CHAPTER 2
Laken
I get out of my truck and slam the door shut behind me.
With anger.
I sneer at the shiny silver Porsche in front of me, even though I’m slightly amazed that hulk of a man can so gracefully unfold himself out of the sports car. He parked it just inside the gravel drive that leads up to the main house of Farrington Farms. There’s a fenced pasture on either side of the driveway, the goats grazing to the right. There are still several enclosed, and I’ll grudgingly admit the man had the sense to roll an empty barrel in front of the broken section in an attempt to contain the other animals.
“There’s a damn slice right through the wire,” he mutters as we walk up to inspect it. I don’t see any of the goats that got out, and I’m thankful they’re not on the roadway.
I bend over to peer at it, noting the overgrown but dead kudzu that had been recently cut back. I’m betting whoever did it took a chainsaw and went right through the woven wire without realizing it.
Straightening up, I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the late day sun. I’d forgotten my sunglasses on my kitchen table this morning, but I’m always forgetting stuff. It’s just the way I am.
And there… just past the north end of the pasture, I see three goats grazing on the other side of the fence.
“Move your car out of the way,” I tell the man as I head toward my truck. “I’m going to drive up to the barn.”
He doesn’t argue but jumps to action, gracefully folding himself back into his sports car. He carefully drives up the gravel drive, pulling in front of the sprawling, two-story farmhouse. It’s newer than our house at Mainer Farms and has been freshly painted white in the last few years by the look of it. I drive past the house, around the side, and another fifty yards to the big gray barn.
As I park my truck, I look around and don’t see but the three errant goats. When I get out, I head into the barn, noting with distaste there’s not a lock on the door. While we are a sleepy farming community, I can’t imagine anyone not locking up valuable equipment and supplies.
It takes me less than a minute to locate the feed, and I put a huge scoop into a metal pan. When I walk out of the barn, I’m met by the huge man, who’s watching me with wariness.
A single shake of the feed in the pan and all three goats’ heads pop up to look at me with interest while they continue to chew the mouthfuls of grass they’re dining on. I have to admit to a certain fondness for goats. Something about their bulging eyes with rectangular pupils that convey a sort of genuineness of heart, well… it gets me in the feel goods each time I’m around them.
“Come on,” I call out, rattling the pan again. The goats start walking my way slowly, still chewing. I walk toward the north fence, continuously shaking the feed to entice them. It’s an easy enough capture because goats are always hungry and will go anywhere food is.
I open the fence and walk in. They all follow me. I set the pan down, the goats dive in, and I stroll back out, latching it securely behind me.
“I saw a coil of wire in the barn,” I say, pointing toward it. “You should be able to put a temporary fix to the fence until you can get someone out here to fix it.”
“There’s still one missing,” he says in reply.
“Another goat?” I ask to make sure.
He nods. “Brown and black, and really, really fat. Blue eyes.”
This means nothing to me. He’s describing the animal like I’d recognize it and say, “Oh… yes. That’s Tillie the goat. I know her well.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Where did you see it last?”
He pointed back down by the road, and I hope to hell it hasn’t been hit by a car and is laying in a ditch.
“Let me get some rope for a leash,” I tell him as I walk back up to my truck. I hop in the back, my cowboy boots clunking on the metal. Inside my tool box bolted to the cab, I pull out a length of rope and hop back out again.
“Get another pan of food out of the barn and meet me down there,” I instruct the man but I don’t look back at him. I’m still irritated he bought a farm and has no clue how to care for the animals. Admittedly, his foreman was nowhere to be found, but still… it’s careless at best, reckless at worst. Animals aren’t to be taken for granted. There’s really no excuse for him to have bought this place and not have ensured there was a good crew here to work it if he wasn’t.
I also don’t want to look at the man because while he may be a farming idiot, he’s also totally gorgeous and pushes every one of my buttons. He’s big, and I like my guys that way. Easily as tall as Colt, who stands at six and a half feet, but way more muscular. I totally have a thing for muscles.
He’s got dark hair, also a button pusher for me, but silver shoots through it and you can tell within a few years, none of the dark will be left. He’s not old, though, so I gather he’s going prematurely gray. He doesn’t look much older than I am at thirty. But best of all is his beard. It’s black and silver, full and soft looking.
Another weakness of mine.
God… if he has tattoos under that business attire, I would totally throw all my indignation out the window and put my charms on him.
Shaking my head to dispel those stupid thoughts, I stomp through the deep grass that borders the outside of the pasture fence. When I make it to the road, I hop the ditch that sits between the grass and the asphalt, then start walking west away from the farm entrance. My eyes are pinned to the small gulley the entire time, hoping I don’t see a dead goat lying there. It will slay me.
It always does.
As a veterinarian, I see my fair share of animal death. I euthanize animals that are old and in pain.
And it kills me every single time.
