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Nate

I came to Frasier Mountain for peace and quiet, and to be with my Seal buddies. We had a High-Security guard and rescue team, and a couple of the guys and I had a car shop where we worked on old, classic vehicles.

I stood outside when I saw a goat barreling across the trail behind my cabin as if it were late for a date. I barely had time to register the tiny bell around its neck before it headbutted my leg and kept running.

I stared after it.

Then I heard her.

“ Pancake! ” a woman’s voice echoed through the trees, exasperated, honey-sweet southern accent, and somehow both furious and adorable.

Another second passed before she appeared—boots unlaced, braid half out, a smear of dirt on her cheek, and a small mason jar of what I think was lotion in one hand and a net in the other.

A net.

She spotted me, skid-stopped like a cartoon, and narrowed her eyes.

“You didn’t touch him, did you?”

“…The goat?”

“Obviously.”

“I mean… he headbutted me, so I think he touched me.”

“Damn it, Pancake,” she muttered, blowing a curl out of her face. “He’s got a thing for legs. Sorry about that. His favorite thing to do is head butt legs.”

I blinked. “Don’t worry about it.”

This is Wisteria Bliss, by the way.” She held out the jar, as if that explained anything. “You smell like stress and man problems. Rub this on your neck before bed. It will soothe your muscles.”

“…Are you trying to sell me goat lotion right now?”

“I was going to give it to you for free, I knew Pancake would headbutt you, and this is a peace offering, but now you’ve got an attitude.”

I stared at her—this wild, beautiful hurricane with a goat named Pancake and a complete lack of personal boundaries—and I felt something shift in my chest for the first time in a very long time.

“Willa Mae Jensen,” she said, planting her hand on her hip. “From Honeywood. I run Jensen’s Jars & Goat Goods . You’ve probably smelled me at the farmers market.”

“That might be the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

She grinned. “Thank you.”

Willa Mae adjusted her grip on the net like she was about to catch a wild boar instead of a goat.

“Mind giving me a hand?” she asked.

“I don’t usually chase farm animals.”

“You’ll get a free candle,” she said, already stomping off after the runaway.

I sighed, glanced at the trail I’d been about to hike up, then followed her like a man walking into battle he absolutely didn’t sign up for. I put the lotion on the railing and followed her.

We found Pancake in the middle of my yard, proudly standing on top of a tree stump and chewing on one of my socks, from my boot on the porch.

“My favorite wool sock,” I muttered.

Willa Mae didn’t look concerned. “Consider it a donation. He’s working through some things.”

I stared at the goat. The goat stared back— chewing.

“You know,” I said, “for someone who makes soap, your whole operation smells like chaos. Are your goats always like this?”

She grinned. “Yes. That’s just the beginning. The goats love my vanilla and sass. Every time they smell me making it, they go wild.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you always chasing them around the mountain?” I asked, watching her.

Tossing the net over Pancake with alarming precision, “You have no idea.”

Once she had him secured, she put a leash on him and turned to me.

“Thanks for the help, soldier boy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You always just assume people have military backgrounds?”

“No,” she said, “but you’ve got the haircut, the posture. Plus, I knew some former Navy SEALs lived on this side.”

“I’m glad you caught your goat,” I said.

“I’m lucky I still have goats,” she shot back. “Now, you coming to the farmers market on Saturday, or are you too tough to buy exfoliating scrub in public?”

“…What time?”

She smirked. “Thought so.”

Saturday morning, I’d told myself I was going for the honey.

Or new sunglasses.

Or maybe to grab some eggs from the guy who wore overalls and talked to his chickens like they were coworkers.

But the second I stepped onto the gravel lot and saw her booth—bright yellow awning, wooden crates full of soaps, candles, salves, and an extremely smug-looking goat chewing on a sign that said BUY 2, GET 1 FREE —I knew exactly why I was there.

“Look who showed up,” Willa Mae called, shading her eyes with one hand. “Mr. Too-Cool-for-Conditioner.”

“Thought I’d see if I could smell like moonlight and goat dreams.”

“You’d be lucky,” she said, tossing me a bar of soap wrapped in twine. “That’s Vanilla Woods . Made it last night. Smells like the woods after rain. Also, men who chop firewood shirtless and cry during sad movies.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And do you cry during sad movies?”

“Absolutely.”

I picked up a candle labeled Lust in the Lavender Patch and turned it over. “Do you just make these names up?”

“Every damn day.”

I pulled out my wallet. “I’ll take four.”

She blinked. “Four? That’s like… boyfriend-level commitment to bath products.”

I leaned across the counter just a little. “I’m a committed man, Willa Mae Jensen.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

And I walked away—soap in one hand, candle in the other—before she could say a word.

“Behind me, I heard her mutter, “Lord help me, I think I’m gonna marry that man.”