Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
I think I’m the only one living outside North Dakota who still appreciates this place.
Dad hightailed it out of the sticks as soon as he turned eighteen, and the few times he’d returned were to drop me off with Gran or pick me up again.
He’s in real estate now. High-end, luxury real estate that barely exists in Dallas, not counting the two billionaire families who’ve made fabulous homes here.
Dean, on the other hand, has country written in his soul. Forever the Nascar-loving, beer-drinking, wise-cracking, money-scheming brother. Dad’s tried his entire life to pretend he isn’t family.
He can’t stand sharing a drop of blood with Uncle Dean. Neither can my mom—she came from money.
Old blue Chicago business money.
The kind that leaves kids with three last names, so everyone knows you have a pedigree.
Mom was a dancer, like me, who, also like me, was injured in her prime. Unlike me, she’d healed in days and went on to dance for years before falling for a young dashing real estate broker new to the big city.
Hence the reason I’m here.
She wanted me back in the studio the first week after my surgery, when just climbing out of bed felt like scaling Everest.
Typical Mom, who always knows more than the doctors and therapists do. Just ask her.
Thing is, I’m not ready to step foot in that studio, and it’s not just because my knee won’t let me.
My heart puts up a much bigger fight. I’m so not ready to watch Jean-Paul and Madeline making eyes at each other, cozied up in the corner flipping through notes, his hands going places they shouldn’t be.
God, if I see either of them face-to-face again, I might just—
A loud bark jerks me out of memory lane.
“Thanks, Bud,” I tell Owl, who’s wagging his tail impatiently. “You’re right. None of that matters. Let’s get these goats in the field. Oh, wait, company?”
I stare up at a tall older man approaching in a starch-white shirt, bright green eyes flickering behind his oval glasses.
The Barnet’s valet and household assistant, Tobin, comes off just as no-nonsense as he looks. Uncle Dean warned me.
We exchange a few words, and I go over the job again, repeating everything I was told to do.
The butler nods with satisfaction and matter-of-factly assures me I shouldn’t have “the least hesitation”—his words—to contact him at the house if I run into any cause for concern.
Oof.
I shouldn’t be intimidated but...
Meeting Tobin reminds me this is real work. Serious business for a very influential family in town, and I’d better do it right.
It also makes me smile at just how strange little old Dallas can be.
“Okay. Go time,” I whisper to myself as much as Owl, rubbing my hands.
I walk around to the back of the trailer, unhitch the latch for the ramp, and lower it to the ground.
“Look alive! A dozen goats coming right up,” I tell Owl, while walking up the ramp to peek inside.
He runs toward the ditch and barks. I’m grateful it has a natural slope and doesn’t look muddy, so they shouldn’t have too much trouble climbing up and down to the field.
“Yep, that’s where you’re going, guys, straight to the buffet.” I unlatch the door and yank it open as he barks again impatiently. “Give me a minute, will you? I’m working on it.”
Looks like Owl isn’t the only one who wants me to hurry it up.
The goats start bleating restlessly, making these rumbling little grunts that echo off the trailer’s metal sides.
Uncle Dean says it’s just their way of saying hello. Right now, it sounds more like shake your ass, lady. We’re not waiting all day.
The tribe, which is what a herd of goats is called—it’s amazing how much I’ve learned about goats—is a mix of colors. Everything from solid white, spotted black, mottled brown, and one who’s this pretty ginger color. Most of them have horns and goatees, and in all honesty, they’re cute critters. Friendly, too.
“All right, Owl, you ready?” I ask, unhooking the mesh gate that keeps the goats from escaping.
He barks.
I let it rip, pulling back the mesh gate. “Sweet freedom, boys and girls. Do your stuff!”
I hold in a breath.
It’s almost anticlimactic. Slowly, the goats start plodding out of the trailer and down the ramp, looking around curiously. Owl barks and circles the ramp, nudging the first few onward, down into the ditch.
I’m watching the scene with a flicker of satisfaction when Owl sits and woofs at me.
That’s when I realize my mistake.
Oh, crap.
I should’ve opened the gate on the other side of the trench before letting them out.
Jumping off the ramp is my second mistake. The quick movement spooks the goats, and they instantly start running in all directions, kicking up their heels and bleating loudly.
Ugh. Totally not the smooth transition I hoped for into rent-a-goating.
I race down into the steep ditch and up the other side, thankful I’m wearing thick leather cowboy boots. The grass is too tall to see if I’m about to step on anything or not.