After another long moment of brooding, Roy eases into the coop and to the little chicken house to collect the eggs.

Saying nothing more about anything at all.

I smile through a sip of my morning latte. One of the baby goats—a white one with caramel patches—just leapt off a hay bale and is bouncing around its two siblings as if it has springs on its tiny hooves. “What kind of goats are these?”

“Nigerian Dwarf,” Roy says from his spot in the next pen over, his wrinkled fingers working on the goat’s udder, a steady-timed squirt of milk shooting into the metal bucket. When I arrived at seven this morning, with another bowl of fresh strawberries, Roy answered the door looking like he’d just rolled out of bed—his shirt rumpled, his salt-and-pepper hair standing on end, his gray beard scruffier than usual, the bags beneath his eyes heavy. I noted, from the front door as he poured himself coffee, that the bottle of OxyContin has still not been cracked.

And his foul mood certainly proves it.

He refused to let me carry the metal bucket out here and snapped at me when I reached for the barn door to unlatch and push it open. I’m learning, though, that if I ignore him and continue with what I’m doing, his resistance fades quickly. I see what Teddy meant about his bark being far worse than his bite.

He didn’t argue with me when I left him here to go to the chicken coop to refill the chicken feed and water. I even opened the hatches to the roost and collected five eggs from inside, which was weirdly exciting, seeing what the hens had been up to overnight. It felt a bit like a childhood treasure hunt.

The smallest of the three goats nips at another’s side and then bounces away, making me laugh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they’re cute.”

Roy makes a sound. “Those and Nubians are the only milkers I like. The others taste too musky.”

“What are you going to do with these three?”

“The two females will be ready to sell next week. I’m keeping the male for breeding.” He pauses. “You want one?”

“No. I already have one goat I don’t need, thanks.”

“Yeah, a useless wether. At least you’d be able to get milk from these.”

“I have a dairy allergy.”

He snorts. “Your generation and all your sensitive snowflake issues.”

I ignore that. “What do you do with all that milk in the fridge?”

“Drink it. Freeze it for the winter. I give a few jars away.”

“Can you sell it?”

“Not legally.”

Because legalities are a big concern for you. I eye Oscar and Gus—two animals that might have more wolf than dog in them. “So, you drink a lot of goat’s milk, then.”

“Been drinkin’ it all my life. I grew up on a cattle ranch, but they never could get me into the cow’s milk.”

It’s the first shred of anything about Roy’s past life he’s offered.

“Was that in Texas?” I ask casually.

There’s a long pause. “Yeah. In Texas.” With a pat against the mother goat’s side and an unexpectedly soft “good girl,” Roy slowly eases himself to his feet, using the pen’s fence post. His grimace of pain says more than words ever could.

“Would you please let me carry that bucket of milk to the house?” I can’t help the irritation in my voice.

He scowls. “Fine, but don’t spill any of it.”

“I’ll try my best not to.” I shoot him a flat look before reaching down to grab the handle.

The sound of an ATV engine approaching along the laneway sends the dogs off in a frenzy.

Roy groans. “Great. Just who I didn’t want to deal with right now.”

I’ve reached the porch with the bucket by the time Muriel appears around the corner, her bright orange helmet covering her head of tight gray curls, her gun strapped over her shoulder, the dogs running circles around her.

“Go on and take that inside before the bugs are swimmin’ in it,” Roy orders, wiping his hand on his jeans as he awaits Muriel, a grim expression on his face.

When I return, to my pleasant surprise, they’re not bickering but talking in low, civil tones.

“… probably the same one. Haven’t seen or heard him around here the past couple days.”

“They said it came way too close to them. The one guy ended up tossin’ his catch at it to buy them some time to pack up.”

“Dumb ass.”

They must be talking about that brown bear.

“My boys are down there tryin’ to scare him away before he causes any real trouble.” Muriel turns her attention to me and offers me one of those wide, crinkle-eyed smiles. “Just finished up milkin’, I see. Told ya you’d get the hang of things around here.”

Roy shoots a warning look my way.

If I wanted to punish him, now would be the time to be honest. “Yup. Sure did.”

“I got things to tend to inside.” Roy shuffles toward his porch as if his conversation with Muriel is over.

“So, I’ll pick ya up at eight on Friday?” She hollers after him.

“What for?”

She shakes her head. “So they can put a cast on your arm? You know, the one that’s broken in two places?”

He grunts. “This brace works fine.”

I sigh. Here we go …

“Don’t you even think about tellin’ me you don’t need a cast.”

“I’ll get myself there!” Roy barks.

“How? You can’t even carry a bucket of milk inside!”

“The hell I can’t! I only let the girl do it so she’d stop buggin’ me.”

“You need a cast.” Muriel’s hands have settled on her hips. “Unless you don’t ever want full use of your arm again. And then what good are you gonna be, livin’ out here all alone? You think we’re gonna take care of your stubborn ass every day?”

Muriel may be right, but her methods of persuading Roy leave much to be desired. His face has gone from ashen to bright red. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a heart attack every time she steps on his property.

I don’t have the patience to listen to their bickering, and I have no desire to be calling 9-1-1 again. “I will drive Roy to his appointment on Friday. He will get a cast so he can heal as fast as possible, because otherwise he knows he’s going to hear about it for the rest of his life,” I say to Muriel while glaring at Roy.

He grunts in response. “Fine.”

“Well … finally, you’re being smart.” Muriel’s lips twist. “I was just over in your garden, Calla. Looks like the strawberries are ready for pickin’. You’ll need to pull all the jars up from the cellar and …”

Roy hobbles away inside, leaving me to deal with Muriel’s grand plans for jam making.

Chapter Thirty

The sun is high in the sky when I hop out of the truck at Roy’s on Friday morning. They’re calling for temperature in the low eighties, which is only a few degrees less than in Toronto.

Roy steps out of his cabin with his mug of coffee as I’m walking toward his porch, looking slightly less rumpled than he has the last few mornings. Restless goats are bleating in the barn, waiting to be let out, and the chickens cluck. Somewhere in the distance, a chainsaw buzzes as it carves through wood.