Page 8 of Buried Roots

Peering out the window, I don’t see anything, which is unnerving. But I’ve got a job to do, so I continue, stopping to study a large platform with bars beside a food bowl. Is this how I feed them? Imprison them, one by one? “Barbaric,” I utter before returning to my exhaustive search until I find what I need deep in the supply closet.

The minute I heave out the feed, the goats are on me like an all-you-can-eat lobster buffet. “Hey, beasts, I can’t feed you if I can’t move.” After wiping the sweat off my brow with a filthy hand, I check the feed’s instructions. It tells me that the amount I give to them is determined by body weight. “What the actual hell?”

I glance around for something that looks like a scale, but there’s nothing. Frankie didn’t leave this in her notes, so I’m back on Google, looking up the average weight of a goat, which gives a range from forty-four to three-hundred and ten pounds. Not. Remotely. Helpful.

A loud pop draws my eyes from my phone. A goat has speared the food bag with his horns, and now, kibbles are gushing out like a brown waterfall. “No!”

It’s a free for all—the food disappearing at a frightening pace.

Returning to my Google research, I discover that I could kill the goats if I overfeed them. Swell.

I drag my legs through the chaos and grab the bag, but when I jerk it away, one leaps up like Supergoat and knocks it from my hand, the rest of the kibble flowing through the air like a tidal wave.

The buggers eat every drop off the floor as I watch, helpless. “I dislike this game very much.” I fold my arms over my chest as I study the goats for signs of distress. “Please don’t die.”

When something pinches my behind, I flip around. “You bit my butt!” That rascally baby goat stands there, looking perfectly innocent… holding my package of Fig Newtons in his teeth.

I go to snatch my dinner out of his mouth, but he escapes. By the time I catch him and wrestle the package away, he’s got his teeth sunk into the two cookies. I pull at his mouth, trying to pry them out, but his jaw isn’t budging, and let’s get real—I could lose a finger. So, I let go, and he swallows everything in one gulp.

My pulse kicks up. “Are you like a dog and can’t have figs? Have I just killed you?”

He looks up at me, his chin covered in crumbs.

I frantically Google, “Can goats eat Fig Newtons,” discovering they’re safe in small quantities. Is two considered small?

As I scold the goat, I swear he looks sad. Or is he sick? Ah, crap—I’m going to have to haul him to the vet. He lets out a burp, then perks back up. I exhale a big sigh of relief before I say, “You better not end up worm feed.” I decide to name this guy Sir Fig A Lot.

His bleat tells me to chill. An unwelcome breeze on my backside draws my hand to my rear where a pocket hangs off. “Great.” I twist around to see a chunk of naked cheek showing. Good thing goats are my only company tonight.

After watching Sir Fig A Lot and the rest of the goats for what feels like eons, I call it. None of them look like they’re going to croak, and I’m exhausted, not to mention famished and snackless.

I could eat Mary Louise’s pie whole, but not for dinner. Something scrapes the window again, and my breath freezes as my eyes dart to it. It’s dark out now, but is that a man’s shadowy face I see?

I scream, and then he’s gone—leaving only a silhouette of a branch hitting the glass.

Phew. My backwoods-fearing mind’s playing tricks on me. When I flip the lights off and open the barn door to leave, Sir Fig A Lot rushes out. “No, you don’t!” Using my phone light, I wander into the dark, terror shuddering through. When I spot him halfway back to the house, I lure him into the barn with the Fig Newton wrapper, slamming the door shut behind us. After slowing my breath, I carefully open the door to leave—again.

This time, two of the big goats try to bust out. I stand my ground, backing the door closed again. A win, but I still have to leave.

Screw it.

I head toward the flapped doggie-like door for the goats and crawl out, pushing the beasts back while I go. Once I’m outside, I barely manage to put the cover over the flap.

After I let out a triumphant scream, footsteps rustling in the brush stop me cold. I swallow hard, a shiver rocketing down my spine. Whatwasthat? A bear? A cougar?

As I peer into the blackness, fear overwhelms me. Flashes of every eighties horror movie I’ve ever seen flip through my mind until I’m convinced a masked killer is about to leap out of the bramble.

4

The Note

“Willow?”It’sFrankie’svoice.I open my eyes to see her shadow approaching me. “You okay?”

I exhale a ragged breath before standing and wiping my hands on my jeans. “You scared the Bajesus out of me.”

“I dropped off the decorations and wanted to check on things.”

I lower my gaze. “I might’ve overfed the goats. They knocked the bag open.”

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