Page 5 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

H appy Horizons smells like damp hay, freshly cut grass, and optimism. The optimism is mostly Angel’s.

The ranch stretches out in front of me as I sip on my little porch.

Everything here works, because Angel and Scotty make it work, because the kids who come here in their darkest times need it to work, and because places like this, once they settle into your bones, become part of your operating system.

There’s a cow named Betsy watching me from the other side of the corral, chewing slowly. I nod at her respectfully. She chews judgmentally in reply.

With a ton of black coffee in a mug that says, “Warning: Math at Work” and a folder labeled “Receipts – Assorted?” I settle in to manage Happy Horizon Ranch’s finances before I dig back into the not-so-small task of saving Maple Falls. I need a mental warm-up this early in the morning.

I drop the folder on my little desk and brace myself for battle. There are twelve mismatched envelopes inside. One of them is sticky. Another has “Worms” written in glitter pen .

I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Concentrate .

I fire up my laptop and pull up the budget spreadsheet I’ve been maintaining for the ranch since they nearly went under three years ago. That was when I first got involved. Angel had put out a desperate call for someone who could “do numbers.” She’d expected a bored retiree. She got me instead.

Freshly dumped. No job. No plan. No return bus ticket.

A flight back to New York was never an option. Buses exist. So do trains. So does logic. And as I’ve said many times before, humans don’t have wings.

Three years later, I’m still here. Still organized. Still “too intense,” probably—but now I know that’s a good thing.

People like me keep things from falling apart.

I spot Edgar the goat standing by the water pump with something suspiciously paper-like in his mouth.

“Edgar,” I say, voice low. Warning issued.

He chews, and I’d swear that goat just raised an eyebrow at me.

“Marcyyyyyyyyy…”

Angel’s voice floats in through the window, carried on a breeze and what sounds like a goat stampede.

It’s amazing how much she has changed since I met her.

She used to have such a chip on her shoulder, but then she was a single mom to Andy, trying to run a massive charity ranch.

Now she’s got Scotty and his daughter, Lily, plus their own two-year-old terror named Lisette.

They make the sweetest family you could ever imagine.

“I need you to pull out the invoice for the Maple Fest popcorn machine!”

I shout back, “Is it in an envelope marked ‘Various Machines’ or ‘Paperwork I Think I Might Need’ ? ”

There’s a pause as Lisette starts wailing from the kitchen about crackers.

Then: “I’ll get back to you!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The woman is a walking hug wrapped in havoc. The kids love her. So do the donors. And if it weren’t for me, she’d be in federal prison for tax confusion.

I’m elbow-deep in reconciling a mystery charge called “Goat Yoga 4Ever” when my thoughts start to drift.

To him.

To the ridiculous French guy with the voice like butter and the timing of a rogue firework.

And yet…

Something about the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle he wanted to put together, unsettled me more than I care to admit.

This flutter in my tummy reminds me of a time when I was doe-eyed and na?ve. Like when I was with Paul?—

No. Not going there.

This isn’t about the past. This is about the present. And the present involves keeping this town from being bulldozed by a billionaire who likely thinks “redevelopment” is a synonym for erasure.

I glance at the clock. It’s hours later and I still haven’t eaten. I close the laptop, gather the folder, and make a mental note to email the mayor as soon as I do my initial scan of the land ownership documents I picked up from the Town Hall yesterday.

Wait, not the mayor. Ashlyn. And apparently it isn’t even the heir himself who has made all these threats, but some chump working for him named Jeremy Hunt.

The whole situation is odd, but isn’t that why I wanted to stay in a small town, specifically because it isn’t dictated by the rules of corporate big cities?

But being a small town won’t save Maple Falls from Victor MacDonald’s heir if I can’t figure something out, and that’s assuming the Frenchman won’t wander back into Town Hall looking for a second act.

He won’t , I tell myself. He’s not my problem.

He’s just another charming man with a flashy smile and no idea what it takes to stay.

I’m sorting receipts into piles— reasonable , questionable , and legally actionable —when the door bursts open.

Angel doesn’t knock.

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide and Lisette wriggling in her arms. Angel puts her down and she immediately runs into the field in front of my cabin to pick dandelions. “You are not going to believe what just happened at Maple Grounds.”

I look up, waiting for a story about scones or surprise marriage proposals. Instead, she stops mid-sentence and squints at my face.

“Wait a second,” she says, voice dipping. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The I’m-about-to-find-an-obscure-law-for-a-good-cause look.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s extremely specific.”

“It’s your brand. Marcy,” she drops into the folding chair across from me and leans forward. “What’s going on?”

I glance at the flash drive still tucked beside my laptop. The one holding deeds and documents that, if verified, could destroy our town. My stomach does that quiet turning thing again.

I trust Angel. Probably more than anyone in Maple Falls. She’s loyal. Kind. And she’s never once repeated anything I told her in confidence—not even when she was cornered by Mary-Ellen McCluskey outside the post office with a cinnamon bun and thirty-five minutes to kill.

But this is different.

If word gets out too early that Maple Falls is under threat, and that the mayor is off on a last-ditch save-his-marriage trip, it could cause panic. People pulling out of leases. Donors pulling out of Happy Horizons. If the gossip mill spins before we know what we’re dealing with…

No, I can’t tell Angel anything. Not yet.

I open my mouth to tell her something safe and vague, but I don’t get the chance. Because that’s when Edgar butts his head into the door.

Edgar may be a goat, but he’s also the animal version of everything I try to avoid in life.

He tears through the open door like he’s being chased by wolves, knocks into the folding table that doubles as my desk with his left shoulder, and sends three manila envelopes, a full cup of coffee, and the last twenty minutes of my sorting effort crashing to the floor.

“EDGAR!” Lisette screeches, and Angel lunges forward as I dive for the falling paperwork.

Too late.

I look up just in time to see the smug little menace chewing— chewing —on a corner of a receipt taped to a pink post-it labeled “Popcorn machine (maybe??)”

He bleats at me with his mouth full. I swear it’s taunting.

“Don’t you dare—” I start.

He dares.

“Drop it! Edgar, I swear, if you digest that before I reconcile October?—”

He sprints.

I follow, shoving past the office door and out into the sunshine, where five kids and a very excited border collie named Champ erupt into cheers.

“Go, Ms. Marcy, go!”

“Faster!”

“Edgar’s winning!”

I chase the goat across the gravel, dodging hay bales and garden tools as the kids hoot and holler like I’m running a touchdown instead of chasing livestock for paperwork.

This is my life now. This is Maple Falls.

And even on days like today—especially on days like today—I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I’ve got to help save this town.