Barking Up the Wrong Tree Read online

  Barking Up the Wrong Tree

  A Sex and Sweet Tea Novel

  SAWYER BENNETT WRITING AS

  Juliette Poe

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 by Juliette Poe

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Big Dog Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  ISBN: 978-1-940883-86-1

  Find Juliette on the web!

  Website: juliettepoe.com

  Twitter: twitter.com/juliette_poe

  Facebook: facebook.com/AuthorJuliettePoe

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Herman – On my mom…

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Herman – On stinky goats…

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Herman – On the competition…

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Herman – On friskiness…

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Herman – On knowing my mom better than herself…

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Herman – The end of this story…

  Connect with Juliette

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Pap

  The door to Chesty’s opens, and I’m stunned to see my twin granddaughters walking in. So stunned, I check my watch.

  Yup… only three on a Friday. Since they are both local business owners, they rarely take an afternoon off. It’s almost unheard of for them to be free at the same time.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” I say as they head my way, “but to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  The girls grin as they take the two stools to my immediate right. Sam-Pete is there, putting down two frothy mugs of beer that he started pouring the minute they walked in. Business is slow right now, but it will start picking up in a few hours.

  Larkin, the younger of the identicals by roughly two minutes, though seemingly more mature, gives a quick smile to Sam-Pete as Laken pulls a twenty-dollar bill out to hand to him. “Her drinks are on me this afternoon, as are Pap’s.”

  Sam-Pete nods and takes the money, turning to the register.

  “And take a few bucks for yourself,” Laken calls after him.

  At age thirty, the girls are nearly identical. Up until a few weeks ago, they had the same long hair parted on the same side, but then Larkin cut hers off. Past that, though, their faces and mannerisms are the same. Larkin’s a tiny bit heavier than Laken. But in my opinion, it’s so hard to tell that you can’t really use that as a go by. It’s the hairstyles that set them apart now.

  “Why are you buying drinks this afternoon?” I ask Laken, who’s sitting between Larkin and me.

  “Well,” Laken says after taking a long pull off her beer and setting it down. “You’re my pap and you always buy my drinks, so I’m just pre-empting you today. As for Larkin, I owe her since she helped me out in the clinic today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because she doesn’t know how to hire competent staff,” Larkin says as she leans forward to look me in the eye.

  Laken rolls her eyes at her sister and then admits to me, “Jenks quit this morning.”

  “Jenks Peterson was working for you?” I ask in surprise.

  He’s a moron.

  “I know, I know,” Laken says with frustration, then takes an even larger pull on her beer. “But I’m not a great office manager. I went to vet school to practice animal medicine, not to be an overlord.”

  Larkin snickers, but doesn’t say a word. While her sister owns the area’s only veterinary practice, Larkin is also an entrepreneur as she opened the town’s only bakery about five years ago. It’s done amazingly well, and Larkin is definitely more business-minded than her sister.

  “Well, as much as I appreciate the beer,” Larkin tells her sister, “I can’t keep coming to your rescue with my own business to run.”

  “I know,” Laken huffs out in exasperation.

  The door to Chesty’s flies open so forcefully the girls jump on their stools. We all turn to see who could be making such a statement, as most people tend to just politely push the door open in more of a sauntering fashion when entering this bar.

  The bright afternoon sun outside doesn’t reveal much other than the large figure of a man standing there, legs planted wide and one arm holding the door open as he looks around inside.

  “Can I help you?” I call out, because my gut instinct says he’s not here for a beer.

  The man steps inside and lets the tinted glass door swing shut behind him. Laken mutters an, “Oh, my,” as we take him in further.

  He’s a big boy. Tall as Colt at least and maybe twice as thick, and I don’t mean fat. I mean muscles that pull and stretch at his shirt and pants.

  Oddly, the man is dressed as if he just got off work in a bank. The shirt is a button down and looks expensively tailored, as do his pants. He’s wearing a tie that’s been pulled loose around his neck with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His hair is wet, his face is drenched with sweat and there are large stains under his armpits and across his chest.

  His clothes are filthy, covered with the signature red clay that’s found in this area, along with grass stains. There’s a large streak of dirt on his forehead where he’s obviously tried to wipe sweat away using mud-covered hands. I note his shoes are almost completely covered with wet clay.

  “I’m looking for the owner of Whynot Veterinary,” he says in a rough voice, his gaze rolling only briefly over Laken and Larkin, searching the bar for someone who might fit the bill. “There’s a note on the door that said he’d be here.”

  Curious, I look to Laken. She’s staring at the man in appreciation of what I’m guessing is his handsomeness. I can’t exactly speak to that, but I’ve seen that look on her face before when she’s been around the menfolk. My granddaughter is a bit of a lady player so to speak.

  Still, she doesn’t speak up, but merely turns around to give him her back and starts drinking her beer.

  Larkin nudges her sister in the ribs.

  Laken doesn’t respond.

  The man is irritated when he asks, “Do any of you speak the English language?”

  “I do,” I say genially.

  Easy question. Easy answer.

  “And where is the vet?” he grits out.

  I look again to Laken, but she doesn’t even glance at the man, so I give her up by nodding my head toward her.

