She said to Captain, “Is your dad home?”
“We’ve got your goats,” Captain said. “C’mon.”
This time he didn’t grab her hand. He turned and started hurrying toward his house. Before following him, Angel stooped and plucked the knife from the snow. She closed her hand around it and stuck her fists into her jacket pockets.
“C’mon,” Captain said again. He turned around and waved for her to hurry, and she caught up to him in the road.
Shooter was in the barn behind the house. He had the goats penned in the stable that had been empty since he gave up his cattle, sold the last of the Red Angus and the Herefords. He and Captain had cared for the goats since the night of the fire. Shooter showed Captain how to milk the nannies, wrapping his forefinger and thumb around the base of the teat to keep the milk from going back into the udder when he squeezed with middle finger and ring finger and pinky, one after another, in a smooth motion, the milk spurting out into the galvanized bucket.
“Just like that,” Shooter said as he stood behind the stool where Captain sat. “One, two, three.” He laid his hand on Captain’s back and let his fingers tap out the rhythm. “Don’t pull. Just squeeze. One, two, three.”
They milked the goats in the cold barn while dusk fell. The milk made a pinging sound when it hit the side of the bucket. Shooter broke open some bales of alfalfa hay, and the air was sweet with its dust. It was all right there in the barn with the fading light and the steady rhythm of the milk and the smell of the hay, and Shooter touching Captain with assurance, letting him know that despite what had happened with Della’s trailer, there still could be the grace of these small things.
“It’s okay, isn’t it?” Shooter said. “Just the two of us right here, right now. Yes sir, don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Captain stopped milking for a moment, and he looked up at Shooter with eyes that seemed to be lost. Then Shooter patted him on the back. “One, two, three,” he said again, and Captain smiled and went back to his work.
They’d kept the goats because Shooter told Wayne Best he would, until Wayne decided if he wanted them for his own.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve got room in my barn.”
“Lois says she wouldn’t be able to stand having those goats around,” said Wayne. “They’d make her think of Gracie and Emily and Junior.”
So it was decided that Shooter would keep the goats for a time. The days stretched on into weeks, and he wasn’t even tempted to bring the subject up again. As much as Shooter had always cursed those goats and the way they always got out of Della’s pen and ran wild, he took to them now, helping Captain with the milking and the feeding and the mucking out the stalls. For the first time, it felt like the two of them were sharing something that brought them closer.
They sampled some of the milk themselves and Shooter sold what was left to mothers with babies who couldn’t tolerate cow’s milk or to elderly folks who swore that goat’s milk helped their digestion, eased their arthritis, lowered their cholesterol.
Shooter was just about ready to step outside the barn and call for Captain to come help him with the feeding when he heard the door creak open. The light from outside swept into the stall, and when Shooter turned to look he saw Captain and the girl, the oldest one, Angel.
“Honey,” he said, “what are you doing way out here?”
She took a step forward, coming up around Captain, her feet tamping down on the packed dirt floor of the feedway. Shooter watched her through the gaps between the wood-slat stanchions above the manger. Just a slip of a thing, her face all lips and eyes. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her hands were in the pockets of her coat.
Captain was behind her, and, excited, he said, “Dad, Dad. Look who it is.”
Angel kept walking until she was level with Shooter. If he chose, he could reach through the stanchions and touch her just like he’d held out his arms to take Emma from Della on the night of the fire.
“Mr. Rowe, I’ve come to ask you—” She stopped then, looked down at her feet, lost whatever nerve she’d been able to muster. “What I mean is, I got to know. I came all this way. Surely you’ll tell me the truth.”
He couldn’t bear to see her stumble around, especially since he feared he knew exactly what she’d come to ask him. Word had finally gotten around to finding her.
“Your daddy?” he said, and she nodded.
He looked around her to Captain, who was reaching through the stanchions to pet the head of one of the goats, the billy that Della and the girls had always called Methuselah. Captain was saying something to Methuselah in a low voice that Shooter couldn’t make out. The other goats bleated as if they recognized Angel and were asking her where she’d been.
“Captain,” Shooter said, “run on up to the house and fetch my cell phone off the charger. It’s on the kitchen counter, right where I always keep it.”
“I’ll hurry,” Captain said and started running down the feedway to the barn door.
“Slow down,” Shooter called after him, and he stopped, his hand on the door. “Take it easy. Nothing’s on fire.”
As soon as he said it, he was sorry. That word, fire. Would that ever be a word that anyone could say in the presence of Angel or any of her sisters?
“Did you see him?” she asked once Captain was gone. “Did you see my dad at our trailer that night?”
“That’s nothing for you to worry about, honey.”
“I need to know.”
Shooter kept his voice even. “Some things aren’t meant for kids.”
“Did he set the fire?” She wouldn’t back down. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“If you’ve got something you want to know, go ask your daddy. It’s not for me to talk about.”
“But you’ve been talking about it. Tommy Stout said—”
Shooter reached through the stanchions and placed his finger on her lips, silencing her. “I guess you’ve already got your answer, don’t you?” He could see that Angel was scared. She bowed her head. He took his finger away from her lips. He touched the underside of her chin and nudged it up so she’d look at him. “Listen to me now. You came asking, so I’m giving you what you want. Yes, your daddy was out there that night.”
Captain was back with Shooter’s cell phone. He was panting, having run to and from the house even though his father had told him not to.
“It was on the counter,” he said. “Just like you told me.”
“Good job, Captain.” Shooter took the phone from him and then handed it to Angel. “Call your daddy,” he said. “Tell him where you are. Tell him I’m going to drive you home.”
_________
Ronnie was furious. He’d dropped off Sarah and Emma at Brandi’s and found only Hannah there to take care of them.
“You were supposed to be here,” he said over the phone. “But, no, you had something more important to do, something all about Angel. Where in the world are you, anyway? We’ve been worried sick.”
So Hannah hadn’t told him where she’d gone. If not for the fact that she was standing there in the barn with Mr. Rowe and Captain listening, she might have told her father what she really wanted to say — that he was supposed to have been home with them the night the trailer burned, but he’d left for something that was all about him. She wanted to tell him that she had his pocketknife, was squeezing her hand around the handle in her coat pocket at that very moment and feeling the nick where, if she took a mind to, she could pry up with her thumbnail and open the blade. She wanted to say she’d found it in the snow behind what had once been their home. She wanted to tell him what she knew he’d surely find out before long: Shooter Rowe had seen him come out from behind their trailer on the night of the fire.