Page 38 of Saltwater Cowboy

Wren was already halfway to the pen before I even got the gate unlatched, her little boots kicking up dust as she ran ahead.

“Slow down, Wrenny,” I called, but she was too focused on the small herd of bleating baby goats crowding the fence.

“They’re so hungry!” she gasped, gripping the bottle in her hands like it was a golden ticket.

I stepped inside, closing the gate behind me as the goats swarmed around our legs, nipping at the bottles we carried. One particularly bold little guy—white with a black patch over one eye—headbutted my shin like he had something to prove.

“Easy there, bud,” I said, crouching to scratch between his ears. “We’re getting to ya.”

Wren was already crouched down, her tiny hands wrapped around the bottle as one of the smaller goats latched on, sucking greedily. She giggled, eyes wide with delight.

“Uncle Wells, look!”

I grinned, handing off my own bottle to another eager mouth. “Told ya they’d be excited to see you again.”

She ran her free hand over the goat’s fuzzy head, completely in awe. “I think this one’s my favorite,” she declared. “Her name is Biscuit.”

I eyed the little troublemaker still ramming his head against my boot. “This one’s definitely mine,” I muttered.

Wren giggled. “He’s a troublemaker.”

I smirked. “Takes one to know one, kiddo.”

W Squared Day is the best day of the month.

Not just because I get to spend time with my favorite person on the face of the earth—don’t tell Charlie—but also because, for once, I’ve got an extra set of hands around here, even if they were the hands of an eight-year-old.

I’ve been running this place on my own for three years now, and it sure as hell hasn’t gotten any easier. Long days, longer nights, and more work than any one person should probably take on. But when Wren looked up at me with those big, hopeful eyes and declared we needed goats—not one, not two, but thirteen of them—well… I never really stood a chance.

So here we are. Just me, my niece, and a whole mess of trouble wrapped in fur and tiny hooves.

We finished up feeding the goats and made our way inside, brushing off bits of hay and dust as we stepped into the kitchen. Wren scrambled up onto a barstool, swinging her little legs under the counter.

I leaned against the island, crossing my arms. “Alright, kiddo. We’ve got two options for breakfast—whip up some pancakes here, or head into town. What’s it gonna be?”

Wren tapped her chin, eyes full of serious deliberation. “Let’s make pancakes.”

“Yes, Chef.”

She giggled, clapping her hands. “I’ll be in charge of the chocolate chips.”

“Bold move.” I grabbed the mixing bowl. “Think you can handle the responsibility?”

She nodded solemnly. “That’s my job at home.”

After a truly massive mess—flour on the counter, batter splattered on the stove, and at least half a bag of chocolate chips mysteriously missing—breakfast was finally served. We sat side by side at the kitchen island, wolfing down pancakes like we hadn’t eaten in days.

Between bites, Wren leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Uncle Wells, do you wanna know a secret?”

I raised a brow. “Tell me.”

She glanced around, like someone might overhear us in the empty kitchen. “You know Auntie Rose?”

I nodded, already bracing myself.

“Her boyfriend was supposed to move here and didn’t.”

My fork hovered mid-air as her words sank in. Well, damn. That explained a lot. So that’s why she was such a pain in the ass on the plane.