“Callie Thompson!” Dad’s voice booms across the fairgrounds. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything! She escaped! Goats escape! It’s what they do!”
I make another grab for Rita, this time catching her collar, but she’s stronger than she looks. She drags me three feet before I get a decent grip on her.
“Got you, you little?—”
Rita jerks hard to the left, and I stumble, careening into the table of perfectly organized chili samples. I catch myself on the edge, but not before knocking over plastic spoons that scatter across the ground.
“This is a disaster,” the MC announces, surveying chili-splattered carnage. “An absolute disaster.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter, finally getting Rita under control. She’s still chewing funnel cake, content and pleased with what, for her, is a well-rounded meal.
The chili judge lady storms over, her clipboard clutched in white-knuckled fists. “Miss Thompson, your goat has destroyed three hours of judging. The contest is ruined!”
“I understand that,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “And I’m really, really sorry. I’ll pay for damages, I’ll?—”
“You’ll do more than that,” Dad interrupts, having finally reached the scene of the crime. “You’ll apologize to every single person here, and then you’ll take that goat home and?—”
“And what?” I snap, my patience reaching its limit. “Chain her to a tree? Build a goat prison? She’s a goat, Dad, not a criminal mastermind!”
“She’s your responsibility!”
“She’s a force of nature!”
Rita chooses that moment to let out a long, satisfied bleat, agreeing with my assessment of her character.
The crowd that’s gathered around us, because of course there’s a crowd, starts murmuring. Phones come out again. Mrs. Delaney positions herself for the best angle.
“Great,” I mutter, tugging Rita away from the wreckage. “Just great. This’ll be all over Facebook before we even get home.”
Dad’s face has gone from purple back to red, which I’m choosing to interpret as progress. “You’re going to clean this up, Callie. Every last drop.”
“With what? My tongue?”
“Don’t get smart with me, missy.”
“Too late. I was born smart. It’s my curse.”
Rita bleats again, louder this time, adding her own commentary. Several people laugh, which only makes Dad’s expression darker.
“This is exactly why the McCoys think they can walk all over us,” he says, loud enough for the entire county to hear. “Because we can’t even control our livestock!”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I start to say, but I’m interrupted by the sound of slow clapping. “Rita is a pet, not livestock,” I mumble. No one cares.
I am holding my chin high as I walk away, Rita finally under control, when I spot three figures walking toward us through the crowd. My heart does something weird in my chest. The McCoy boys. All three of them. And they’re all looking directly at me.
This day just keeps getting better.
It seemsRita is not happy with the McCoy’s approach and she decides to let me know. I’m wrestling with her leash again as we watch them move through the crowd like they own the place. Which, let’s be honest, they kind of do. The McCoy family has been Cedar Ridge royalty for as long as anyone can remember.
The oldest one, Wyatt, I think, has his arms crossed and a scowl that could curdle milk. The middle one is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s seen all year. And the youngest one is trying not to laugh.
I’m still staring when Rita decides she’s had enough of my control and bolts toward them.
“Rita, no!” I sprint after her, but my boots slip on a puddle of chili, and I’m suddenly airborne.
I slam into all three of them at once.
