Page 4 of One Hundred Humbugs

“Times are tough,” Becket replied, his voice low and earnest. “People are looking for solutions, for ways to make do with what they have. My goats offer an eco-friendly, cost-effective alternative to traditional landscaping. And in this drought? Every bit of green we can use matters.”

As Becket gave Marge his details, a particularly sharp bleat came from outside. He winced, recognizing Daisy’s voice. “Sorry about that,” he said, glancing nervously at the window. “One of my girls is expecting. Makes her a bit vocal sometimes.”

Marge’s eyebrows rose. “Expecting? You mean you’ve got a pregnant goat in that trailer?”

Becket nodded, a mixture of pride and worry crossing his face. “Yes, ma’am. Daisy’s due in a few weeks. It’s why I’m so keen on finding new grazing options. She needs the extra nutrition, you see.”

Something in Marge’s expression softened. “Well, now,” she said, her tone gentler than before. “That does puta different spin on things, doesn’t it?” She tapped her pen against the desk, thinking. “Tell you what, Mr. Shepherd. I’ve got a property on the edge of town. The old Wilson place. Been empty for months, and the yard’s a mess. Why don’t you take your goats over there. Consider it a trial run.”

Becket’s heart leapt. “Really? The Wilson place?” He nodded as recognition dawned on his face. “Yeah, I know it. Passed by it a few times—it’s been looking rough for a while.” He grinned. “My goats will make short work of that yard.”

Marge waved off his thanks. “Don’t make me regret this. And Mr. Shepherd? Make sure that mama goat of yours is taken care of. Times are hard enough without bringing new life into the world unprepared.”

Relief washed over Becket as he thanked Marge again. There were no guarantees, but at least it was a start. As he turned to leave, Marge called out to him.

“Mr. Shepherd?”

He paused at the door, turning to look back.

Marge took a moment before speaking. “It’s not an easy time to be starting something new around here, but I admire your determination. Best of luck to you.”

Becket dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, ma’am. I reckon we could all use a little luck these days.”

As he stepped back out into the cold afternoon air, a weight seemed to lift from Becket’s shoulders. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. But for the first time in weeks, he had a direction, a purpose beyond mere survival.

He climbed back into his truck, the familiar creak of the door a comforting sound. As he started the engine, helistened to the chorus of bleats from the trailer, picking out Daisy’s distinctive voice among them.

“Well,” he said, a note of determination in his voice, “looks like we might be going into the landscaping business.”

The goats bleated in response. It might not have been much, but it was a plan. And sometimes, that small step was enough to keep going.

As he pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the dusty road, Becket’s mind was already racing with the next steps. He needed to prepare the goats for their new job, maybe rig up some portable fencing. He’d have to work on his pitch, fine-tune it for different kinds of properties.

Becket and his goats were virtually nomads, left without a place to call home. The drought had already taken so much from them, and he knew this project needed to succeed—not just for himself, but for his animals. This crazy idea might be their first step toward reclaiming some stability, a chance to take back even a little of what they'd lost.

Becket drove on, the setting sun painting the barren landscape in shades of gold and red. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new doubts. But for now, he allowed himself to feel something he hadn’t in a long time: hope.

CHAPTER THREE

Ruby’s rental car crawled along the winding mountain road, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The GPS had given up miles ago, leaving her with nothing but the crumpled letter from the lawyer and her uncle’s cryptic directions. This was nothing like navigating Chicago’s grid system, where even the most directionally challenged could find their way.

“Take a left at the big oak that looks like it’s giving the finger to everyone who enters,” Ruby muttered, reading aloud from Uncle Peter’s note that was included in the letter. “Then right at the rock shaped like Nixon’s nose. What the hell?”

She squinted at the passing landscape, feeling more lost by the second. “Great. I’ve gone from the Magnificent Mile to a scavenger hunt designed by a stoned park ranger.”

Just as she was about to give up and turn around, Ruby spotted it—an ancient oak tree with one gnarled branch reaching skyward in what could be described as a wooden middle finger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said with a shake of herhead, taking the left. “Uncle Peter, your sense of humor is ... something else.”

A few minutes later, a lumpy boulder appeared on the roadside, its profile bearing an uncanny resemblance to the 37th president.

“Nixon’s nose. Check,” Ruby said, shaking her head as she turned right.

As she rounded the next bend, a wooden sign appeared: “Welcome to Aspen Cove—Population: Growing!”

Ruby snorted. “Charming.”

She passed a small green space with a gazebo—Hope Park, according to a quaint little sign—before Main Street came into view. And boy, was that a generous name for it. The whole town center was essentially one block. It made Ruby’s trendy Wicker Park neighborhood back in Chicago look positively metropolitan.

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