Page 1 of Nate Hayes

1

Nate

Icame to Frasier Mountain for peace and quiet, and to be with my Seal buddies. We had a High-Security guard and rescue team, and a couple of the guys and I had a car shop where we worked on old, classic vehicles.

I stood outside when I saw a goat barreling across the trail behind my cabin as if it were late for a date. I barely had time to register the tiny bell around its neck before it headbutted my leg and kept running.

I stared after it.

Then I heard her.

“Pancake!” a woman’s voice echoed through the trees, exasperated, honey-sweet southern accent, and somehow both furious and adorable.

Another second passed before she appeared—boots unlaced, braid half out, a smear of dirt on her cheek, and a small mason jar of what Ithinkwas lotion in one hand and a net in the other.

Anet.

She spotted me, skid-stopped like a cartoon, and narrowed her eyes.

“You didn’t touch him, did you?”

“…The goat?”

“Obviously.”

“I mean… he headbutted me, so I think he touched me.”

“Damn it, Pancake,” she muttered, blowing a curl out of her face. “He’s got a thing for legs. Sorry about that. His favorite thing to do is head butt legs.”

I blinked. “Don’t worry about it.”

This is Wisteria Bliss, by the way.” She held out the jar, as if that explained anything. “You smell like stress and man problems. Rub this on your neck before bed. It will soothe your muscles.”

“…Are you trying to sell me goat lotion right now?”

“Iwasgoing to give it to you for free, I knew Pancake would headbutt you, and this is a peace offering, but now you’ve got an attitude.”

I stared at her—this wild, beautiful hurricane with a goat named Pancake and a complete lack of personal boundaries—and I felt something shift in my chest for the first time in a very long time.

“Willa Mae Jensen,” she said, planting her hand on her hip. “From Honeywood. I runJensen’s Jars & Goat Goods. You’ve probably smelled me at the farmers market.”

“That might be the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

She grinned. “Thank you.”

Willa Mae adjusted her grip on the net like she was about to catch a wild boar instead of a goat.

“Mind giving me a hand?” she asked.

“I don’t usually chase farm animals.”

“You’ll get a free candle,” she said, already stomping off after the runaway.

I sighed, glanced at the trail I’d been about to hike up, then followed her like a man walking into battle he absolutely didn’t sign up for. I put the lotion on the railing and followed her.

We found Pancake in the middle of my yard, proudly standing on top of a tree stump and chewing on one of my socks, from my boot on the porch.

“My favorite wool sock,” I muttered.

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