Page 39 of Over the Line
But with him…
Her pulse thundered.
Every moment was special.
In search of coffee, she wandered to the kitchen and found a pound of ground beans.
As the brewer slowly dripped into the pot, she wished he had a single-serve unit like she did.
Since she lacked the patience to watch it splat, she rooted through the cabinets until she found a mug she could carry outside. Then, tired of waiting, she pulled out the carafe and filled her cup.
A single sip of the dark brew told her why it was usually served mixed with half a cup of steamed milk.
Desperate to make the beverage taste better, she walked to the fridge. Though he had a half-gallon bottle of unopened milk, there wasn’t a single container of anything with hazelnut or vanilla like she preferred.
Wrinkling her nose, she pried the lid off the glass bottle and almost swooned at the sight of the pure cream on the top. For a moment—well, less than a moment—she debated saving the treasure for him.
But then she greedily poured it into her cup. She hadn’t seen something like that since she’d been overseas as a child. Ranch living clearly had some advantages.
Fortified with a more palatable brew, she slipped into the sandals she’d discarded last night, then headed out the back door.
The morning sunlight blazed down, unobstructed by a single cloud.
She saw the land in a way she’d missed last night. Off to the left were several buildings. One looked like a barn, but others she didn’t recognize. A corral was in the distance, though she didn’t see any horses.
In front of her, a vista swept out to distant mountain peaks, some over twelve thousand feet tall, a few soaring higher than thirteen thousand feet.
She called the picturesque town of Evergreen home and had seen a lot of the planet, but this sight took her breath away as nothing else had. The adventurer in her wanted to explore. A walk would definitely be good for her unsettled mind.
Enjoying the peace and solitude, she made her way down the path and wondered how she hadn’t twisted an ankle last night. Without Master Michael’s assistance, she would never have made it.
She opened the gate and delicately picked her way through the dirt and gravel to her car. After taking a sip of the coffee that was much sweeter because of the addition of stolen cream, she placed her cup on the roof then opened the back door and reached inside for her duffel bag.
The moment she curled her hand around the strap, she was shoved from behind and went sprawling across the back seat. Yelping, she pushed herself backward and turned, ready to fight, either Master Michael or someone else. He’d mentioned having ranch hands, hadn’t he?
Her heart thundered.
No one was there.
Then she heard a pitiful bleat.
She looked down to see the smallest goat imaginable. It looked like a baby. A kid, or whatever young goats were called. Then she recalled Master Michael telling her it was some sort of miniature.
Collapsing against the side of the vehicle, trying to steady her racing heart, she looked around, embarrassed, hoping no one had witnessed her attempt at self-defense against a tiny creature.
The thing cocked its head to the side and bleated again.
“Nice goat,” she said, moving away from the car, crisis over.
It moved in again.
“Uh…”
It butted her hand then looked up at her with wide, unblinking eyes.
Good God. A tiny terrorist was imprisoning her.
She didn’t know much—strike that, she knew nothing—about four-footed animals. Since it wouldn’t have fit her parents’ lifestyle, she’d never been allowed to have pets, not even a goldfish.