Page 14 of Rush Turner (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #6)
Jessa
I thought 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.”
“A herd , 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.
Rush and I found them—five of them—standing in the open pantry, helping themselves to a loaf of bread and a bag of sugar they’d knocked off the shelf.
Rush leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying so hard not to laugh. “Well, Jessa. You said you can take care of them, and look you are making sure they have enough food.”
I threw a dish towel at him. He caught it and grabbed my wrist, pulling me close.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You’re doing fine. It’s gonna be okay.”
I buried my face in his chest for half a second, breathing him in. Then a goat tugged at the hem of my shirt, and I burst out laughing.
Outside, Aunt Marie shouted, “If they get in my garden again, I’m making goat stew for dinner! I just finished planting this morning.”
Rush winked at me. “Better get them out before that happens. We’ll have to build a cage for the garden.
Jessa
By sunset, the goats were (mostly) penned up, the kids had declared themselves never getting goats again—until tomorrow, when they’d forget—and Aunt Marie finally sat down with a glass of sweet tea, threatening to leave for Florida if another goat so much as looked at her garden fence.
Rush and I collapsed side by side on the porch steps, our jeans muddy, our shirts covered in goat hair, and our laughter echoing across the yard every time we replayed the day’s disasters.
One by one, the kids drifted off to bed. Aunt Marie shuffled inside last, muttering about needing a vacation. That left just Rush and me, alone under the porch light while the sky turned deep purple and the first fireflies blinked to life in the yard.
Rush leaned back on his elbows, looking so relaxed and content that it made my heart ache in a good way. He tilted his head, catching me staring.
“What?” he asked, voice soft, teasing.
I shrugged, grinning despite how tired I was. “I was just thinking… you didn’t have to stay all day, you know. You could’ve run for the hills when Tornado climbed onto your truck hood. You don’t look the type to chase goats around.
He chuckled low in his chest. “I could’ve run. But then, who would’ve rescued you from the pantry bandits?”
I nudged his shoulder with mine. “I had it under control.”
“Oh yeah? Is that why you were yelling my name like I was animal control?”
I rolled my eyes, but he caught my chin gently, turning my face toward him. The humor slipped away for a moment, replaced by something softer, heavier.
“You’re amazing, Jessa. You know that?” he murmured.
My breath caught. “I’m a mess, Rush.”
He leaned in, so close I could taste the sweetness of Aunt Marie’s tea on his lips. “Yeah. But you’re my favorite kind of mess.”
Before I could find a smart reply, he kissed me. Slow. Warm. Sweet, like the whole day distilled into one perfect moment on these creaky porch steps.
A sudden bleat made us both jump. Tornado—smug as ever—stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at us with a piece of Marie’s garden hat in his mouth.
Rush groaned. “That goat is the devil.”
I laughed against his shoulder. “He’s family now. Better get used to it.”
He kissed my forehead and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close as we watched Tornado trot off to cause more trouble. Until I caught up with him and put him with the others.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone. And I knew, no matter what tomorrow brought—goats, chaos, or stolen biscuits—I wouldn’t be facing it by myself. I had the love of this family that’s all I needed.