Page 103 of The Worst Possible Plan

And right now, I had four animals to save. Everything else—including emotionally constipated sheriffs—could wait.

Gerta announced another turn. Her calm, pleasant voice suggested this was all perfectly ordinary. Turn left. Continue for three miles. Rescue emotionally significant livestock.

I followed it through winding country roads lined with old maples and white fences until a weathered sign marked HILLS FARM came into view. The road narrowed to gravel, and the Jetta bounced over a few potholes with enough enthusiasm to remind me Sarah was absolutely going to ask questions if I returned her car making suspicious new rattling noises.

“There you are.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Please let this work. Please let me be five minutes away from talking a lovely retired couple into adopting four animals with nothing more than determination and wildly optimistic financial planning.

I pulled into the gravel driveway. Dust swirled behind the car before slowly settling over rows of lavender planted beside the lane. Somewhere nearby a rooster crowed with the confidence of someone who clearly hadn’t checked what time it actually was.

The farmhouse was cozy, the sort of place where homemade pie probably appeared without warning, and everyone owned at least three pairs of rubber boots. It was a freshly painted white, judging by the neat trim and the absence of peeling boards. Somebody clearly took pride in the place. It had a beautiful wraparound porch with flower baskets swaying gently beneath the eaves. Bright pink petunias spilled over the sides while hummingbirds darted from bloom to bloom, completely unconcerned with my rapidly escalating blood pressure.

A middle-aged woman in muddy boots was watering tomato plants while a man repaired part of a fence nearby. He wore faded overalls and a ball cap advertising some brand of tractor I’d never heard of. She waved before I was even fully out of the car. They seemed like nice people, wonderful, hopefully also with a weakness for emotionally persuasive speeches involving miniature goats.

I climbed out before the engine had fully stopped. Technically not the safest procedure. Emotionally, however, I felt speed was justified.

“Hi!” I was slightly breathless, slightly desperate, and entirely committed.

The man rested one boot on the bottom fence rail while the woman shut off the hose and brushed her hands against her jeans.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked kindly. She had one of those warm faces that made you want to confess everything, including things you’d done in elementary school.

“I’m looking for the festival animals.” I took another step toward them. “The ones from the petting zoo. The goat. Two alpacas. Little donkey.” I counted them on my fingers in case additional visual aids somehow improved the situation.

Recognition crossed both their faces.

“Ah, yes,” said the man, Mr. Peterson most probably. He smiled a little. “That little goat sure had some personality.”

“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Exactly.” Bandit. Professional menace. Amateur escape artist. My favorite tiny criminal who somehow wasn’t currently under arrest. “I’ve come to talk to you about them. About an arrangement, maybe?”

The couple exchanged a look. Not a long one. Just long enough for every alarm bell inside my head to start ringing.

The hopeful little balloon inside my chest popped immediately. “What?”

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Mrs. Peterson. “They’re gone.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain needed a reboot before processing those two words. “Gone?” Surely not. I’d only just gotten here. I hadn’t even delivered my passionate speech about friendship, second chances, and the emotional value of alpacas.

“The sheriff came,” said Mr. Peterson.

Everything inside me froze—every thought, every heartbeat, every remaining shred of optimism.

“The sheriff?” My voice came out more wounded than angry. I hated that.

Mr. Peterson nodded. “Nice fellow.” He leaned against the fence post. “Seemed to have everything under control.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled. “He arranged everything.”

I frowned. “Arranged… what?”

“He picked them up,” said Mr. Peterson.

My pulse doubled. Then considered tripling for dramatic effect. “Picked them up?” I repeated slowly, hoping maybe if I said the words differently, they’d suddenly mean something reassuring. “Where did he take them?” Please say another farm. Please say somewhere nearby. Please don’t say auction.

The couple looked genuinely apologetic. They weren’t hiding anything.

Then Mr. Peterson shook his head. “We don’t know.”