It’s steeper than I thought. At one point I feel like I’m running up a mountain.
At the top of the ditch, I’m almost to the gate when I get whacked in the butt so hard it tosses me forward.
“Ow!” I shout, grabbing the gate for balance, narrowly stopping myself from slamming into the big metal pipes. “That’s going to leave a mark, you brat.”
Spinning around, I glare at a large shaggy black goat.
He bleats and puts his head down.
That’s right. You should be ashamed.
But before I can dwell on my goat-wounded pride, I jump up on the bottom rung of the gate and scramble over the top before he can headbutt me in the butt again. “Ha! I’m not making myself an easy target, little guy.”
Too bad the troublemaker veers past me, crashing his horned head against the gate. The metal structure vibrates, and so does the fence it’s connected to.
Sweet Jesus. What have I gotten myself into? I wonder.
Owl barks up a storm, and though he’s busy rounding up goats, forcing them neatly into the ditch, I have a distinct feeling he’s barking at me. Telling me to open the damn gate, already.
“Working on it!” I shout back and run to the edge of the gate.
Of course, the latch is rusty and on the other side.
Of course.
Anything else would be too easy.
Sighing, I scramble up on the metal and lean over the top, fighting for the latch, fingers working for just the right leverage.
“The things I do…” I mutter. “Climbing gates isn’t on my list of physical therapy exercises. Neither is running through ditches the size of Royal Gorge!”
I’m exaggerating, but in my mildly panicked state, it doesn’t feel like it.
Then the gate vibrates again, courtesy of another horn-strike by my agitated, impatient jet-black alpha goat.
Owl woofs again, this time louder.
I let out a growl and dig my heels in, pushing against the rusty latch with all my might.
There’s a loud pop as it releases.
Hallelujah.
The gate swings open, its metallic hinges screeching beautifully. I’m about to turn around and give Owl a triumphant grin when I notice how it keeps swinging.
Oh, no.
With my weight giving it momentum, it flies all the way open, taking me with it, until I’m hovering over the ditch.
The very steep ditch.
“Crud!”
Now I’m suspended over the Royal Gorge of North Dakota.
This just gets better and better.
I can’t jump down. My knee won’t take an eight-foot tumble, maybe more.
So clutching the top rung, I try walking along the bottom pipe inch by inch, but my movement causes the gate to swing back toward the fence and the mischievous buck.
I swear to God he’s staring at me now, head down, and smiling—can goats actually smile?
He’s definitely waiting to headbutt me again. I know that much.
“Owl! Get that rascal inside,” I call out.
The dog barks, but he’s busy rounding up the rest of the dirty dozen, trying to keep them in a neat formation.
Pursing my lips, I keep still, holding on to the top pipe for dear life.
Maybe I’ll just wait. Once Owl has them all inside the field, I’ll edge along the pipe, making it swing shut. That’ll work, I think.
That dog is so smart, I have half a mind to tell him to shut the gate with me on it.
Over my shoulder, I watch as Owl does his job, general of his own little goat army. The animals make their way down one side and up the other of the steep ditch and through the gate, taking their sweet time.
Relief is almost in sight, but then I get this odd tingle at the base of my neck.
Almost like…I’m being watched?
Slowly, I turn my head to the road, half expecting to see that damn dark ringleader goat eyeing me again, plotting his next move.
Nope. Not him.
It’s a big blue pickup truck, and it’s slowing down to take in the glorious sight of my helpless butt swinging on the gate like a stranded raccoon. The flash of the driver I get looks younger than Tobin, too.
Awesome.
My very first job and the property owner finds me in a shamefully precarious position. Hardly part of the “expert crew” Uncle Dean promised.
Well. Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’ll just keep driving.
If it’s Ridge Barnet himself, surely he’s a busy man? The rich and famous have better things to do than stare at some hapless goat-chick completely out of lucky breaks…right?
Right.
I think the odds of me dancing in Paris next week are better.
And I know I’m completely out of luck when the truck stops and I hear a door popping open.
Oh, here we go. I turn away from the road and close my eyes, somehow hoping that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
This is already so ridiculous, what’s one more absurd wish?
“Hey, lady, you all right?” he shouts. “Looks like you’re fixing to play stunt woman in Ridge’s next Western flick.”