CHAPTER 7
Jake
I can do this.
For the short term, at least.
After Laken left yesterday, I thought about going to the town square and offering to sell the farm for one dollar to the first taker.
But then I realized who I was.
Jake McDaniel isn’t a quitter. Furthermore, he’s a competitor. I’d bought this damn farm to work it to my benefit, and I’ll damn well do it too.
I stayed up last night for hours, researching Nigerian Dwarf goats. I read every article I could find on how to care for them, breed them, and milk them. I took copious notes and made a list of questions for Laken.
Then this morning, I gamely stomped my way out to the barn to take care of the mama and baby goat. Or rather, the dam and the doeling to be technical.
Making sure to keep my groin out of head butting reach of the hungry mom, I feed her some alfalfa pellets and fill her water bowl. While she’s was wolfing down her breakfast, I watch for a moment as the baby goat walks around me on wobbly legs, bleating in hunger. Not once does she try to nurse from her mom, so I mix the powdered formula and make a bottle.
As if she can sense that I hold the key to filling her empty belly, the doeling starts to prance in excitement and falls over a few times due to what I assume is clumsiness. There’s no stopping the surge of fondness that swells within me as I watch her little antics.
“Okay, come here, little thing,” I coo at the goat as I sit down against the wall. I grimace as I stretch my legs out, knowing that another pair of designer jean are about to be ruined. I can also tell my two-hundred-dollar running shoes aren’t going to stand up to farm life as the treads are already filled with goat poop and red clay dirt.
The little goat scrambles right onto my lap, bleating hungrily. I wrap my arm around her and tip the bottle. She latches on like a pro, just like she did when I fed her last night. The best thing about feeding a baby goat is the way their little tail swishes back and forth so fast in ecstatic happiness, it looks like a hummingbird’s wings.
“You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you, Miss Goatikins?” I murmur, and the little tail swishes faster as she pushes at the bottle to suck the formula down faster.
“Miss Goatikins?” Laken’s amused voice comes from the doorway, and I mutter a curse over the spike of adrenaline to find her standing there.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I grumble after shooting her a glare.
And I’m also mortified she found me baby talking a goat.
“Miss Goatikins?” she asks again, this time no mistaking the mocking of her tone as she saunters into the barn.
She looks phenomenal in her faded but well-fitted jeans, scuffed boots, and a short-sleeved t-shirt. Her hair hangs in a low ponytail at the back of her neck, but the straw cowboy hat she’s got on takes the country girl sexy factor to a fifteen on a scale of one to ten.
“Every goat needs a name,” I say in my defense, and then realize that the nipple slipped out of the doeling’s mouth. She starts to prance on my lap, a tiny little hoof catching me square in my crown jewels.
The same curses I let loose when Miss Goatikin’s mom head butted me between the legs last week fly out of my mouth, and Laken does nothing but laugh. The doeling ignores my pain, grabbing onto the nipple again as I lean to the side slightly while I breathe through the ache.
“I see you’ve gotten the feeding down pat,” Laken observes as she walks over to the dam just finishing up the last of the feed I gave her.
And yeah… it’s hot to watch her kneel and perform her veterinary duties on the animal. Not in a perverted way, as she feels the udder and teats, but in the way that has always appealed to me as a woman exercises her brains and confidence. Laken totally knows her stuff. I saw that on Saturday when I helped her out, and I can see it now as she’s efficient yet gentle with the dam.
I’m surprised when she grabs an area just above one of the teats between her thumb and forefinger. When she gives it a squeeze, a small jet of milk squirts out.
“She’s producing,” I say with awe. I’ve never seen an animal actually milked before except on TV, and I’d always suspected it was much harder than it looks.
Laken nods. “Did Miss Goatikins try to drink anything this morning?”
“Wasn’t interested,” I say as my arm curls a little more around the doeling to position her to my hip. “Came straight to me.”
Laken chuckles as she stands up. “She’s bonded with you.”
I grin down at the cute little white goat. That’s sweet.
