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I narrowed my eyes at him.

He winked.

I turned forward again. “Fine.”

That got him. “Fine?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not going to ask?”

“I did ask. You didn’t answer.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay, good.”

Ruckus snorted. Clayton kicked him again.

The drive from the shop wasn’t long. Briar thinned quickly from businesses to houses and then acreage. Most homes out our way sat well apart.

The Piper and Bishop houses were the exception, built close enough that from my bedroom I could see straight into theirs. Trees bordered the far side of the Bishop property, with the next house several acres beyond. Our outer neighbor sat farther off too, mostly hidden by oak and cedar.

We turned onto the Bishop drive.

And there was, in fact, a goat. It stood in the bed of Riot’s truck.

I stared. The goat stared back.

It was brown and white, medium-sized, with short horns and an expression that somehow managed to look more judgmental than curious. A rope had been secured loosely enough for it to move around the truck bed, and beside it sat a bucket of water and what looked like a pan of feed.

I looked over my shoulder.

Clayton was suddenly fascinated by the view out the opposite window.

“Why,” I asked slowly, “is there a goat in Riot’s truck?”

“He had the best truck bed for it and he left it at home.”

“Okay, there’s the truck explanation, but what about the goat?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

Ruckus was laughing so hard he had folded over his homework.

I looked at Declan. He parked.

“Chief.”

He finally glanced at me.

That alone hit me like a small electric shock.

“What?”

“Why is there a goat in your father’s truck?”

His gaze moved past me toward Clayton.

Clayton lifted both hands. “Why does everyone assume this is my fault?”