I tore a chunk of the crusty bread off and dipped it in the bowl of freshly churned butter. "Dad, I'm taking the jeep into town for some potatoes and fish," I called out the open window of the kitchen. A short rain had passed through the river valley, leaving behind tiny crystals of water on the vines, along with a rainbow arching high over the river.

Sometimes, I opened my eyes in the morning and looked out the two French doors of my cottage and pinched myself to make sure I hadn’t woken up in a story book. Dad's vineyard was nestled amongst rolling hills, each planted in rows of grape vines that flowed along in unison with the slopes, making it almost seem as if the entire vineyard was constantly in motion.

Dad popped his head into the window. "Hey, get some olive oil too." There were no screens on the front side of the house, which allowed the cool breeze from the river valley to sweep gently through the century old kitchen. Most of the kitchen still wore, with pride, the plaster and bricks of those earlier days. There was no shiny chrome or polished granite. Just a massive cooking hearth, blackened from decades of use, and a pitted wood table that was sturdy enough to live under. Dad had made several concessions to the modern world by hooking a refrigerator and oven up to the generator. When I first arrived, I was sure I'd go mad from boredom and nuts from not having a place to plug in my flat iron. But after a few weeks, my naturally wavy hair and the lack of major technology, namely television, seemed easier and easier to tolerate. The scenery and culture and relaxed life quickly made up for it.

And who needed friends when you had farm animals. Seymour's bell alerted me to his arrival. The goat trotted into the kitchen and lifted his muzzle to search the edges of the table for something tasty. I grabbed a garden carrot from the basket and broke off the tip for him. He gobbled it up quickly.

Dad came back to the window. All my life, Dad had been clean shaven. He'd always worn shirts with collars and buttons. Now he'd taken to wearing his hair long, and it had grown pale gray from the sun. He almost always had a straw hat pushed down over his head, and today he was wearing his favorite overalls. The only thing about him, left behind from my childhood, was his laugh and his wonderful personality. Farm life had changed him dramatically.

"And don't let that smelly goat in the jeep. He chewed off the edge of the seat last time you drove him into town."

"That was my fault. He was hungry. I've already fed the herd, so he should be fine. Besides, he's my navigator. He bleats loudly when there are other animals blocking the road."

Dad shook his head as he left the window.

I grabbed my own straw hat off the hook and pressed it down over my wavy hair. My hair had lightened so much from the sun, and my skin was so tanned, I sometimes didn't recognize myself when I passed a mirror.

I walked to the jeep. Seymour trotted behind, with his usual goat bell theme music. He jumped into the backseat and hung his head over the roll bar to play navigator.

The road was narrow and especially rough after the rainstorm. The water had absorbed quickly into the brittle ground, but it had managed to carve out some deep ruts on its way down to the river.

Seymour's bell clanged with each bump in the road. He did an impressive job of staying on all four feet as we wobbled along the path.

The glove box in the jeep popped open, like it always did when I hit a bump just right. I reached over to slam it shut just as I circled the bend that led away from the river valley. The stupid thing flopped open again, and I reached wildly for the registration card as it flew past.

Seymour's bell clanged and he let out a low bleat. I snatched the card, shoved it into the glove box and snapped the warped door shut. As I sat up, a tall figure stepped seemingly out of nowhere. My hat pushed back and nearly flew off as I leaned forward and smeared some of the dust off the windshield.

An excited cry shot from my mouth, pulling Seymour's attention to the front seat. His bell clanged loudly in my ear, and I pushed his head back. The figure was still a good five hundred yards away, and I considered the possibility that I was just imagining him, like a thirsty person seeing a mirage of cool water in the desert. I'd daydreamed so often about seeing Joshua, about having him show up in Portugal, that I was sure I'd just conjured him.

Seymour bleated again and stared ahead with his gold eyes. I was fairly certain that the goat hadn't been daydreaming about Joshua. It was him. He was in Portugal. My heart nearly leapt from my chest.

Joshua stepped off the road to avoid the mad woman and her goat as they careened downhill in their rickety jeep. He kept his face down to avoid the dust from the road as we motored by. I stopped a few feet past him and stepped out of the jeep.

"Hey, you look lost. Do you need a ride?"

Joshua froze in his footsteps. His heavy backpack swung around as he turned back to me.

"Looking for someone special?" I took off my hat and tossed it into the jeep.

He slid the backpack off his shoulders and let it drop to the ground. "As a matter of fact I am. I think the girl I love lives somewhere in these green hills. Maybe you've seen her. She's about so high." He held up his hand. "And she has green eyes and a perfect smile." He walked closer, and everything about him melted my heart. He reached up and touched the tip of my nose. "And she has exactly twelve freckles on her nose. I know because I've counted them while she was sleeping. And she may or may not be wearing my Iron Maiden t-shirt. Oh and—" He stopped to fish something out of his pocket. He pulled out the packet of candy. "She loves Pop Rocks."

I grabbed the candy from his hand and threw my arms around his neck. We kissed long enough for Seymour to finally get bored and hop down from the jeep. He pushed against the back of my knee with his nose. I reluctantly pulled my lips from Joshua. We both stared down at Seymour, a goat who had no problem looking people straight in the eye. This time his annoyed goat gaze was trained on Joshua.

"It's a goat," Joshua said, finally. "And he looks mad that I've got my arms around you."

"He's probably a little perturbed, but the most he'll do is head butt you. Just watch out for your knee caps."

"Right." Joshua lifted his gaze back to my face. He pushed a wavy strand of my hair back behind my ear. "I like it with some curl. And I like these curves too." He checked that Seymour wasn't keeping too close a watch and slid his hand down over my ass. "Holy shit, have I missed you, Rebel. Are you surprised to see me?"

I shrugged. "Not entirely. I told Dad you'd come eventually because you were madly and hopelessly in love with me."

"I like your confidence. And yep. Pretty much had to come find out what my Rebel Love was up to out here in the middle of—" He looked around at the picturesque scenery. "An oil painting. This is incredible. No wonder you could never find time to text me back. I was almost thinking you'd found someone else, some tall, smooth Portuguese fisherman with a heavy accent and a silver earring."

"Oh, you mean Franco?"

His face dropped instantly.

I kissed him. "I'm kidding. Franco works in the vineyard. He's four feet tall and four feet wide with a nose the shape of cauliflower. And as my dad would say, he's a bloody genius when it comes to grapes. My dad's picked up all kinds of salty international language since he moved to Europe. He's quite changed. You won't even recognize him. He's given up his razor, tailored shirts and monthly trips to the barber. And he'll be happy to have more strong arms to help around the farm."

"Huh, is that right? What about you?" He tightened his embrace and pulled me closer.

"Oh, I've always been happy to have strong arms around me, especially when they belong to you."

I leaned back. "You don't happen to have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in that backpack? PB and J is sorely lacking out here."

"I might but first I need another kiss." His mouth lowered to mine. "Forever mine, Rebel Love."