Page 8 of One Hundred Humbugs

“Crystal clear, officer. Thank you,” Becket said, trying not to sound too giddy with relief.

As the officer turned to leave, he paused, looking back at Becket with amusement. “And Mr. Shepherd? This town’s seen its share of crazy schemes, but goat landscaping? That’s a new one. For your sake, I hope it works out.”

Watching the cruiser drive away, Becket let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He turned back to his goats, Daisy front and center, eyeing him with what he swore was judgment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he told her, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. “This was your idea, remember? You’re the one who decided to get knocked up at the most inconvenient time possible.”

Daisy responded by attempting to eat his shirt.

“Alright, alright,” Becket said, gently pushing her away. “I get it. Less talking, more setting up. We’ve got a job to do.”

Luckily, he’d had the foresight to load the portable fencing in his truck that morning, knowing the goats would need an enclosure. As he began to unload it, Becket ran through his mental checklist. He knew from experience that his herd could clear about a quarter acre per day if the vegetation wasn’t too dense. Looking at the overgrown field before him, he estimated it would take at least a week to make a real dent.

“Okay, gang,” he said, addressing his herd of nannies, billies, and kids as he set up the first section of fencing. “Here’s the deal. We’re going to tackle this place in sections. Can’t have you eating everything in sight on the first night, or we’ll be out of a job before we start.”

He raised an eyebrow as the goats bleated back. “Iknow, I know. You’re all overachievers. But trust me, pacing ourselves is key here.”

As the sun began to set, Becket finished setting up a modest enclosure, enough to keep the goats busy for the night without decimating the entire property. He would move the fencing each day, which would allow the goats to systematically clear the land.

“There we go,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “Home sweet home, at least for tonight.”

Becket let out a contented sigh as he watched them, pride swelling in his chest.

Despite everything, there was something deeply satisfying about seeing his herd do what they did best.

As the last light of day faded and stars began to twinkle above the overgrown field, Becket allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. This wasn’t where he’d expected to end up, but then again, life had a way of throwing curveballs.

“Well, gang,” he said, watching his diverse herd settle into their work, “looks like we might just have a shot at this after all. Let’s show Silver Springs what a bunch of goats can do.”

He patted Daisy’s side. “And you, mama, let’s get through this job before you decide to add to our workforce, okay?”

As he set up his own modest camp for the night, a glimmer of hope sparked in Becket. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And who knew? Maybe by Christmas, this crazy scheme of his might just turn into the gift he and his goats so desperately needed.

“Merry almost-Christmas to us,” he said as the goats munched, their chewing filling the night air. “Here’s to new beginnings, one weed at a time.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Ruby awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows, illuminating the cluttered living room of Uncle Peter’s house. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, surrounded by teetering piles of ... well, everything. A spring dug into her back, and her neck ached from the awkward angle she’d been lying in.

“Right,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Inherited hoarder’s paradise. Not a dream.”

As she sat up, a cascade of papers slid off her lap onto the floor. Ruby sighed, reaching down to gather them. Her hand paused as she caught sight of a faded photograph peeking out from the pile.

It was Uncle Peter, much younger than she’d ever known him, standing proudly in front of a vintage car. His arm was around a woman Ruby didn’t recognize, both of them looking happily at the camera. The woman’s blonde hair caught the sunlight, and Uncle Peter was looking at her with unmistakable adoration.

“What other secrets are you hiding in here, Uncle Peter?” Ruby mused, setting the photo aside.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since ... when? Yesterday’s drive? With a groan, Ruby hauled herself off the couch and picked her way through the clutter towards what she hoped was the kitchen.

The scene that greeted her was somehow both what she expected and utterly surprising. Every surface was covered in mismatched kitchenware and what looked like souvenirs from every state fair in Colorado. It was as if a flea market had exploded and then been left to gather dust for a decade.

“Okay,” Ruby said to the empty room, “let’s see if there’s anything edible in this ... museum of randomness.”

She opened a cabinet, to be met with an avalanche of mismatched Tupperware. Dodging the falling plastic, Ruby laughed. “You never threw anything away, did you?”

After some rummaging, she managed to unearth a box of crackers that was slightly past its expiration date and a jar of peanut butter that looked safe enough. It wasn’t a gourmet breakfast, but it would do.

As she picked at the stale crackers and peanut butter, Ruby’s eyes drifted to the window. What she saw didn’t quite line up with her expectations—or reality, for that matter. Beyond the property, the land looked thirsty, like the drought had sucked every last drop of life from the earth. But Uncle Peter’s house? It was the complete opposite. The lawn was a riot of green, overgrown with wild vegetation and weeds that stood out like an oasis in the middle of a desert. It was as if this house had missed the memo about the drought entirely.

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