When I make it about a hundred yards down, I cross to the other side of the road and start walking toward the farm entrance. The man walks toward me, shaking a pan full of feed, and I can’t help but snicker as I hear him call out, “Here, little goat. Come here, nice little goat.”
When I’m ten yards away from him, I’m totally surprised when the brown and black goat he described bursts out of a row of blackberry bushes on the other side of the ditch. I see why he called it fat, or rather, I should say “her.” It’s a female, and she’s pregnant.
The goat rushes up to the man, and he puts the pan down on the ground for her to eat from. She snuffles at the feed hungrily, gulping it down and hardly bothering to chew. I deftly tie a loop in the rope and when she lifts her head to look gratefully at the man for feeding her, I slip it over her head.
She’s docile and doesn’t buck against me, and I let her remain in place for a bit while she continues to eat some more.
“Thank you for helping me,” the man says and his words startle me. I look over at him and practically groan as he pushes his dress shirtsleeves up his arms, revealing tattoos covering every bare inch of skin.
Just great.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter and look back at the goat.
It’s safer.
“Are you still pissed at me?” he asks.
“Yup,” I say, refusing to meet his stare.
“For what?” he asks, curiosity evident in his voice.
“Because you were rude when you came in the bar looking for me,” I reply stiffly. “And you looked right over my sister and me… I’m assuming because you couldn’t accept there could be such a thing as a female veterinarian.”
He makes a scoffing sound deep in his throat, and I look up to find his eyes narrowed. And wow, are they great eyes. Deep brown, soft, and expressive. Right now, they are expressing that I’ve pissed him off.
“I was in a panic because I was afraid the goats would get hurt,” he snaps. “Cut me some slack and I’m all for women’s lib. I don’t doubt your abilities.”
I shrug and nod toward the pan. He gets the hint and picks it up, and because the goat is still hungry, she follows behind him, knocking her head into his butt every so often to try to get his attention. It causes him to walk faster, which causes the goat to walk faster because he has the food, which then causes me to hustle because I’m holding the goat’s lead.
She continues to head butt him in well… his butt, and he finally breaks into a trot to get away from her. Whether she’s just really hungry or not, she now thinks it’s a game. She gives a little hop and kicks out her back feet, bleating at him.
“Give me the pan,” I say, which causes him to stop in place and turn toward me.
Unfortunately, the goat was in mid “head butt” and her prominent forehead slams right into his crotch.
I wince as he groans and drops to his knees with his hands gently cradling his precious stones. The pan of feed falls to the ground, and the goat starts eating it all up.
A string of curses leaves his mouth, which prompts me to ask, “Are you okay?”
He glares at me and shakes his head. “Do I look okay?”
“Not really,” I admit, nodding where his hands are covering his groin. “You should probably ice those.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” he drawls condescendingly. “Make sure to bill me for your advice, too.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, and I do it with gusto. Shaking my head, I tell him, “City boy… not sure you belong down here.”
“What makes you think I’m a city boy?” he grunts back, managing to stand up from the ground. The grass stains on his knees make a welcome addition to all the red clay stains.
“Fancy Porsche, no clue how to handle animals, and well… you just have a sort of snooty air about you,” I tell him truthfully.
“I am not snooty,” he says… well, snootily.
“If you say so, city boy,” I purr in response, tugging on the rope a little. The goat ignores me for a moment, but then starts to walk with me to the pasture fence. The man follows.
When we reach the fence, I put the goat inside, retrieving my rope and securing the latch. “I’m going to get the wire and patch the fence. You can go ice your yarbles.”
“I can do the fence,” he snarls, and I just shrug placidly.
“Fine by me,” I say as I turn to my truck. “But I expect you at my clinic at eight AM sharp tomorrow.”
“What?” he asks in disbelief. “Why?”
“I told you my help was going to cost you, and I’m down an employee. Well, my only employee, and I need an extra pair of hands for a few days until I can hire someone else.”
“I can’t do that,” he scoffs, and I cock an eyebrow at him. See… snooty. He catches my expression and amends, “I’m leaving in two days. Have to fly to Chicago on Sunday night.”
My gaze turns to the Porsche in front of the farmhouse. “You didn’t drive that thing down from Chicago?” I ask, but now that I think about it… it had a North Carolina plate on it.
He shakes his head. “I rented it at the airport.”
“You rented a Porsche to drive to a working farm?” I drawl. “Really?”
“I like to drive nice cars,” he returns with a low growl. “So sue me.”
I shrug again. “Like I said… eight tomorrow.”
“I’ve got work to do,” he counters.
“I know… at my clinic.”
“I can’t,” he maintains.
“Eight,” I reiterate.
He utters a low curse and scrubs a hand through his sweaty silver-and-black hair. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll be there.”
“Awesome.” I lift my chin at him. “I’m Laken, by the way. Laken Mancinkus, but you can call me Dr. Mancinkus.”
“Not bloody likely,” he mutters under his breath, but then levels a forced smile. “I’m Jake. Jake McDaniel.”