One Hundred Humbugs (Aspen Cove #25)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The ancient truck groaned as Becket Shepherd navigated another bend in the winding country road, its weathered frame a testament to years of hard use and makeshift repairs. He squinted against the harsh winter sunlight, his calloused hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension that spoke of more than just difficult driving conditions.

Becket, a third-generation rancher from eastern Colorado, never imagined he’d be in this situation. Six months ago, he had a thriving goat farm, a decent plot of land he rented from old Mr. Johnson, and a future that seemed as solid as the Rocky Mountains on the horizon. But then the drought hit, worse than anyone had seen in decades. The pastures dried up, feed prices skyrocketed, and Mr. Johnson, facing his own financial crisis, had to sell the land.

Just like that, Becket was without a home for his beloved herd. He’d sold off what he could—his equipment, his truck, and even his prized guitar, replacing the truck with a wheezing relic. But parting with the core of his herd was out of the question: five nannies, two billies, and a handful of kids. They were more than livestock; they were family.

So here he was, a nomad in his own state, driving from town to town, looking for temporary grazing arrangements, odd jobs, anything to keep his goats fed and his dream of rebuilding his farm alive.

To either side of the road, barren fields stretched out like a bleak canvas, the once-lush landscape now a patchwork of brittle brown and faded yellow. The persistent drought had transformed the region into a harsh, unforgiving terrain that seemed to mock the idea of life and growth.

A restless bleating from the trailer behind him pulled at Becket’s attention. He didn’t need to see them to know what was happening. The goats were getting hungry. Again. And among those familiar voices, he could pick out one in particular—a lower, more insistent call that made his heart clench with worry.

Daisy. His prize Nubian nanny, heavy with kid and due any day now.

“Hang in there, old girl,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him over the rumble of the engine. “We’ll find you something good to eat. You and that little one of yours.”

Becket’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The pregnancy had been a surprise, coming late in the season when he least expected it. Now, it was both a blessing and a complication. Daisy needed extra nutrition, a safe place to kid, and Becket was running out of both time and options to provide them. Still, he thought that all things happen for a reason.

He pressed down on the accelerator, a new urgency driving his search. This wasn’t just about keeping the herd fed anymore—he needed to secure a future for the tiny life Daisy carried. Her bleats, more demanding than the others, served as a constant reminder of the precious cargo he was responsible for.

Becket’s eyes flicked to the fuel gauge, and his jaw tightened. The needle hovered just above empty, a visual reminder of his dwindling resources. He’d been driving for hours, crisscrossing the county in search of any patch of land that might offer some respite for his hungry herd. So far, his quest had been fruitless.

As he drove, memories of better times passed through his mind. He remembered lush, green pastures where his goats had grazed, their coats gleaming in the summer sun. He thought of the local farmers’ markets where he’d sold his goat cheese, basking in the praise of customers who declared it the best they’d ever tasted.

But those days seemed like a distant dream now. The drought had changed everything, transforming the once-thriving agricultural community into a community struggling for survival. Many of Becket’s neighbors had already given up on selling their land and moving on to greener pastures—literally and figuratively.

Becket gritted his teeth, pushing away the wave of misery that threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. There had to be a solution, some way to keep his small enterprise afloat until the rains and snow returned.

As he rounded another bend, a modest farmhouse came into view. It sat back from the road. The house itself was unremarkable, a basic build with siding and a small barn. But what caught Becket’s attention was the yard.

Where most properties in the area were brown and lifeless, this yard was a riot of green. Weeds of every description had taken over, growing unchecked in the absence of regular maintenance. Becket slowed the truck, his eyes widening as he took in the unexpected oasis.

He pulled over to the side of the road, letting the engine idle as he stared at the overgrown property. The goats in the trailer perked up, their fussing taking on a more urgent tone as they sensed the proximity of food.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Becket said. It wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of grazing land he’d been hoping for, but it was green. And where there was green, there was hope.

As he sat there, an idea began to take shape in the back of his mind. The sounds from the trailer had quieted somewhat, but he could still hear Daisy’s occasional low call. It spurred his thoughts, adding fuel to the spark of his budding idea. If he could make this work, it wouldn’t just mean survival for the herd—it could mean a safe, well-fed haven for Daisy to have her kid.

What if, instead of searching for open pastures that no longer existed, he used the goats to clear overgrown properties like this one? People might not have the time, energy, or equipment to deal with yards that had gotten out of control—especially in the winter. But his goats? They’d make short work of those weeds.

The more Becket thought about it, the more excited he became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore—this was an opportunity. He could offer his goats as a natural, eco-friendly landscaping service. In a place like this, where the drought had left everyone with little to work with, it might be exactly what folks needed.

Energized by the possibility, Becket shifted the truck back into gear and continued down the road, his mind racing with plans. He just needed a way to get the word out—maybe talk to a few locals, or better yet, find someone who knew the area and could spread the word for him.

A few miles later, he spotted a small strip mall nestled at the intersection of two country roads. Most of the storefronts were empty, their windows dark and uninviting. But one shop stood out, its lights on and a small “OPEN” sign hanging in the window.

Becket’s eyes flicked to the familiar logo on the sign in front of the small realty office. Silver Springs Realty. It was the same one he’d seen on the property he’d just passed—the overgrown yard that had sparked his idea. A surge of possibility coursed through him. If anyone knew how many neglected lots like that were scattered around the area, it would be a real estate agent.

