Page 1 of Jingle Bell Flock
one
. . .
JEREMY
The temperature had dropped overnight,cold enough that my breath misted in the air and my knees were already aching—a sure sign that snow was coming.
After years of playing minor league hockey, my body had become a better weather predictor than our local meteorologist. The arthritis in my ankles had started acting up the moment I’d rolled out of bed at five-thirty this morning, and by the time I’d hauled my first dozen pre-cut trees from the back lot to the display area, my right knee was complaining, too.
But it was December in New England, and this was what we did.
WhatIdid now, anyway—ever since I’d moved home after Dad died, leaving my older sister, Jemma, and me the farm and a mountain of debt that made every sale, every customer, every dollar matter.
No pressure or anything.
Thank goodness we were already busy despite the early hour and the weather—a mix of families and couples wandering the cut-your-own section that stretched as far as the eye could see, while others were browsing the pre-cut trees I’d spent two hours arranging by size and variety.
Woodsmoke from the fire pit near the hot cocoa stand drifted across the lot, mixing with the sharp scent of fresh-cut pine. My boots squelched in the mud that seemed to be everywhere, no matter how much hay I put down.
I’d just finished positioning another pre-baled tree when I turned and saw it: a cream-colored goat wearing a Christmas wreath around its neck, standing in the middle of my Balsam firs like she owned the damn place.
Behind it, two more goats—one brown, one spotted—were systematically destroying what had taken me hours to set up this morning.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, setting down the pre-cut tree I’d been hauling toward the baler.
I swiped the back of my glove across my forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered despite the cold. My thermal shirt was already damp under my canvas work jacket.
This was the third time this month Harrison Prescott’s goats had escaped. The third time they’d somehow squeezed through, jumped over, or bulldozed past whatever fixes he’d made to that damn fence between our properties. The third time that I had to stop what I was doing to deal with his fucking livestock.
I started slowly toward the goats, hands up, voice low. “Hey. Hey, easy now … ”
The cream-colored one—Sugarplum, if I remembered correctly from Harrison’s Instagram posts—fixed me with an unimpressed stare and took a deliberate bite out of one of my trees.
“Oh, come on!”
A child’s delighted squeal made me turn. A family of four was standing near the hot cocoa station, two kids pointing and laughing at the goats. The mom had her phone out, taking pictures.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
“Have you guys added a petting zoo this year?” the dad called out, his voice carrying across the field.
Several other folks turned to look, interest sparking on their faces. Just what I needed—an audience for this disaster.
“No, this is … these aren’t supposed to—” I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to channel the customer service voice Jemma was always saying I needed to work on. “The goats aren’t part of our farm. They’re just … visiting. Unexpectedly.”
“Can the kids pet them?”
Before I could answer, their kids started running toward Sugarplum, who seemed perfectly content to accept their adoration. The brown goat—Kringle, my brain suppliedunhelpfully—ambled over to investigate, trailing a string of thick garland from his mouth.
Even more customers noticed the commotion, their phones out. A cluster of women near the wreath display were taking photos, cooing over how cute the goats were.
This was bad. These folks were supposed to be picking out Christmas trees, not getting sidetracked by wayward livestock.
I caught sight of the third goat, the spotted one, methodically eating the bows off the homemade wreaths Jemma had hung out for sale before she left earlier. The ones she, my nephew Eli, and her fiancé Charlie’s girls, Maggie and Lilah, had spent all night putting together. The ones that sold for $25 a pop.
“No! Stop that!”
I lunged for the wreath, my knee protesting the sudden movement. I ignored it.
