Tug of war ensues. I pull. Houdini pulls harder. His hooves scrape against the boards as he digs in, stubborn as every chef I've ever worked with and twice as unreasonable.
"Rogan!" Ivy's voice floats up from below. "What's taking so long?"
"Goat negotiation!"
"What?"
"Your demon spawn won't let go of the tarp!"
A pause. Then her laugh, bright and unexpected. The sound hits me square in the chest.
"Pull harder. He respects strength."
I yank. Houdini releases abruptly, and I stagger backward into a support beam. Pain blooms across my shoulder blade.
The goat trots away, tail flicking.
"Asshole," I mutter.
Another bleat from somewhere in the shadows. This one sounds smug.
I make it down the ladder without further goat interference. Ivy's already dragged over the tall stepladder, positioned it under the largest leak. She's got her hair twisted into a knot at the base of her neck, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Rain drums against the roof. The leak spreads slowly across the boards overhead, dark as a bruise.
"Hold this." She climbs up. I hand her one end of the tarp. Our fingers brush. Wet skin on wet skin.
She pulls back fast.
We work in silence. She secures her corner with twine she produces from her pocket because of course she has twine. I tie off my end, looping it around a rafter twice for good measure.
The roof still leaks. But slower. More manageable.
"There's another one by the seed cabinet." Ivy climbs down. Moves the ladder without asking for help. Sets it up with quick efficiency.
I grab a second tarp.
This time when our hands meet, passing rope across the gap between ladder and rafter, neither of us pulls away quite as fast.
"You're good at this," I say.
"At what?"
"Fixing things."
"It's a tarp."
"Still."
She knots the twine with sharp, practiced movements. "You don't grow up on a farm without learning how to patch what breaks."
"Must be nice. Knowing how."
"It's practical." She descends the ladder. Wipes her palms on her jeans. "Not nice. Just necessary."
The rain picks up. Thunder rolls somewhere distant, a low growl that rattles the barn walls.
Ivy checks the buckets. Adjusts one that's starting to overflow. When she straightens, there's a smear of dirt across her cheekbone and her braid is coming loose and she looks nothing like the careful, buttoned-up woman who confronted me about sourcing three weeks ago.
