Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [48]
Noah said, “Cool goat.”
Cici frowned. “We’re not keeping him.”
“Her,” corrected Lindsay.
Lindsay and Cici were struggling to carry a bale of hay from the barn into the barnyard; Noah leapt over the gate to take it from them. “Where’d it come from?” he asked.
Cici gladly relinquished the bale to him and stripped off her work gloves, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “God’s endless supply of homeless animals, as far as I can tell. But we’re not keeping him.”
“Her,” Lindsay said. She wiped her hands on her jeans, frowning a little over the marks the twine had left in her palms. “How was school?”
“Good.” Noah stripped off the twine and shook out the hay. The goat trotted over and allowed him to scratch it behind the ears. “I learned about quadrangles and self-determining governments. How many bales do you want?”
“One,” Bridget said importantly. She arrived on the scene a little out of breath, consulting a printout from the computer. “According to this, milking goats thrive on a diet of alfalfa, herbs, and wild grasses.” She looked at the other two women quizzically. “Is there any alfalfa in that hay?”
Lindsay shrugged elaborately. “Hay is hay.”
“This is fescue,” Noah supplied. “Ya’ll gonna milk this goat?”
“We are going to find its owner,” Cici said firmly.
Bridget looked at Noah pointedly. “Do you know how to milk a goat?”
He shrugged and got to his feet as the goat abandoned his petting for the more enticing allure of hay. “Just like milking a cow.”
“I think we should make cheese,” Bridget announced, holding open the gate for them.
“I think you’re out of your mind.”
“And I found these plans on the Internet for building a goat house,” Bridget added, waving the printout.
Cici stared at her. “It has to have its own house?”
“It’s not a very fancy house. Easier than the chicken coop.”
Cici stopped dead in her tracks. “Bridget, get serious. The last thing we have time for now is building a goat house. Or a goat!”
“I know,” Bridget admitted. “But we’ll rise to the occasion. We always do. When God gives us lemons, we make lemonade, and all that.”
Cici’s expression did not soften. “And what are we supposed to make when God sends us a goat?”
“Barbecue?” suggested Noah, grinning.
Bridget glared at him. “Chèvre,” she corrected firmly.
When Cici drew in a sharp breath, Lindsay stepped between the two of them, linking her arm with Cici’s. “Remember that yogurt we had in Greece?” she said wistfully as they started back toward the house.
“It was made from goat’s milk,” Bridget reminded them.
Cici agreed, somewhat reluctantly, “It just doesn’t taste the same from the supermarket, even when it calls itself Greek yogurt.”
“That’s because it’s not fresh.” Bridget’s tone was hopeful.
“That goat belongs to someone,” Cici said firmly. “We are not keeping it.”
“Speaking of goats,” Noah said, “I’m hungry enough to eat one. What’s for supper?”
“I think Ida Mae said something about a meat loaf,” Bridget answered.
He shot her a suspicious look.
“You’re not cooking?”
Bridget gestured expansively. “Been a little busy here, what with weddings to plan, goats showing up unannounced...”
Noah said, “Um, I think I have a date.”
“With whom?” Lindsay asked.
He thought about that for a minute and then grinned. “With a pizza?”
“Nice try” Cici said. “But you know the rules. We have dinner at home during the week.”
He groaned. “But the last time she cooked there was grit in the mashed potatoes!”
Bridget replied mildly, “Then maybe you could go in and help her wash the potatoes.”
“I have homework.”
“Then you’d better get started washing the vegetables,” Lindsay said, “and set the table while you’re at it. Then clean the chicken yard and get started mowing the grass. You should be able to get the back finished before dark. I can start on the front in the morning.”
He stopped walking and stared at her. “All that because I said there was grit in the mashed potatoes?”
“No,” replied Lindsay evenly, “all that because this is your house, too, and it needs to be done. And because,” she