ChapterOne
Rosalie
“The goats arenotsupposedto eat your laundry, right?”
Uncle Walt laughed from the RV's driver seat, his weathered hands adjusting the rearview mirror. “Only if you leave it on the line past noon. Snickers gets hungry around that time.”
I shifted my weight on the gravel driveway, trying for a smile that didn't screamplease don't leave me alone just yet. The morning sun was already too warm on my shoulders, and it wasn't even nine o'clock.
“You'll be fine, Rosie.” Walt climbed down and pulled me into a hug that smelled like diesel and hay. “You've got this.”
“Sure. Absolutely.” I stepped back, mentally cataloging everything that had broken in the past three weeks. “The irrigation timer is making weird noises, the chicken coop door is held together with hope and duct tape, and yesterday Snickers ate half a bag of grain because I forgot to latch the feed bin.”
“She's always been an opportunist.”
“Maybe if you hadn't named your goats after desserts, they wouldn't have such an appetite.”
Walt's grin widened. “That's all Barbara's doing. We got to talking about favorite cookies, and… well, seemed fitting at the time.”
Barbara. The widow from North Carolina who'd turned my practical, routine-loving uncle into someone who wore his nicest flannel shirts and checked his phone every hour.
I'd never met her, but I already loved her. Walt deserved this, deserved someone who made him light up like he had when he'd shown me her picture. Last week, I caught him practicing what to say before a video call. It was both adorable and slightly terrifying, watching my down-to-earth uncle turn into a smitten teenager.
Still, the timing could've been better. I could've used another week with him. Or another month. At the minimum, after he'd finished teaching me which valve controlled what in the irrigation system.
“Snickerdoodle, Sugar Cookie, and Chocolate Chip,” I recited, watching the goat trio in question hanging out by the barn. Snickers, the cream-colored troublemaker with brown spots, was already testing a latch with her nose. Sugar, solid white and sweet, stood nearby hoping for treats. Chip bounced around them both, black and white and perpetually covered in dirt despite my best grooming efforts yesterday.
“Sugar's the only one who acts like her name,” I pointed out. “The other two are menaces.”
“They keep things interesting.”
Interesting. Right.That was one word for waking up to find Snickers had somehow opened the feed room and distributed hay across the barn floor while Chip headbutted the water bucket until it tipped over. Sugar had watched the chaos unfold, probably hoping I'd give her apple slices for being good.
Now that Walt was leaving, they were mine to care for. Along with two dozen hens who'd decided laying eggs was optional, a horse who needed careful feeding so he wouldn't overeat, and approximately eight thousand things I'd nodded along to when Walt explained them but definitely hadn't retained.
“You've got my number,” Walt said, jangling his keys. “Call anytime.”
“You're meeting Barbara. I'm not calling unless something's on fire.”
“Rosie—”
“Go.” I shooed him toward the RV. “Have fun. Be safe. Send pictures.”
“Callbeforea fire, please?” Walt paused with his hand on the RV door. “You know, when things are still smoldering and preventable?”
“That's what fire extinguishers are for.”
“The one under the kitchen sink expired last year.”
I stared at him. “You're telling me thisnow? As you're leaving?”
“Miller's Hardware has them on sale. James will set you up.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
“Already added to my list.” Right between 'figure out why the irrigation timer hates me' and 'convince Snickers that the feed room isn't a buffet.'
Walt's expression softened, the teasing fading. “I'm really glad you said yes to this place, Rosie. Wasn't sure you would.”
My throat tightened. Three months ago, I'd been sitting in my Seattle apartment with a broken heart and a phone call that had changed everything.How'd you like to run the farm?Walt had asked, casual as anything, like he was offering me leftover pie instead of forty years of his life's work.
