CHAPTER 1
ROGAN
The goat has my duffel bag by the strap.
"Hey.Hey." I drop the last box from the truck bed and lunge. The goat sidesteps with balletic precision, dragging my life's possessions through a mud puddle that shouldn't exist.
"Houdini, no!" A voice from somewhere behind the crooked bistro sign.
Houdini does not care. Houdini chews.
I grab the strap and tug. The goat's yellow eyes lock onto mine. Challenge accepted. We're in a full standoff when a woman in overalls jogs around the corner, ponytail swinging.
"He thinks it's a toy." She doesn't sound apologetic so much as resigned.
"It's a bag."
"He's not picky."
I yank harder. Houdini plants his hooves. My boots slip in the mud.This is my life now.
"Houdini!" The woman claps twice, sharp and efficient. The goat releases the strap, trots to her side, and bleats smugly.
I straighten, wiping muck off my jeans. My favorite band tee, vintage, irreplaceable, now bears a streak of rural Pennsylvania across the logo.
"Welcome to Pine Hollow." She sticks out a hand. "Maya Reeves. I run the farm stand two roads over."
Her grip could crack walnuts.
"Rogan Thorn." I nod toward the bistro behind me, its sign dangling at a drunken angle. One shutter hangs by a single hinge. The window boxes are empty except for dead geraniums and what looks like a bird's nest. "New owner."
"Heard you were coming." She tips her head, assessing. "Cora's nephew."
The name lands like a hand on my shoulder. I press my palm against the apron pocket where Aunt Cora's battered linen square sits folded. Four years of city kitchens, a dozen burns, one spectacular flameout, and this is what I've got left. Her bistro. Her mess. Her belief I could do something with it.
No pressure.
"That's me."
Maya's gaze flicks to the building. "Place needs work."
"Noticed."
"Roof leaks in the back corner. Stove's temperamental. Basement floods if it rains hard." She ticks off disasters on her fingers like she's reading a grocery list.
"You're really selling the dream here."
"Just figured you should know before you unpack." She nudges Houdini away from my truck tire. "Cora was good people. Kept this place running on duct tape and charm for twenty years. Town loved her."
Past tense. I swallow the knot in my throat and hoist the duffel over my shoulder. Goat spit darkens the canvas.
"Yeah. She was the best."
Maya studies me for a beat, then nods. "Need help hauling boxes?"
"I'm good."
"Suit yourself." She whistles, and Houdini trots after her down the gravel drive. Over her shoulder: "Farmers market's Sunday mornings if you need produce. Tell them I sent you. They'll only overcharge a little."
