Wesley. Goats.

Wesley had been on the farm for exactly four days when he announced, with unreasonable confidence, that he “understood goats now.”

Loraine was not entirely sure goats were something a person could understand, but she’d kept that insight to herself and watched from the porch as he marched across the pasture with a coil of rope and a grin that belonged to someone who had never truly suffered.

The afternoon was thick with heat. One of those days where even shadows seemed to sweat. Wesley had rolled his sleeves up past his elbows in a move that was either practical or showing off. Hard to tell with boys that age.

He found the goats clustered under the lone tree, glaring at him in a way that suggested advanced judgment.

“Well,” he muttered, hands on hips, “which one of you wants to go peacefully?”

None of them did.

The biggest nanny trotted forward, head low, the kind of slow, confident walk that said plainly: I am about to ruin you. Wesley, undeterred, crouched like a man preparing for a duel he didn’t know he’d already lost.

The goat feinted left. Wesley feinted right.

Then the goat feinted not at all and simply rammed him square in the thigh.

He yelped, an undignified sound, and the entire cluster of goats erupted into chaotic motion. Dust rose. Rope flew. Someone bleated; it might have been Wesley.

Loraine found herself laughing before she realized she was doing it. A quiet, surprised laugh that slipped out the side of her mouth. She covered it with her hand, but it was too late. Wesley had heard.

He straightened, panting, hair stuck to his forehead, and shouted toward her with theatrical outrage:

“I had that under control!”

He did not.

Another goat dashed between his legs, nearly toppling him again. Wesley spun, tried to grab a horn, missed completely, and ended up lunging at empty air with the earnest desperation of someone who refuses to concede defeat even in the face of overwhelming evidence.

When he finally managed to lasso one, by what could only be divine intervention, he lifted the rope like a trophy, chest heaving.

The goat immediately flopped over in the dirt, legs stiff, playing dead.

Wesley stared down at it.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Loraine pressed her fingers to her lips to hide the smile, but it didn’t matter. He saw it. And despite the heat, despite the dust, despite the goat that had just humiliated him in front of a woman he clearly wanted to impress, Wesley smiled back.

And for one long, suspended moment, the entire field felt brighter.