Page 82 of Always Meant for You
But I don’t.
“You did,” I concede, taking her in. She’s mud-splattered and rain-drenched. Her black top clings to her body. She’s beautiful in a way that makes me weak.
The goat stirs, tiny hind legs twitching in her hold. She shifts to adjust him, but her grip falters.
She gasps. “Cal, I need you!”
I step behind her, one arm cradling the goat’s weight, the other holding her.
My chest brushes her back.
Her breath hitches.
“I’ve got you, Mabel. I won’t let you fall,” I say, remembering another tree. The one behind the barn. The one we used to climb with Jamie as kids.
I wonder if she remembers that?
We don’t move, not right away. The musty barn air hums with something I can’t name. The rise and fall of her breath syncs to mine. There’s stillness and peace. A quiet comfort I’ve been craving since I was sixteen.
“Cal,” she says, her voice soft and uncertain.
Maybe she’s about to ask me to let go or tell me that kiss was a mistake. I can’t give her the chance. I don’t want to hear those words.
“If you’ve got him, I’ll make the bottle,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.
She tightens her hold on the kid and nods. “Yeah, I’m good. We’re good.”
I measure the colostrum, each step automatic. But my mind stays on her—and that kiss.
My head tells me one thing. My chest, where that moment still echoes, tells me another.
I walk the bottle over to her. She’s perched on a bale of hay, the quilt wrapped snugly around the goat. She gently wipes the mud from his snout, then lifts the bottle to his mouth.
He turns away, stubborn from the start.
“You’re okay,” she whispers. “This is what you need, little one.”
She keeps at it, gentle but firm, coaxing with soft words and slow movements. He resists, jaw clenching, head shifting side to side. The little guy’s got more fight in him than I expected. I wasn’t sure he’d make it through the hour, let alone the night.
I take a seat on a bale across from her.
“This one is stubborn,” she says, mischief in her voice. “I’ll name him Cal.”
I balk. “You’re naming a goat after me?”
“You named a cat after me.”
Shit. I can’t argue with that.
“Cal the Goat is irritable and broody, but he’s got some fight in him. A little reserve, even he probably didn’t know he had,” she adds, her voice slipping into a soothing sing-song rhythm. “It’s a perfect fit for you, little one.” She tilts the bottle again, and when he finally latches on, pride flickers in her smile. “And look. I won. He’s taking the bottle.”
I could watch her like this forever. That smile. The way she hums and rocks him.
It’s hypnotic.
It’s always been this way.
Anytime Jamie mentioned Mabel was in the barn with the goats, I’d find a reason to pass through, pretending not to see her. But I saw her.
