I park behind the Tahoe. Leaving my overnight bag and laptop case, I start toward the barn. Midway there I break into a run. By the time I go through the door I’m breathless, not due to the exertion, but because I can’t wait to see him.
Our riding mower is parked against the wall to my left. The smells of freshly cut grass and gasoline in the air. Garden tools—shovel, hoe, and rake—hang neatly on the wall next to the mower. A bag of fertilizer sits next to a bag of grass seed. No sign of Tomasetti. I turn, spot the light seeping out from the aisle to my left, so I head that way.
I find him standing outside one of the livestock stalls. The sliding door stands open. He’s so absorbed in whatever’s going on in the stall that he doesn’t notice me until I’m nearly upon him.
He does a double take upon spotting me. His eyes land first on the sling cradling my arm; then his gaze meets mine and a grin emerges. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” he says, starting toward me.
I smile. “Yard looks nice. You’ve been busy.”
“You have no idea.”
He reaches me, and I plow into him, put my arm around his neck. His arms wrap around me and he pulls me tight. “You’re early,” he murmurs.
“I missed you,” I whisper into his ear.
Standing on my tiptoes, I press a kiss to his cheek. He shifts his head, and I find his mouth. I kiss him long and hard, embarrassed because I’m an inch away from crying and I’m not sure why.
“I like it when you miss me,” he murmurs.
I pull away slightly and for an instant, we grin stupidly at each other. “Whose truck?” I ask.
“Ours,” he says. “Got it for a steal. Couldn’t pass it up.”
I release him and glance toward the stall where a bare bulb rains down light. “Dare I ask?”
“Mr. Baker was looking to buy some feeder calves,” he tells me. “Asked me to drive over to the auction in Kidron yesterday.”
A cry that’s part bleat, part kitten mewl sounds from inside the stall. I look over his shoulder, realize that the light is actually a heat lamp and shining down …
“Come here.” Taking my hand, he leads me to the stall door. Fluffy yellow straw covers the floor. A small brown goat stands in the middle of the stall, nibbling hay from a feeder I’ve never seen before. Three tiny brown kids huddle beneath a big heat lamp in the corner.
“You bought goats?” I say dumbly.
“Goat, actually. She’s a Nigerian Dwarf.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are four of them.”
“Mama had triplets this morning.” He grins, but I can tell he’s not sure if I’m pleased.
I walk into the stall and bend, run my hand over the adult goat’s back. “Hi, Mama,” I say quietly.
I go to the babies and kneel. They’re tiny things, as soft as stuffed animals, and don’t weigh more than five or so pounds each.
Tomasetti comes up beside me, kneels, and picks up one of the babies. I hear the mama goat behind me, shuffling around, poking her head between us to keep an eye on her newborn.
“I think you’re making Mama nervous,” I say.
“She and I got to know each other pretty well this morning.”
“You helped her have her kids?” I ask, easing my arm from the sling.
“She’s a trouper.” Tomasetti places the kid in my arms. “Support its head and belly. Like that. There you go.”
I look down at the tiny creature and I feel a quiver in my chest. “Tomasetti, you’re not going soft on me, are you?”
“I roughed these little guys up pretty good earlier,” he says, deadpan. “Showed them who’s boss.”
“You tough guys are all the same.” I laugh. “We work too much to have livestock.”
“They’re easy keepers. Good milk producers, too,” he says. “I know how you feel about goat cheese.”
“You would bring up my weakness for goat cheese.” Seeing that the other two babies have gone to their mama to nurse, I lower the one I’m holding to the ground.
I don’t look at Tomasetti as I rise and leave the stall. I can’t. I’m overcome with emotion and close to making a fool of myself. Over baby goats of all things.
He follows me to the aisle, holds back. I stand with my back to him, blinking furiously, feeling awkward and embarrassed, knowing his eyes are on me and he’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
After a moment, he touches my arm. “Kate.”
When I don’t face him, he gently turns me to him. I let him, keep my eyes on the floor.
“I take it this isn’t about the goats,” he says.
I laugh, but it’s an emotional sound, accentuated by the silence of the barn. My intake of breath sounds a little like a sob.
When I trust my emotions not to betray me, I raise my gaze to his. His eyes search my face. He knows there’s something going on. He isn’t sure what. Looking for its source.
“Tough trip?” he asks.
I think about it a moment, trying to pinpoint exactly what’s got me so out of sorts, and in that instant, I realize none of this is about the trip or the things that happened in the course of the investigation. It’s about us and the world we live in. The passage of time. The fragility of life. The wheel that never stops.
“You think you have all the time in the world,” I tell him. “Sometimes you don’t and if you don’t pay attention, you risk losing something precious.”
He cocks his head, looks at me more closely. “Where is this coming from?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time running away from … us,” I tell him. “From what we have. There were times when I didn’t appreciate it. I was wrong to do that to you. I think there was always a small part of me that felt as if I didn’t deserve it.”
He absorbs the words with a calm that is classic Tomasetti. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t want to screw this up.”
A smile whispers across his features, but it’s not patronizing. It’s thoughtful and compassionate and in that moment, I realize he gets it. He gets me.
“I’m still here.” He raises his hand, sets his palm against the side of my face. “Somehow, I think we’re going to muddle through.”
The words bring me dangerously close to tears. “Bishop Troyer won’t marry us,” I tell him.
If he’s surprised that I’ve asked the bishop about administering our marriage vows, he doesn’t show it. “We’ll find someone else.”
“There’s a Mennonite church. In Sugarcreek. I talked to the pastor.”
“I’m not the only one who’s been busy.”
I set my hand over his. “We’re not Mennonite, so Pastor Tom can’t perform the ceremony in the church. But he can do it here, at our farm.”
“I’m liking Pastor Tom more by the minute.”
I laugh again, ridiculously pleased he has the ability to make me laugh when I’m feeling shredded on the inside.
“We’ve been talking about getting married for a while,” he says quietly.
“And I always seem to come down with a case of cold feet.”
He slides his hands down to the small of my back, then tilts his head and kisses me on the mouth. “Why the change of heart?”