Andre nodded, flashlight beam steady.
They followed the clearest set of tracks toward the blackberry thickets. Pitiful bleating guided them to three yearlings tangled in thorns, crying and struggling. The briars had done their work, holding the goats better than any fence.
"Hold the light." Joy set down the bucket and eased forward. "Hey babies. It's okay. Mama's here."
The goats knew her voice, her scent. Their cries shifted from panic to pleading. Joy worked carefully, untangling one leg at a time. Thorns tore at her hands, drawing blood she barely noticed.
"Can you grab Butterscotch? The brown one on the left."
Andre moved slowly, following her lead. The yearling tensed but didn't bolt when his large hands circled her middle.
"That's it. Just hold her while I free the others."
Ten minutes of careful work freed all three. Joy slipped a halter over the calmest one's head, fingers working the familiar buckles by feel. The other two yearlings huddled close to their companion, too scared to run.
"Come on, girls. Let's go home."
She rattled the grain bucket, leading the haltered goat while the other two followed. Andre walked behind, arms spread slightly to discourage any thoughts of escape. By the time they got the three secured in the holding pen by the barn, her legs already protested the rough terrain.
Fury made her muscles tight, made every step feel like wading through thick mud. She had to admit to herself that someone had done this. Someone had violated her space.
"Twelve more to go." She forced the words past the knot in her throat.
They headed back out, following new tracks toward the tree line. Two more goats huddled in a drainage ditch, scared but unhurt.Joy haltered one while the other pressed close to its companion. The grain bucket rattled its promise, drawing them back toward safety. Andre's breathing had grown heavier, sweat darkening his undershirt despite the cool air.
The third search led them deeper into the woods. Andre’s flashlight caught eyes reflecting green in the darkness. Marigold stood in a small clearing, too frightened to run but too scared to come when called.
"Hey, sweet girl." Joy rattled the bucket. "Want some grain?"
It took patience. Slow movements. Soft voice. Finally, Marigold crept forward, driven by hunger and familiarity. No halter needed. The goat buried her face in the grain bucket and then followed Joy step by step back to the barn.
Andre rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks. "That's six down."
They found two more hiding under the old apple trees. These ones came eagerly to the grain, practically climbing into the bucket. Joy let them eat from her hands, their soft lips tickling her palms.
A high, pained bleating stopped them on their fourth search. A kid goat lay on a rocky outcrop, her leg gashed open. The blood looked black in the flashlight beam. "Oh no." Joy's heart clenched. "She’s hurt.”
Andre didn't hesitate. He pulled off his uniform shirt, leaving him in just an undershirt, and knelt beside the injured animal. "Here, hold the light steady."
His hands moved with surprising gentleness for their size. The kid trembled but didn't fight as Andre wrapped the wound carefully.
"Shh, little one. You're safe now."
Something cracked inside Joy's chest. This big, overprotective bear of a man, cooing at a baby goat while blood soaked through his shirt. The tenderness in his touch, the care in every movement. Her mountain lion purred in approval.
Another trip. The injured kid's weight was nothing to Andre, but the distance told on them both. Joy's boots had rubbed blisters on her heels. Her hands stung from thorns. Nine goats safe. Six to go. But no Clementine.
"Maybe we should take a break," Andre suggested, leaning against the fence post.
"No. Clementine can't handle being out there much longer." The words came out sharp with fear. "She's too pregnant. The stress could make her lose the kids."
They searched in widening circles. Following tracks that led nowhere. Calling until Joy's voice went hoarse. The flashlight beams cutting through the dark. Her mountain lion wanted to shift, to use better senses, but the goats needed her human voice, her hands.
Finally, a soft bleating from down by the creek.
"There." Joy half-ran, half-stumbled down the slope.
The pregnant goat stood knee-deep in mud where the creek had overflowed its banks. She'd tried to cross and gotten stuck, her heavy body sinking deeper with each struggle. Mud coated her legs and belly.
