Page 18 of Rush Turner
Jimmy nodded and scurried off, emboldened by her praise.
By noon, we had half the fences mended and the stalls lined with fresh straw. Aunt Marie’s voice called out from the house, “Y’all come wash up! Lunch is ready!”
You’d think someone offered them candy. The kids dropped their tools and bolted. Jessa started to follow, but I caught her wrist.
“Hey. You’re doing good here. They’re lucky to have you.”
She paused, her eyes softening, like she wanted to say something real. But then a chorus of “JESSA!” from the porch ruined it.
She grinned instead. “Come on, Rush. Before Aunt Marie yells your full name, too.”
We washed up at the outdoor spigot, took turns with the bar of soap everyone claimed was ‘clean enough,’ and gathered around Aunt Marie’s big wooden table on the porch.
She’d made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and sweet tea so strong it could keep a man awake three days straight.
Halfway through lunch, the baby goat—Tornado, I guess—escaped its pen and paraded onto the porch, knocking over a cup and stealing a biscuit straight from my plate.
“Hey! That’s mine!”
Jessa leaned back in her chair, laughing so hard she nearly fell over.
I decided right then that this chaos, this porch, and this girl—I wanted all of it. Even if it meant sharing my lunch with a goat named Tornado.
14
Jessa
Ithought I was prepared. I’d watched every goat video on YouTube, read three library books, and even called Willa Mae every night to ask about hoof trimming and milking schedules.
None of that prepared me for what it would actually feel like when three trucks full of goats rumbled up our driveway at nine a.m. sharp.
Rush stood beside me, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He looked at me like this was all my doing—which, to be fair, it was.
“Did you order an entire zoo?” he asked as the first goat hopped out the back and immediately tried to climb onto the hood of my van.
“They were a package deal!” I said defensively. “Willa Mae said I’d need a good starter herd.”
“Aherd, Jessa. That word should’ve been a clue.”
Before I could answer, Jimmy squealed, “Look at that one! He’s got horns!” and took off after it, nearly tripping over another goat that was inspecting the flower bed.
It was the beginning of the most chaotic day of my life.
Within fifteen minutes:
Two goats found their way onto the porch roof.
One squeezed inside the kitchen when Aunt Marie opened the door to yell at them.
The smallest buck chased Jimmy around the yard until Rush scooped him up—Jimmy, not the goat—tossed him over his shoulder, and deposited him on the porch for safety.
I tried to keep track of where they all were. I really did. But there were goats in the barn, goats behind the barn, goats under the truck, and at least one inside the laundry room trying to eat a basket of socks.
“Rush!” I yelled, half laughing, half crying, as he came around the corner carrying a squirming goat under each arm. “What do we do?”
He looked so serious, I thought maybe he was mad. But then he grinned, wide and reckless. “We do what we can, darlin’. And then we buy a lock for the kitchen door.”
By lunchtime, the kids were exhausted and the goats were suspiciously quiet. Which should’ve been my first clue something terrible was happening.
