a real temper before he came along.”
“You did?” she managed to reply without smiling.
Odin nodded. “I had to learn patience because of the boy.”
“He’s a very special baby,” Liberty decided, studying the little face. “We are all very lucky.”
Colton wiggled as if he was uncomfortable with the praise.
“You need to burp,” Odin told him solemnly.
He reached for the baby and Liberty surrendered him.
Colton looked so small in his father’s arms. She watched as Odin held the little one over his forearm and rubbed the spot between his tiny shoulder blades. The baby’s sweet little brow was furrowed with discomfort.
Suddenly, a burp so loud it sounded almost like a rifle shot emitted from the adorable little face.
“Goodness,” Liberty exclaimed.
Odin laughed a deep, hearty laugh.
“Is he okay?” she asked.
“Of course,” he chuckled. “He’s probably feeling great. Ready for a nice walk.”
“A walk?”
“You want to see your farm, don’t you?” he asked.
My farm…
“I just… can’t believe this is home,” she admitted. “I’ve been traveling a long time. It will be good to set down roots again.”
“Good pun,” he said.
“Pun?” she echoed.
“The farm produces more than just wool,” he told her. “There are fruit trees too. And tubers.”
“Ah, root vegetables,” she smiled. “Putting down roots. funny. Was that your first dad joke?”
“I do not make light of your father,” he said, sounding confused and slightly offended.
“No, no, a dad joke doesn’t mean you’re joking about someone’s dad,” she explained. “Dad jokes are jokes a dad would make. You know, not that funny.”
“I do not know what jokes a dad would make,” he said, sounding mystified. “Should we ask one?”
He was serious. He had never heard of dad jokes. And worse still, he was clearly in denial about his relationship with Colton.
“Never mind,” she said, deciding the Inner Ring wasn’t built in a day. “Let’s go see our farm.”
He shrugged, and they set out into the last of the murky sunlight, following a well-worn footpath past the side of their hillside home.
On their right stood an orchard of slender trees, their branches bending under the weight of more of those lantern-like yellow globes of fruit. The rows of trees went halfway up the crest of the next hill. A tiny stream snaked its way between the lower trees.
“What an odd little creek,” Liberty observed.
“I think it’s drainage,” Odin said. “The trees on the hillside have natural drainage. The ones down here need a hand.”
“So they grow better up a sheer mountainside?” she asked.
“Lots of things do,” he told her. “And here there’s more rain than sunshine, so drainage will be an important part of our work. For the sheep too.”
“How so?” she asked.
“If their pastures get too swampy, they can get fungal issues with their hooves,” he said.
“Swamp foot,” Liberty said excitedly. “I read about that in the farming book. And you told me that book was a distraction.”
“What’s the cure for swamp foot?” Odin asked.
“You make a paste of chamomile and floarra petal,” Liberty said proudly, glad she had some basic knowledge. “Soak the affected hooves for two hours per day and massage with a metal loop.”
“You seem very confident about that,” Odin said.
“Any reason I shouldn’t be?” she asked, winking at him.
He rolled his eyes.
“What?” she demanded. “You’re just intimidated because I finally knew something you didn’t.”
“First of all, you can’t get chamomile here,” he said. “It requires far more sunlight.”
“I’ll import it,” she decided.
“At two thousand credits an ounce, you might,” he said. “But I doubt you’d get enough to soak a whole flock’s hooves in.”
She frowned.
“Also, does it say anything about how you’re supposed to get a sheep to hold still for two hours per day while soaking its hooves?” he asked.
“Um,” she said, starting to see his point.
“You might get a gentle stag-mare to hold still and soak a hoof or two while you groom her and talk to her,” he said. “She might even let you clean a sore hoof with your bare hands, but never a metal loop. And a flock of half-wild mountain sheep aren’t going to stand for any of it.”
“Okay, okay. What’s the cure for swamp foot?” she asked him in surrender.
“Proper drainage,” he told her. “Mountain sheep can seldom be saved from swamp foot, so the closest thing to a remedy is not letting them get it in the first place.”
“That’s awful,” she breathed.
“It’s honest,” he told her. “And honesty is what you need right now. Look up ahead.”
Something was barreling toward them, long fur lifting in the wind it kicked up with its