The next afternoon she bought a used livestock trailer.
Two weeks later it arrived carrying sixty-eight Boer goats.
The driver climbed down and looked at the hillside.
Then at Wren.
Then at the hillside again.
“You’re putting all sixty-eight here?”
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
Not cruelly.
More like a man whose day had become interesting.
“Lady, these goats are going to think they died and went to heaven.”
The first doe stepped off the trailer.
White body.
Brown head.
Heavy shoulders.
She paused for three seconds.
Then stretched her neck toward a kudzu runner hanging across the temporary paddock.
She stripped the leaves clean.
Another goat joined her.
Then another.
Within minutes the paddock sounded like forty people eating salad at once.
Wren smiled.
Then the pickup trucks began arriving.
The first parked along the road.
Then a second.
By noon, six vehicles sat near the fence.
Local men leaned against doors and watched.
Nobody trespassed.
Nobody had to.
The spectacle was visible from the road.
One hundred forty thousand dollars.
Sixty-eight goats.
The story had written itself.
A broad cattleman shouted from beside his pickup.
“You planning to eat your way through the mountain?”
Several people laughed.
Wren checked the fence charger.
Another man called:
“You know they make herbicide now?”
More laughter.
She counted the goats.
Sixty-eight.
Again.
Sixty-eight.
Then Cyrus Volmer arrived.
He did not laugh.
That made him different.
He parked inside the gate three mornings later.
Wren was filling a trough.
Cyrus stepped out carrying coffee.
He looked across the paddock.
“That’s a lot of goat.”
“It is.”
“You know what sixty-eight Boer goats cost to carry through winter?”
“Yes.”
“Hay?”
“Yes.”
“Minerals?”
“Yes.”
“Veterinary work?”
“I have a range.”
Cyrus looked at her differently.
“A range.”
“Yes.”
He sipped coffee.
Then he counted the herd without appearing to.
Wren watched his eyes.
She suspected he landed within one animal of correct.
“I’ll give you ninety-five thousand for the place.”
There it was.
Wren set down the hose.
“I’m not selling.”
“You paid one forty.”
“I remember.”
“You could walk away now before winter teaches you the rest.”
“No.”
Cyrus looked toward the ridge.
“My land runs along the north side.”
“I know.”
“My cattle need water south of that creek.”
“I saw the map.”
“For twenty years, I’ve driven them almost four extra miles because this parcel sits between my pasture and the cleanest crossing.”
Now Wren understood something.
This was not about watching a newcomer fail for entertainment.
Cyrus wanted the land.
Specifically.
He continued.
“I’ve watched three owners tell themselves they could beat that vine.”
“One lost his money.”
“One lost his marriage.”
“One died before he finished.”
“I don’t enjoy that.”
“I believe you.”