Page 45 of Salty Pickle

“I can rent something.”

It’s a relief to be standing again. “Thank you for coming.”

He closes the door. “No problem.”

“Did you have to cancel meetings?”

“I can move things around.” His face is grim. “I’m the boss.”

I wait by the gate as he gets into this car and backs out of the drive. I stand there long after his gleaming black car disappears down the lane.

He’s something.

The goats roam the big pen, and I spot Matilda by herself in the corner. Poor girl. She’s not used to so many roommates.

I hurry inside to grab her lead and spring her from the pen. It’s late morning but not too hot yet. We walk along the backlot, taking the dirt road that leads into the trees. She’ll enjoy foraging for brush.

It’s the farthest we’ve gone since arriving, but I’m feeling good knowing the baby is okay, and Court will be coming to the visits.

“I saw Court today,” I tell Matilda. “He was less salty than usual for a hot second when he heard the heartbeat.”

Matilda pauses to chew on a shrub. She doesn’t hold up her end of a conversation, that’s for sure.

I spin a fantasy while I wait for her to move on. Court and I outside a little house with a fence for Matilda, the baby running in the yard. We sit side by side on a porch swing, a gentle breeze ruffling our hair.

He puts his arm around me. And I’m content. Absolutely happy.

Matilda nudges my knee.

“Hey, girl.” We keep walking through the copse of trees until I hear the rumble of a motor behind me. We have to step aside as a refrigerated truck passes us on the road. The side of it is emblazoned with dancing cartoon steaks and the words “McKenzie Meats.”

What is that doing here?

I quicken my step to follow it until we hit a clearing. A sign here announces, “Halson Goat.” The driver unloads an empty cart and pushes it toward the side door of a long, sleek barn.

I glance back up the lane. The Halson family goat-milk operation is all housed in the front barn. What is this?

The smell is strong back here. I can hear the bleats of many, many goats.

At first, Matilda walks alongside me, but once we get closer, she halts in her tracks.

I have to pull and coax her into moving forward. At first, everything seems fine. More fencing, a huge pasture, and plenty of space beyond. Dozens of goats roam the wide pen.

These goats are males. I can tell by the smell. Probably they’re put here after kidding since only the females can produce milk.

But why so many? They far outnumber the milk goats up front.

The door opens again, and the delivery man wheels his cart out, stacked with boxes.

My heart hammers. He’s taking boxes from the property to his refrigerated meat truck?

I move closer. There’s print on the side of the box, an arc of words over an illustration of a goat.

Halson Family Farm Goat Meat.

Meat.

Of goat.

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