His eyes returned to her.
“But I know what this place does.”
Wren looked toward the goats.
“They’ve eaten almost half this paddock in three days.”
Cyrus nodded.
“The leaves.”
“Not the crowns.”
That surprised her.
He knew kudzu.
Of course he did.
Cyrus continued.
“That vine lives underground.”
“Some crowns are bigger than a man’s head.”
“You strip the leaves, it comes back.”
“You strip them again, it comes back.”
“You better have patience.”
Wren smiled faintly.
“I do.”
Cyrus did not smile back.
“Everybody says that in October.”
He left.
Over the next month, Wren moved fence every three days.
Small paddocks.
Heavy browsing.
Then move.
Never allow the goats to remain long enough to compact the soil badly.
The goal was not one spectacular clearing.
The goal was pressure.
Repeated defoliation.
Force the kudzu to spend stored carbohydrates rebuilding leaves.
Then eat those leaves too.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The strategy was slow.
That suited Wren.
Her previous career had revolved around clients who wanted annual returns from processes that required decades.
People loved long-term thinking in speeches.
They hated it in calendars.
The goats did not care.
They ate.
Wren repaired the water system.
Found old fence corners.
Cleared access roads.
Bought hay.
Moved into a fifteen-foot camper near the barn.
It smelled faintly of cigarettes from the previous owner.
The heater worked selectively.
The mattress had the support qualities of folded newspaper.
Wren slept better there than she had in Atlanta.
Then, seventeen days after Cyrus’s offer, she woke at four in the morning.
A sound.
Small.
Mechanical.
Metal clipping wire.
Wren sat up.
Listened.
Again.
Then silence.
She pulled on boots and ran outside with a flashlight.
The eastern paddock gate was open.
Two sections of electric netting had been cut.
Cleanly.
Not torn by deer.
Not broken by goats.
Cut.
Two does were missing.
Wren felt panic rise.
She followed tracks.
The goats had not moved downhill toward brush.
They had wandered north.
Toward Cyrus Volmer’s property.
At six in the morning, Wren pulled into his driveway.
His porch light was already on.
Kitchen light too.
Cyrus came outside with coffee.
No coat.
“You’re early.”
“Two of my goats came onto your land.”
“Two Boer does?”
“Yes.”
“Found them around five.”
He pointed toward the north lot.
“They’re safe.”
Relief lasted approximately two seconds.
Then Cyrus said:
“There’ll be a boarding charge.”
Wren stared.
“For two goats?”
“Feed.”
“Handling.”
“My time.”
He took another sip.