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We went inside.

I adored the Bishops, every last one of them. I walked into their kitchen like it was my kitchen. It was quite possible I’d spent as much time in it as I had my own.

I dropped my bag on one of the stools and went straight to the sink to wash my hands.

Clayton came in behind us.

“You planning to leave it in Dad’s truck?” Ruckus asked him.

“What are we talking about?” Micah asked, appearing in the doorway with half a sandwich in one hand.

Micah was the youngest and technically the smallest Bishop brother, which meant he was merely well over six feet. The runt of the litter, but bear in mind it was a litter of giants. He was also the blondest, looking a touch more angelic than the rest of them, but only if you didn’t know him.

The dad of this pack of giants, Riot, was the prototype all five sons had been built from—huge, athletic, rough around the edges, with the same sun-browned coloring and unmistakable Bishop face.

All the brothers looked like variations on Riot, with Chief the darkest blond and Micah the lightest. Like a printer slowly running out of dark ink.

“The goat,” I told him.

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded like that made perfect sense.

“You knew?”

He took another bite. “Yeah.”

“Why does everyone know about the goat except me?”

“You work too much,” he said around the food.

“Does Marion know?”

He shrugged.

“Does Riot know?”

That got a reaction.

Micah slowly stopped chewing. Clayton looked at him.

Ruckus looked at Clayton.

I looked between all three.

“Oh,” I said. “He does not.”

“It’s fine,” Clayton said.

“I'm sure.”

“It is.”

“How long has the goat been here?”

Clayton busied himself opening the refrigerator.

“Clayton.”

“A little while.”