in 4H?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised.
Bradley looks just as surprised. “You know what 4H is?”
“Mark and Chelsea’s girl, Libby—she has a rabbit she’s raising for 4H.”
“This is in addition to Long Long Peter?” He laughs and looks at his mom. “I’ve never seen a guy take to fatherhood faster than Mark Bracelyn.”
“It’s that protective instinct.” Kathryn pats her son’s arm. “Takes one to know one.”
I’m not sure what she means by that, and Bradley looks uncomfortable, so I decide not to ask. “Is that a llama or an alpaca over there?”
Bradley peers out the barn door to an adjacent pasture. “Llamas,” he says. “Those aren’t rescues. Mom and Dad bought them years ago for backpacking.”
“They’re just pets now.” Kathryn looks wistful, and I feel bad for bringing up memories of her dead husband. “The brown one is Spitball and the white one’s Dolly.”
I watch Dolly stretch her neck past the fence to snatch a weed on the other side. “Dolly, as in—Dalai Lama?”
“Exactly.” Bradley grins. “And if you get too close to Spitball, you’ll find out how he got his name.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I do recall reading something about llamas’ propensity for spitting.
I survey the pasture, then swing my gaze back through the barn. There’s a neat row of tools hanging on one wall and big bins of something I assume must be animal food. A couple pairs of dirty men’s work boots sit near a bench, and I wonder if they belong to a ranch hand or someone else.
I’m so caught up in wondering that I don’t see it approaching. Just a blow to the back of my knees that sends me stumbling into Bradley.
“Kevin! Stop that.” Kathryn bends down and catches the webbing of a harness attached to a round, pink pig.
I take a step back, conscious of Bradley’s hands on me again. I’m sure he’s just trying to steady me, but his touch has me flustered.
Or maybe that’s the pig licking the toe of my boot. He’s grunting and snorting and carrying on like I covered my footwear in peanut butter. Or jelly or whatever on earth pigs eat.
“You must’ve spilled something on your shoe?” Kathryn asks.
“No, they’re brand new.” Slowly, I stoop down to pet Kevin.
“Kevin…” I look at Bradley. “As in, Kevin Bacon?”
He laughs and points at his mother. “I said the same thing. She swears that’s not why she chose the name.”
“He didn’t come to you with a name?”
“He did, but I changed it,” she says. “Sometimes it’s best when they’re coming from an abusive situation. A fresh start and all that.”
I nod and wonder what that would be like. A new name, a fresh start. I’m partway there already, answering to “Iz” or “Izzy” despite my mother’s fervent aversion to nicknames.
“He’s cute.” I study the pig, who’s blinking at me with surprisingly long lashes. He opens his mouth and offers a cheerful oink.
“He likes you,” Kathryn says. “He’s been pretty skittish since he came in last week.”
“That’s because he’s terrified of Charlie.”
“Charlie?” I bend down and pet Kevin again.
“Mom’s dog. Gentle as a newborn, but Kevin’s not a fan.”
“Probably had a bad experience with a dog in his other house,” Kathryn says. “I’m hoping to find a short-term, secondary foster. Someplace he can be inside would be ideal.”
“Inside, like—in a house?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.
“He’s been raised in a home all his life.” Kathryn frowns. “Folks wanted a miniature pig, something around thirty or forty pounds.”
While I don’t intend to test my theory by lifting him, Kevin appears to be much larger. Sixty, maybe seventy pounds? He isn’t huge, but definitely bigger than a mid-sized dog. “I didn’t know pigs could be that small.”
“They’re not supposed to be.” Bradley’s brow furrows. “It happens a lot. People buy potbellied pigs and try to keep them small by underfeeding them.”
Kathryn shakes her head. “Which is kind of like deciding you want your kid to stay the size of a six-year-old forever, so you starve him.”
“How horrible.” I shift to a two-handed scratch, one behind each ear. Kevin deserves it after that. He oinks with what I can only assume must be pleasure, his twisty little tail twitching rapidly. “May I feed him something?”
Kathryn smiles and points to a red bin beside the door. “There’s some cut-up acorn squash over there. The grocery store donates all their iffy produce to animal rescues.”
I hurry over and grab two thick slices, Kevin on my heels. He snorts and wags and tilts