with an expression that can only be described as smug.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, and it responds with a bleat that sounds suspiciously like laughter and trots forward to headbutt my leg with surprising gentleness.
That’s when I notice the tag dangling from the ribbon. I crouch, already narrowing the list of possible culprits to a single person.
Gouta—because every wannabe farmer needs a GOAT mentor.
“Very funny, Taylen,” I say to the empty air. The goat—Gouta, apparently—bleats again and presses against my hand like a demanding cat.
I stand, intending to continue my walk to the barn, but Gouta has other ideas. She follows at my heels, her tiny hooves leaving delicate prints alongside my boot tracks.
“Go home,” I tell her, trying to sound stern. She responds by skipping ahead of me, then turning to wait with what I swear is an expectant expression. “Your dad is on the other side of that fence,” I add, already knowing it’s pointless.
Despite myself, my eyes are drawn to her coat, checking for signs of neglect or poor health. She’s clearly well-fed, her coat thick and healthy for the winter weather. Trust Taylen to make even his pranks are impeccably responsible.
“Fine,” I sigh as we reach the barn door. “But don’t think this means you’re staying.” Gouta prances in place, her hooves leaving little dance steps in the snow. I fight back a smile,already knowing I’m fighting a losing battle. “And don’t tell Taylen I said that.”
The goat's answering bleat sounds like a promise she has no intention of keeping.
The barn door slides open with a familiar groan, releasing a rush of warm air scented with hay and livestock.
I remove my glove and run my hand along the nearest stall, feeling the worn wood beneath my fingers. The grain is smooth from years of use, but I notice spots where the finish has worn away, leaving the wood vulnerable to moisture. Another item for my growing list of things to fix.
Gouta follows as I move deeper into the barn, her presence oddly comforting in the quiet morning air. She pauses when I do, as if she’s conducting her own inspection.
“Water trough needs cleaning,” I murmur, more to myself than my small companion. The goat bleats in agreement. “And that hinge is going to need replacing before it gives out entirely.”
A soft cough draws my attention to one of the stalls. Inside, Buttercup, one of our younger calves, stands with her head slightly lowered. I approach slowly, speaking in low tones.
“Hey there, beautiful.” My hand finds the spot behind her ears that she loves, and she leans into the touch. “That doesn’t sound too good, does it?”
The cough doesn’t sound serious, probably just the dry winter air, but I’ll keep an eye on it in case it gets worse. Maybe I’ll call the new vet anyway. It’ll give me a chance to meet him.
Next door, Daisy pokes her head over the stall door, demanding her share of attention. Her sister Clover follows suit from across the aisle, and suddenly I’m surrounded by eager faces and hopeful moos.
“Yes, yes, I see you all.” I move from stall to stall, greeting each by name, checking water levels and feed supplies, and topping up where needed. My body falls into the rhythm of thework, and I only pause when I remember to turn on the old radio my dad keeps in the barn because he insists the cows love the morning shows.
The insulation above the north stalls is showing signs of wear. More items for the list. The draft isn’t bad now, but it will be once real winter hits. I pull out my phone and start making notes: insulation, hinge replacement, water system cleaning. The list grows, but instead of feeling overwhelming, it feels right. These are problems I know how to solve.
A soft headbutt against my leg reminds me I’m not alone. Gouta looks up at me with dark eyes that are too knowing for a goat.
“What do you think?” I ask, reaching down to scratch between her horns. “Think we can get this all done before Thanksgiving?”
She responds by leaning into my touch, her presence steady and unexpectedly reassuring.
“Yeah,” I say, patting her head one final time. “I think we can too.”
The morning light streams through the high windows now, casting long beams across the barn floor. It’s time to let the girls out into the pasture.