He pulled into the mostly empty parking lot, the truck’s brakes squealing in protest as he came to a stop. As he climbed out of the cab, he caught his reflection in the truck’s side mirror. His face was lined with worry and fatigue, his clothes dusty from days spent more in the fields than in his house. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, trying to make himself look a bit more presentable.

“You can do this, Shepherd,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just another sales pitch. No different than hawking cheese at the market.”

But as he approached the office door, doubt began to creep in. What if they laughed him out of the place? What if this idea was as dried up and useless as the fields he’d been searching for all day?

Becket hesitated, his hand on the door handle. Behind him, he heard the goats in the trailer, a reminder of why he was here. Of why he couldn’t give up.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside .

The office was small and cluttered, with stacks of papers covering every available surface. The walls were lined with photos of properties—houses that had seen better days, parcels of land that looked more suited to tumbleweeds than crops. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation.

Behind a desk piled high with folders sat a woman Becket guessed to be in her late fifties. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she peered at him over the top of reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone suggesting she hoped the answer was no.

Becket cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Name’s Becket Shepherd. I was hoping to talk to you about a business proposition.”

The woman—her nameplate identified her as Marge Gunderson—raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Shepherd, if you’re looking to list a property, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Market’s deader than a doornail these days. Drought’s seen to that.”

Becket shook his head, taking a step closer to the desk. “No, ma’am, I’m not looking to sell. I’m here to offer a service. One that might help with some of those harder-to-sell properties.”

Marge leaned back in her chair, curiosity replacing the initial dismissal in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

Taking a deep breath, Becket launched into his pitch. He told her about his goats, about how effective they were at clearing overgrown land. He painted a picture of transformed properties, of happy homeowners freed from the burden of unmanageable yards .

As he spoke, he could see the skepticism in Marge’s eyes giving way to interest. When he finished, she was silent for a long moment, studying him with an intensity that made him want to fidget.

“Goats,” she said with a hint of amusement in her voice. “You’re proposing to solve our landscaping problems with goats.”

Becket nodded, standing his ground. “Yes, ma’am. I know it sounds strange, but I’m willing to prove it works. I’ll do the first job for free—any property you choose. If you’re not satisfied with the results, you don’t owe me a thing.”

Marge considered this, tapping a pen against her desk. “And what makes you think people around here would go for something like this? Folks tend to be set in their ways, you know.”

“Times are tough,” Becket replied, his voice low and earnest. “People are looking for solutions, for ways to make do with what they have. My goats offer an eco-friendly, cost-effective alternative to traditional landscaping. And in this drought? Every bit of green we can use matters.”

As Becket gave Marge his details, a particularly sharp bleat came from outside. He winced, recognizing Daisy’s voice. “Sorry about that,” he said, glancing nervously at the window. “One of my girls is expecting. Makes her a bit vocal sometimes.”

Marge’s eyebrows rose. “Expecting? You mean you’ve got a pregnant goat in that trailer?”

Becket nodded, a mixture of pride and worry crossing his face. “Yes, ma’am. Daisy’s due in a few weeks. It’s why I’m so keen on finding new grazing options. She needs the extra nutrition, you see.”

Something in Marge’s expression softened. “Well, now,” she said, her tone gentler than before. “That does put a different spin on things, doesn’t it?” She tapped her pen against the desk, thinking. “Tell you what, Mr. Shepherd. I’ve got a property on the edge of town. The old Wilson place. Been empty for months, and the yard’s a mess. Why don’t you take your goats over there. Consider it a trial run.”

Becket’s heart leapt. “Really? The Wilson place?” He nodded as recognition dawned on his face. “Yeah, I know it. Passed by it a few times—it’s been looking rough for a while.” He grinned. “My goats will make short work of that yard.”

Marge waved off his thanks. “Don’t make me regret this. And Mr. Shepherd? Make sure that mama goat of yours is taken care of. Times are hard enough without bringing new life into the world unprepared.”

Relief washed over Becket as he thanked Marge again. There were no guarantees, but at least it was a start. As he turned to leave, Marge called out to him.

“Mr. Shepherd?”

He paused at the door, turning to look back.

Marge took a moment before speaking. “It’s not an easy time to be starting something new around here, but I admire your determination. Best of luck to you.”

Becket dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, ma’am. I reckon we could all use a little luck these days.”

As he stepped back out into the cold afternoon air, a weight seemed to lift from Becket’s shoulders. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. But for the first time in weeks, he had a direction, a purpose beyond mere survival.

He climbed back into his truck, the familiar creak of the door a comforting sound. As he started the engine, he listened to the chorus of bleats from the trailer, picking out Daisy’s distinctive voice among them.

“Well,” he said, a note of determination in his voice, “looks like we might be going into the landscaping business.”

The goats bleated in response. It might not have been much, but it was a plan. And sometimes, that small step was enough to keep going.

As he pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the dusty road, Becket’s mind was already racing with the next steps. He needed to prepare the goats for their new job, maybe rig up some portable fencing. He’d have to work on his pitch, fine-tune it for different kinds of properties.

Becket and his goats were virtually nomads, left without a place to call home. The drought had already taken so much from them, and he knew this project needed to succeed—not just for himself, but for his animals. This crazy idea might be their first step toward reclaiming some stability, a chance to take back even a little of what they'd lost.

Becket drove on, the setting sun painting the barren landscape in shades of gold and red. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new doubts. But for now, he allowed himself to feel something he hadn’t in a long time: hope.