Page 80 of Always Meant for You
“I don’t know,” I say softly. “She’s not asking for help.”
I’m mesmerized. I’m not looking at the girl in lip gloss and heels. I see the one who used to race barefoot through the fields and challenge Jamie and me to catch her.
“Get a blanket and a laundry basket,” she says. No, she orders, her focus on the goat.
Abe glances at me. “Should we do it, Cal? Is she going to care for the orphaned kid?”
I exhale a heavy breath. “I’m not sure what we should do.”
Kenny shrugs. “It’s her family’s farm. Doesn’t she make the call?”
This land belongs to her. I’m not sure if it always will. But for right now, Kenny’s got a point.
She steps from the pen, cradling the goat.
“What are you doing, Mabel?” I ask, coming to her side.
“I’m trying to save his life.”
She turns to the Garver brothers. “Please, fellas, get a quilt and a basket from the shed. Bring them to the barn. He needs to get warm and dry—now.”
Kenny and Abe nod and take off without another word.
I lower my voice. “If you take this on, Mabel, you can’t walk away. You can’t disappear because . . .”
“Because?” she repeats.
It’s because I don’t know if I could take it. But I don’t dare say that.
I don’t answer. I let the silence do the work.
Rain streaks down her cheeks. “I’m here for eight weeks. That’s how long he’ll need looking after. And I know what I need to help him. I double-checked online. He’ll require a lamb bar device—the kind with rubber nipples on a trough. It’s still the standard for feeding for an orphan. We have one, right?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We do.”
“I’ll get him started on it once he’s stable.” She turns on her heel and heads out. “I’ll be in the barn.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, following.
“You don’t have to.”
I trail behind her like a lost puppy. “I know.”
Inside the barn, she flips the switch in the feed room, casting everything in soft gold. The storm presses against the roof, a steady percussion of water and wind. She shifts the goat in her arms, tucking him into one elbow while her free hand searches the shelves.
The little thing bleats, barely audible, a sound so small it cuts deeper than I expect.
He’s fading. That much is obvious.
I hate it, but loss is part of the equation on a farm.
“Where’s the powder?” she asks, moving around a few dusty cardboard boxes.
I lean against the doorframe. “What powder?”
She glances at me. “You know what I’m talking about.”
She pulls a teat bottle from a frayed bin. I grab the canister of colostrum from the top shelf and set it beside her.