“Here… let’s see if we can get her to eat from the dam,” Laken says, plucking the baby from my arms. A series of yearning bleats come from the kid as Laken carries her to her mama. She places her on the barn floor near the dam’s udders and gives the baby a gentle push.
To my surprise, Miss Goatikins spins away from Laken and her mother and runs back to me.
But in fairness… I am holding the bottle she was just drinking from.
Laken attempts three more times to get the baby to nurse from her mother, but she’s having none of it.
Finally, she takes the bottle from me and walks across to the opposite wall. She sits down, holds the bottle out, and calls to the doeling with a soothingly soft voice. “Come here, baby. Come eat.”
Miss Goatikin’s tail gives a few nervous twitches, but she doesn’t move toward Laken. In fact, she takes a few hesitant steps backward until she bumps into my legs. I’m amazed as I watch her stare hungrily at the bottle, issuing a few bleats but refusing to go to Laken.
“Isn’t that sweet?” Laken says with a laugh. “You’re her mommy.”
“What?” I say in astonishment, the humor dying fast.
“I don’t think that doeling is going to feed from anyone but you,” Laken says with a chuckle as she stands up. She walks over and hands me the bottle. Miss Goatikins jumps directly into my lap.
On auto pilot, I offer the goat the nipple but look up to Laken in a panic. “What’s going to happen when I have to leave in two days?”
Laken shrugs. “We’ll have to keep trying to get her to eat from her mom, I guess. And hopefully, you’ll have hired someone who can do that.”
Any last vestiges of humor, happiness, and downright giddiness over the cuteness of a baby goat fades as I realize I have got to find someone to manage these goats super-fast. While Laken is here to help me in the interim, I can’t depend on her for the long haul. It’s not fair to her as she has her own business.
Speaking of which. “Did you not have any appointments today?”
“I did but I canceled them.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I tell her as I somehow push to my feet, holding Miss Goatikins in one arm and the bottle in the opposite hand. She doesn’t miss a beat in her nursing, but that puts me face to face with Laken.
Well… almost. She’s still several inches shorter than I am so I have to look down at her. “Tell me what I need to do today, and I’ll do it, then you can go back to work.”
“It was only two appointments,” she says casually. “My practice isn’t exactly booming, which is typical for a small country vet.”
“But you were busy last Saturday,” I point out.
“My busiest day of the week,” she confirms. “That’s when I do mostly small domestic animals for those people who work during the week. Most of my weekday work is of an emergency nature and for large breed animals. And you, Mr. McDaniel, happen to be an emergency.”
I chuckle and look down at the goat in my arms for a moment, then back to Laken. “Well, I’ll pay you quite nicely for your time today and whatever you do to help me.”
“Deal,” Laken says with a smile. “Let’s start by looking at your herd after you feed your baby.”
“Not my baby,” I argue to no avail, as Laken just snorts and turns to leave the barn.
♦
“I get now why you said there’d be no fancy dinner,” I groan as I lay back on the front porch of the farmhouse that came with the farm. It’s going on eight thirty, and Laken and I are side by side on the top step, drinking a beer. She’s worked beside me all day. We didn’t stop except to eat the sandwiches her mother brought to us around lunchtime.
Catherine Mainer Mancinkus was just an older version of Laken in the looks department. She was also sweet, charming, and epitomized the term “southern gentility”. She kissed Laken on the cheek and assured her she’d look out for Laken’s dog, Herman, the rest of the day.
This afternoon, Laken’s brother Colt showed up to introduce himself, and he helped me repair the fence that I had rigged rather poorly with wire last weekend. He was a genial guy but when he buckled down to work, we worked.
And worked, and worked, and worked.
I’m in shape. I work out. I run and lift weights. I’m a former professional athlete, and I know the meaning of hard work and sore muscles. But as I lay back on the porch with my beer resting on my belly and the belief that it’s probably just best to sleep right where I am, I realize there are different types of hard work.
“You okay?” Laken asks as she shifts to look back at me. Her face is streaked with dirt, and the hair at her temples is damp with sweat. She didn’t slow down at all today, she’s a good hundred pounds lighter than me, and she’s asking if I’m okay?
