Page 69 of The Goat Next Door

A low, gentle chuckle drifts over the stone wall from the gravel lane.

I snap my head around, accidentally leaving a smudge of dirt on my nose as I do.

A woman is standing by the rotted cedar fence line, holding the handlebars of an old cruiser bicycle.

She looks so ridiculously put together that for a second, I wonder if she’s a hallucination brought on by early-onset farm fatigue.

She’s wearing a crisp, perfectly tailored linen dress in a soft sage green, her long, dark hair gathered into a thick, flawless French braid that rests over her left shoulder without a single strand out of place. She has a canvas tote bag slung over her arm, and her sandals are completely, impossibly clean despite the gravel road.

She looks like she stepped straight out of a catalog for high-end organic gardening tools.

“You know,” she calls out. “You’re supposed to wet the animal first, then apply the soap.”

“The subject refuses to cooperate,” I say, leaning my elbows on the wooden gate post, entirely conscious of the fact that my white tank top is currently translucent and my shins are caked in swamp muck. “I’m Emmy. The currently waterlogged proprietor of this establishment.”

“Amy,” she says, offering a hand over the wire. “I teach third grade over at the elementary school. I was just riding back from the library.”

“A teacher,” I breathe, unlatching the rusted wire gate to let her in. “Please tell me you came down this lane to rescue me from my own domestic narrative. I am thirty seconds away from letting Kevin inherit the deed to the property.”

Amy parks her bicycle against the cedar post with practiced precision, not a single movement wasted. She looks at the overturned tub, the running hose, and the three muddy goats currently eyeing her linen dress like it’s a salad bar.

“Arthur never washed those goats once in twenty years, you know. He always said they were self-cleaning models.”

“Well, Arthur didn’t have to live with them on the porch,” I say, grabbing the scrub brush from the grass. “But since you’re here, Amy, please tell me the local social intelligence network has already briefed you on who I am. It saves so much introductory time.”

Amy smiles, a small, elegant crinkle forming around her eyes.

She looks to be a few years older than me—maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine—with a calm confidence that I desperately envy.

“Oh, the faculty lounge spent the last two days talking about nothing else, Emmy. Word travels fast when someone buys the old farm with lottery money and starts a war with the local plumbing.”

“I am glad my structural collapse can provide entertainment,” I smirk, gesturing toward the two plastic lawn chairs on the porch. “Sit. Please. If I don’t talk to another human who understands the concept of a late-night cocktail or a properly formatted email within the next ten minutes, I am going to start debating professional suicide.”

Amy takes a seat, smoothing her linen skirt beneath her with total grace, while I collapse into the opposite chair, looking like a shipwreck survivor.

“So,” Amy says, leaning back and adjusting her braid. “The third-grade teachers are particularly dying to know… is it true about your parents? Bernice told the altar guild that your mother writes the books George used to hide in the tractor shed.”

I let out a loud, relieved laugh, my guard dropping completely.

“Penelope Wild is indeed their shared pseudonym.”

Amy laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “My sister and I read The Highland Rogue’s Desire in college during finals week! We had a whole drinking game based on how many times the hero’s shirt tore open.”

“It’s a classic of the genre,” I say proudly.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Mom: Darling, how’s the barn? Dad says if you find any antique ironwork, check the date stamp—could be worth a fortune. Also, hope you’re finding plenty of ‘inspiration’ in those woods. Don’t be shy, we know you’re a Wild.

I chuckle, tucking the phone away. “They’re very supportive.”

Amy looks at me, her gaze softening as she takes in my mud-splattered face and the dirt on my knuckles. “You’re a long way from Manhattan, Ember. But you’re doing fine. Most city girls wouldn’t last three days out here before calling a contractor from the city.”

“I have a highly rigorous pride mechanism, Amy,” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my arm. “And speaking of local contractors… I’ve had some assistance.”

Amy’s eyebrows go up, a very specific, sharp look entering her eyes. “Assistance? You mean Brooks?”

“The very same,” I say. “The Chief has executed a series of public safety interventions on my infrastructure. The man is essentially a walking volume of county regulations.”