Page 37 of Stick Around,
The events of Saturday night and Sunday morning still lingered awkwardly in my mind. After Kellan had seen me wearing nothing but Enzo’s shirt, with Enzo standing behind me in his boxer briefs, I’d expected... something. Anger? Jealousy? A conversation, at least.
Instead, he’d been buzzing around like a caffeinated hummingbird, dealing with social media, organizing for the influx of business, and talking excitedly about expansion plans without once mentioning what he’d witnessed.
I scratched behind Maple’s ears as she head-butted my leg for attention. At least goats were straightforward about what they wanted.
Guilt pricked at me, but I swatted it away. I was leaving in a few days. This was summer vacation fun. The kind of fun men had all the time without anyone batting an eye. Why should I feel bad about enjoying myself with two attractive men?
Pancake, the baby of the group, skipped over to me with her adorably awkward gait, tilting her head up for scratches.
I knelt down to her level. “You’re the cutest little thing, aren’t you?” She pressed her tiny head into my palm, and I could see why people enjoyed goat yoga now, even if goats pooped pellets everywhere.
Pancake cocked her head at a forty-five-degree angle, her right ear flopping slightly, and something clicked in my brain. That head tilt. Those eyes. The arrangement of cream and tan splotches.
I gasped and swiveled my head toward Butters, who was... not there.
“Butters?” I called, standing and scanning the enclosure. There was no sign of the oldest, supposedly dumbest goat.
The enclosure gate hung slightly ajar, and I stared at it in disbelief. I distinctly remembered latching the gate when I’d entered. I’d even checked it twice.
Maple bleated, unconcerned about her baby daddy’s disappearance. I gave Pancake one last look, now certain Butters was her father. The resemblance was uncanny.
I secured the gate behind me and moved quickly toward the barn, checking behind hay bales and feed bins. No Butters. The chicken coop had been Butters’ target once before, but when I peeked inside, I found only hens pecking at their feed.
A high-pitched giggle caught my attention. Rounding the corner of the stables, I spotted a small girl with pigtails strokingButters’ head like he was a dog. Butters was leaning into her hand with his eyes half-closed in bliss.
“Hi there.” I approached slowly so I wouldn’t startle either of them.
The girl looked up at me with wide eyes, like she knew she wasn’t supposed to be outside petting a goat. “He followed me.”
“I bet he did.” I grabbed Butters by his collar. “He’s supposed to be in his pen, though. And aren’t you supposed to be with the rest of the camp kids?”
She nodded, looking slightly guilty. “I saw him and wanted to pet him.”
“He is pretty pettable, but we should get you back to the group before anyone worries. What’s your name?”
“Griselda.”
I guided Griselda and Butters toward the side of the stables where the indoor arena was. Before we even got there, children’s voices echoed from inside. Pushing open the door, I was met with a scene of barely controlled chaos.
Nine other children between the ages of five and eight were climbing on hay bales that had been arranged in a semicircle around Tater Tot. Kellan was attempting to demonstrate how to brush him while Enzo tried to prevent two boys from dueling with grooming tools. Reid was trying to stop a girl from sticking a piece of straw up the horse’s nostril.
None of them appeared to have noticed a kid had been missing.
And none of them noticed a boy was doing the universal bathroom dance and repeatedly signing “R” in the air. There was no way these men were ready to deal with a child peeing their pants… or worse.
The three cowboys looked up as the door closed behind me. Their expressions morphed into identical masks of silentpleading. They handled thousand-pound animals daily but were completely outmatched by a handful of elementary schoolers.
I let Butters go, and I gestured for Griselda to rejoin the others before nodding toward the dancing boy. “I think someone needs a bathroom break. He’s holding up the bathroom sign most teachers use. R is for restroom.”
Reid followed my gaze. “Oh! Yes, of course.” He jumped up and ushered the grateful boy in the direction of the bathroom.
The remaining children continued talking over each other, grabbing brushes, and generally ignoring Kellan’s increasingly desperate attempts to regain control.
“One, two, three, eyes on me!” I called out.
The effect was immediate. Nine bodies froze in place, their eyes turning to me with the automatic response years of classroom conditioning had instilled in them. “One, two, eyes on you!”
“Let’s make a line against the wall, please.” I used my firm-but-kind voice. “We’re going to take turns brushing Tater Tot, but first, we need to review the expectations for behavior.”