I try not to groan as I sit back up. I even give her a smile before I sip at my beer, but I see it in her eyes. She thinks it’s adorable that a full day of farm life has kicked my ass.
I didn’t know what farm life meant, but I found out today when Laken gave me the Farming 101 course.
First, she gave me a basic run down of goats and I was glad I’d done the research the night before as I was able to actually follow her. I learned about feeding, milking, and breeding. She pointed out that my entire herd of goats are does. For some reason, that surprised me. I stupidly asked, “Then how do they get pregnant?”
After she was able to pick herself up off the ground from laughing so hard, she explained to me about stud services.
I also learned about the enterprise of goat farming, such as selling off the milk and various cheeses I could make if I wanted, and I assured her that I did not.
“But Farrington’s goat cheese is famed in this area,” Laken said with disappointment. “You can’t just not make it.”
So I grudgingly added ‘figure out if potential hire can make cheese’ to my list of qualifications for a foreman.
The only other income the goats would produce were through the babies. They were usually weaned at eight weeks and sold off. Given the fact that my company grossed twenty-eight million last year, I wasn’t too worried about the business side of the goat operation. In fact, I was pretty sure that during the first year I owned the farm, I’d sell off all the animals to make things easier.
After my educational course, Laken examined every goat. There were twelve does producing milk, but only the one dam that had recently given birth to Miss Goatikins. There were seven doelings that Laken estimated were about six-to-ten months old.
It appears I own twenty goats.
That along with almost five hundred acres of farmland that I lease out, and another fifty acres of land to be developed. Of course, I have significant plans for that portion, which is how I’m going to run my farm at a loss and get the tax break.
After the examination, we corrected the goats’ diet by driving to the farm supply store and loading up on bermuda and alfalfa hay to supplement the pellet feed. She also grabbed a pair of goat hoof trimmers, and when we got back to the farm, she led each doe into the barn and trimmed their hoof walls down. She did this while mumbling what I think were curses, but she did it so low I couldn’t be sure.
It was clear the goats had not been well taken care of, and I’m thinking once Bob Farrington left Whynot and sold his farm, he did so without caring at all about the animals he left behind or who was in charge of them before I could take over operations.
I shift on the porch step, feeling pain slice up the muscles of my back, and I can’t help the groan this time.
“Pretty sore, huh?” Laken asks with a knowing laugh.
I give her a mock glare. “I think it was bending over the does to help hold them while you trimmed their feet.”
Laken nodded. “They were in terrible shape. It took way longer than it should have.”
“Felt like hours I was bent over,” I say with another slight groan as I shift onto my other butt cheek.
“I bet a nice, deep massage would feel really great on your back,” she murmurs in a slightly husky tone, and I manage to actually sit a little straighter.
Her eyes are sparkling with something I can’t quite put my finger on, so I ask her, “Why? You offering?”
“Not really,” she says with a grin. “Just saying.”
“You rub my back, I’ll rub yours,” I offer as I scoot a little closer to her. Suddenly, I’ve forgotten how tired, hungry, and sore I am.
To my surprise, Laken scoots toward me until our faces are just inches apart. Her hazel eyes are gorgeous up close, and I study the flecks of green, gold and brown within them before dropping my gaze to her lips.
“As I recall,” I murmur, setting my beer bottle down on the porch and bringing that hand to the back of her neck. “We’re both pretty good at rubbing each other.”
Laken lets out a tiny hum of agreement, and my eyes drag back up to hers. I find they’ve darkened to mostly gold and brown.
“Jake?” Laken whispers, and I hear the question mark in her tone.
“Yes, Laken?” I whisper back, bringing my mouth closer to hers. Just before our lips touch, I close my eyes. Her breath brushes my lips before her words do.
“You stink. And so do I. Go get a shower… and maybe I’ll consider dinner with you tomorrow.”
My eyes snap open and I groan with disappointment as Laken pushes off the porch step and bounds down the rest. She’s moving agilely while I feel a million years old from the hard work today.
Still, I have enough energy to look at how nice her hind end looks in those jeans. She jauntily swings herself up into her truck and gives a few honks as she heads down the gravel drive to the road.