Page 13 of Rush Turner (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #6)

Rush

I t felt strange being in the house where I grew up. Mom and Dad decided not to sell this house when they moved to Florida to retire. Instead, they thought to keep it in case Rob or I wanted to move into it, now I was glad they decided to keep it.

I stopped at the hardware store to get some things before heading over to the farm.

I decided I would help get the place ready for the goats.

Jessa said they would be there tomorrow, and I noticed the fences needed repairing.

When I pulled into the farm, the whole family was out there working.

They had even raked out all the stalls used for milking the goats.

I wondered if they even knew what they were in for with those goats. I got out of the truck and looked around for Jessa. She walked out of the barn with a baby goat in her arms.

“I thought you were getting the goats tomorrow,” I said, walking toward her.

“Willa Mae brought this one over as a gift. She said Pancake was her daddy.” She smiled, “I hope this goat is nothing like Pancake. That goat is spoiled rotten.” We laughed because we knew that was true.

She looked adorable holding that tiny goat. I tried not to stare, but I was pretty sure I failed.

“Does it have a name yet?” I asked, scratching under the baby goat’s chin. It bleated at me, tiny and bossy.

“Not yet. The kids are fighting over what to call it. So far, we’ve got suggestions like ‘Snowflake,’ ‘Tornado,’ and ‘Fluffy Pancake Junior.’”

I barked out a laugh. “Please tell me you’re going with Tornado. That’s exactly what it’ll act like once it figures out how to open gates.”

She gave me a look that said don’t jinx me . Then she handed the goat to the youngest, boy Jimmy, who immediately tucked it under his arm like a football and ran off yelling about showing Aunt Marie.

“Hey,” I called after him. “Easy with Tornado!”

Jessa chuckled, wiping her hands on her jeans. I loved watching her around her family. She was gentle but firm, patient when most people would’ve snapped.

“All right,” I said, clapping my hands once. “Let’s see what damage we can do to these fences.”

For the next couple hours, we all pitched in.

I pulled out old nails, replaced boards that were more rot than wood, and supervised when the older kids insisted on helping hammer.

Jessa kept picking up my dropped nails before I could bend for them—something about her looking out for me made my chest tight in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.

At one point, Jimmy asked if he could hammer a nail. I held the board steady, gave him my hammer, and braced for a smashed thumb.

He did great—until he missed on the last swing and hit my knuckle instead.

“Ow! Little man, you aiming for me?”

He went pale. “I didn’t mean to! Rush, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine, buddy,” I said, shaking out my hand.

Behind us, Jessa laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bucket of fresh water she was hauling. She set it down and came over, prying my hand open to check.

“You big baby,” she teased.

“Says the woman who’s never been used for target practice.”

“Yet,” she shot back, raising a brow at Jimmy. Who looked like he was going to cry. You did a great job, you just have to remember to keep an eye on the nail,” she said, scruffing his hair.

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.