For three seconds, I sat there. I looked at Pawsitive Connections the way he was about to look at it, and everything I’d glossed over at Deja Brew with charm and alpaca jokes came into sharp, unforgiving focus.
The main barn needed paint. Not in an abstract, get-to-it-someday way. The white had gone gray in patches, and the green trim was peeling in long strips that curled away from the wood like it was trying to leave. The sign above the entrance had weathered so badly that the P in Pawsitive had faded to a ghost. The gravel lot was more dirt than gravel, with ruts deep enough to swallow a boot.
I got out of the truck. Logan’s headlights swung into the lot behind me, and I found myself straightening my shoulders, tugging at the hem of my jacket, doing the thing I always did before someone new came into my space. Preparing the versionof myself that could explain everything before anyone had the chance to judge it.
My sister would have taken one look at this place and asked me what exactly I’d been doing for six years. My mother wouldn’t have bothered with the question. She would have let her silence do the work, the way she always did, standing in her Chanel flats on the rutted gravel with her mouth in a line that said everything she’d ever thought about her youngest daughter’s choices.
Neither of them had ever set foot in Montana, and they never would. But their voices had no trouble making the trip.
I shook it off and started building my answers before Logan had asked a single question.
The paint’s on the list. The sign just needs a touch-up. The gravel’s fine once it dries out.
He was still in his truck.
I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, took a breath, and walked toward him as he climbed out.
“Welcome to the empire,” I said. “Try not to be too dazzled.”
He stood beside his truck and looked at the property. His eyes moved the way they’d moved in the coffee shop, steady and methodical, taking in everything without rushing. The barn. The farmhouse up the slight hill with its cheerful yellow paint that was, thank God, still mostly cheerful. The fenced paddocks stretching out behind the buildings. The tree line in the distance.
He didn’t say anything about the peeling trim or the ruts or the sign. He just nodded once, slowly, and reached back into the truck bed for his duffel.
“Leave that for now,” I said. “I’ll show you where you’re staying after the tour. Let’s start with the important stuff—my babies.”
I led him toward the main barn. The doors were open, and the sound hit us before we crossed the threshold. Dogs barking,a rooster who didn’t understand that his job ended at sunrise, the goats butting against their pen wall because they heard my truck and assumed food was imminent. Somewhere in the back, Clarence was screaming a word I hoped Logan couldn’t make out from this distance.
“Dog kennels are along the back wall. But you’re not making it there without being accosted first.”
The goats got to us before we got to them. Pepper, the smallest and bossiest of the three, had already wedged her head through the pen slats and was stretching toward Logan’s hand with her upper lip curled back.
“That’s Pepper. She will eat anything you’re wearing if you let her. Buttons are her favorite.”
Logan pulled his hand back. Pepper stared at him like he’d insulted her personally.
I walked him past the cat room, which was really just an enclosed corner of the barn with climbing shelves, heated beds, and a baby gate that kept the dogs honest. Princess Whiskers was perched on the highest shelf, grooming one paw with elaborate disinterest. Three of the other cats were in a pile on a heated pad, barely distinguishable from one another.
“Twelve cats, give or take a few. Princess Whiskers runs the operation. The rest have accepted her authority.” I pointed to a tabby sprawled across an entire shelf meant for three. “That’s Meatloaf. He was feral when he came in. Now he won’t get off the heated pad unless you physically move him.”
The rabbit and guinea pig enclosures were along the side wall, clean and quiet. The ferrets were in a double-level cage near the door, both asleep in a hammock, tangled together in a way that made it hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Chickens and the rest of the outdoor crew are behind the barn,” I said. “I’ll take you out there after the kennels.”
We stopped at the first dog kennel, and I crouched down. Dobby, a brindle pit mix with one chewed-up ear and the gentlest mouth of any dog I’d ever handled, pushed his blocky head into my hand. I ran my thumb along the ridge of his brow, and he leaned into it with his full weight, which was considerable.
“This is Dobby. Came in about four months ago from a neglect case. Sixty pounds underweight, heartworm positive, scared of his own shadow. Now he’s eighty-two pounds of pure neediness, and he’s about three weeks from being ready for a forever home.”
Logan stood a few feet back. Hands at his sides, watching but making no move toward the dog.
“You don’t have to pet him,” I said. “Some people aren’t dog people. No judgment.”
“I don’t mind dogs, but, you know, they’re not so much my thing,” he said. “No offense to Dobby.”
“Dobby doesn’t hold grudges. His standards are incredibly low. His last owner kept him chained to a cinder block, so pretty much anyone who doesn’t do that is an upgrade.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “What sort of asshole would do that to a dog?”
“The asshole asshole kind. But Dobby is going to be just fine, aren’t you, buddy?” I let Dobby out, giving him lots of head scratches, and moved down the row.
