That girl didn't quit when things got hard.
That girl stayed. That girl fought. That girl figured it out.
So how was I going to figure this out?
I tapped my pen against the notebook, staring at the numbers like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
Money. I needed money.
Not a fortune. Just enough to cover the gap between what I had and what I needed. Enough to keep the farm running without draining the account to nothing.
I pulled the notebook closer and started a new list:Ways to Make More Money at the Market.
Eggs. I had those. Walt's regulars would buy them. But eggs were eggs—there was only so much I could charge for a dozen, even if they were farm-fresh and rainbow-colored.
Flowers. Same deal. Pretty, seasonal, but not exactly a money-maker. People bought them as treats, not necessities.
Vegetables. It was still early in the season—mostly fresh greens for now. Lettuce, spinach, some gorgeous rainbow chard that looked like nature's art project. Later I'd have tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, all the good stuff.
But that still wasn't enough.
I needed somethinginteresting. Something nobody else had. Something that would make people stop at my booth instead of walking past to the bakery booth two stalls down with their amazing pies.
Think, Rosie. What do you have that nobody else does?
My gaze drifted back to the window. The sun had nearly set now, painting everything in shades of purple and orange. Beautiful. Peaceful. Completely unhelpful for generating revenue.
Movement caught my eye. Snickers, standing at her pen gate. Pushing it with her nose. Testing the latch with what I could only describe asscientific precision.
Don't you dare, you fuzzy little criminal.
The latch held. For now.
But watching her—clever, persistent, absolutely determined to cause chaos—and something clicked.
Goat milk.
I sat up straighter.
I'd been milking the goats every morning, following Walt's instructions like a dutiful farmer. Saving the milk in mason jars in the fridge because I wasn't sure what else to do with it. The jars were piling up, a monument to my lack of planning.
Lotion. Soap. Cheese. Those fancy farmers’ market people loved that stuff. Paid ridiculous prices for handmade artisan whatever-it-was.
I could make those things. Couldn't I?
People had been making soap forcenturies. If medieval housewives could figure it out, surely I could manage.
My mind raced ahead, already seeing it. A beautiful market display. Rustic labels. Little sample jars of lotion for people to try. Bars of soap wrapped in brown paper and twine, smelling like lavender and looking expensive.
This is it. This is the answer.
I just needed the goats to collaborate.
I looked back out the window. Snickers had given up on the latch and was now headbutting Sugar for no apparent reason.
Piece of cake.
ChapterEight
