At the beginning, when I walked off the stage after our last disastrous tour, the calls were incessant. Our manager held them off with explanations about grief and the healing process, but there’s no healing in that world. It’s just survival and numbness, if you’re lucky.
And eaten alive if you’re not.
After a while, the calls and texts slowed, people realized I wasn’t coming back and then there was blessed silence for months at a time. Occasionally, someone would run a story on Gibson Hart’s fall from grace. The typical bad-boy, drug-fueled meltdown that’s too easy for everyone to believe.
I straighten, sucking in a deep breath and unclench my jaw. I was just starting to believe I was safe here. Anonymous.
Just . . . me.
I finish tying off the netting to secure the temporary fix and double check the goats, cursing when I realize I must have counted Ozzy twice earlier in the confusion. I look around for a downy, white head, my stomach sinking.
Stevie is missing.
Securing the gate, I circle around the fence, noting the boot prints that lead to the enclosure and then away. I zip up my coat and follow the tracks through the woods.
Whoever it was might as well have left a trail of gingerbread crumbs. The carelessness makes me wonder if it could have just been a lost hiker, or someone who saw the goats and got curious.
But the deliberate slash in the fence isn’t something an innocent hiker would do.
Either way, they had no business anywhere near my land.
And now one of the babies is gone.
A sharp wind whistles through the trees, and a few light flakes brush my face. Up here the weather can change in an instance and the spring sunshine from earlier has all but disappeared behind rolling dark clouds. This ice storm is going to be a doozy and the last thing I should be doing is tracking one of the young goats through the woods.
Inhaling the scents of crisp pine and snow, I push past the trees, something dark growing in my chest when I notice the slip-slide tracks visible in the rapidly freezing mud.
This place is mine. Private. Isolated. Safe. I made it that way.
Because I needed it to be.
“Stevie,” I call into the trees, my voice rough. “Come on, girl.”
I wander a bit farther, watching out for exposed roots and pushing heavy trees limbs out of the way as the sleet starts to slant sideways. “Stevie,” I call again. Most of the goats respond to my voice, but Stevie is still a baby. She can’t have gotten far. I just hope she didn’t run into a mountain lion or a lynx.
A thin bleat reaches my ears, and I quicken my pace, relief clearing some of the darkness from my chest.
The terrain on this side of the property is steep and pick my way down blinking the snow out of my eyes.
Then I spot the clearing.
A woman sits hunched on a boulder, her bright pink jacket standing out against the dense greys and browns. She’s got the coat partially wrapped around a familiar bundle. She’s shielding the little goat from the icy sleet, her bare hand trying to cover Stevie’s bobbing head. Even from here I can see the panic on her face, but she’s gently rocking the animal even though she must be getting soaked with Stevie in her arms. She tucks Stevie deeper into the shiny pink fabric, even though doing so leaves her back more exposed.
That stops me cold.
I step out of the tree line.
The woman’s head jerks up. Fear flashes across her features before her gaze locks on me and sticks.
I assess the situation all at once, moving slowly towards the woman. Mud-streaked leggings, pushed up over what might be an injured ankle by the angle she’s holding her leg. Dark hair falls out from under her bright pink hood, plastered to her cheeks by snow. Her eyes are too bright, too wide, the panic I noticed earlier holding her features frozen. She blinks once, twice, not releasing her hold on Stevie.
“You’re real,” she says breathlessly. “I was starting to think I’d finally lost it.”
“You’re on my land,” I say, bluntly. Was she the mastermind behind the breach in my security? Did she think she’d increase her views on Instagram or Tiktok by stealing one of my goats?
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t flinch away, not when Stevie bleats again, twisting towards my voice. A strong gust blows through the clearing nearly knocking her sideways.
“I didn’t know it was your land,” she says quickly. “I swear. I was hiking and… well, Iwashiking with someone and then I fell and then this baby goat showed up and?—”