  The guy walks through the bar, his footsteps so heavy I can feel the vibration through my stool. Nudging his way between Laken and Larkin—Larkin scooting her stool over to give him room—he leans forward to demand her attention. “Are you the vet?”

  �
��Depends,” she says without even looking up, her gaze instead pinned to a Pirates baseball game on the TV.

  “On what?”

  “What you need,” she says blandly.

  “Is there a reason you’re ignoring me?” he snaps. “I’m thinking you aren’t all that busy since you’re drinking on a Friday afternoon. I’d think you might want some business.”

  “I need an apology first,” she says, eyes still on the TV.

  “For what?” he asks, incensed.

  “First, for not even looking at me or my sister, Larkin, twice when you barged in here looking for a vet. You dismissed us right away. Second, because you referenced the ‘vet’ as a ‘he,’ it’s clear you don’t think women have the ability to be doctors or something, so I’m not sure I want to help you.”

  The man mutters a series of unintelligible curses, and then looks to me for assistance. I shrug my shoulders and turn my attention to the game.

  “Um… what seems to be the problem?” Larkin asks the guy.

  He turns to face her, the distress on his face evident.

  “My goats have gotten out of their fence,” he says quickly, and there’s no mistaking the underlying panic in his voice. “I can’t catch them, and they’re in the road. One almost got hit.”

  This gets Laken’s attention as she is not about to let an animal get hurt. She doesn’t bother looking at the guy, but her sharp words are for him alone. “You have no business owning goats if you don’t even know how to keep them contained, or in the chance they get loose, to catch them.”

  “Save the lectures,” the man growls. “I just bought the damn farm. Unbeknownst to me, the foreman had quit. I just arrived in town to find this mess.”

  Laken jolts in surprise and turns to face the man. “What farm?”

  “Farrington,” he replies.

  “You bought it?” she asks, eyebrows drawn inward.

  “Yes, and now I have rampant goats,” he says heatedly. “Will you help me?”

  “Yes,” she says as she picks up her beer and drains it. When she sets the mug down, she stands up from her stool and hardens her gaze. “But it will cost you.”

  “I don’t care about the cost,” he grumbles as he turns for the door, calling over his shoulder. “Just help me get the damn animals in the fence.”

  Laken turns around and winks at me with an evil grin. “He’s not going to like the price.”

  I snicker and raise up my mug to toast her. “Happy goat hunting.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Laken

  I get out of my truck and slam the door shut behind me.

  With anger.

  I sneer at the shiny silver Porsche in front of me, even though I’m slightly amazed that hulk of a man can so gracefully unfold himself out of the sports car. He parked it just inside the gravel drive that leads up to the main house of Farrington Farms. There’s a fenced pasture on either side of the driveway, the goats grazing to the right. There are still several enclosed, and I’ll grudgingly admit the man had the sense to roll an empty barrel in front of the broken section in an attempt to contain the other animals.

  “There’s a damn slice right through the wire,” he mutters as we walk up to inspect it. I don’t see any of the goats that got out, and I’m thankful they’re not on the roadway.

  I bend over to peer at it, noting the overgrown but dead kudzu that had been recently cut back. I’m betting whoever did it took a chainsaw and went right through the woven wire without realizing it.

  Straightening up, I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the late day sun. I’d forgotten my sunglasses on my kitchen table this morning, but I’m always forgetting stuff. It’s just the way I am.

  And there… just past the north end of the pasture, I see three goats grazing on the other side of the fence.

  “Move your car out of the way,” I tell the man as I head toward my truck. “I’m going to drive up to the barn.”

  He doesn’t argue but jumps to action, gracefully folding himself back into his sports car. He carefully drives up the gravel drive, pulling in front of the sprawling, two-story farmhouse. It’s newer than our house at Mainer Farms and has been freshly painted white in the last few years by the look of it. I drive past the house, around the side, and another fifty yards to the big gray barn.

  As I park my truck, I look around and don’t see but the three errant goats. When I get out, I head into the barn, noting with distaste there’s not a lock on the door. While we are a sleepy farming community, I can’t imagine anyone not locking up valuable equipment and supplies.

  It takes me less than a minute to locate the feed, and I put a huge scoop into a metal pan. When I walk out of the barn, I’m met by the huge man, who’s watching me with wariness.

  A single shake of the feed in the pan and all three goats’ heads pop up to look at me with interest while they continue to chew the mouthfuls of grass they’re dining on. I have to admit to a certain fondness for goats. Something about their bulging eyes with rectangular pupils that convey a sort of genuineness of heart, well… it gets me in the feel goods each time I’m around them.

  “Come on,” I call out, rattling the pan again. The goats start walking my way slowly, still chewing. I walk toward the north fence, continuously shaking the feed to entice them. It’s an easy enough capture because goats are always hungry and will go anywhere food is.

  I open the fence and walk in. They all follow me. I set the pan down, the goats dive in, and I stroll back out, latching it securely behind me.

  “I saw a coil of wire in the barn,” I say, pointing toward it. “You should be able to put a temporary fix to the fence until you can get someone out here to fix it.”

  “There’s still one missing,” he says in reply.

  “Another goat?” I ask to make sure.

  He nods. “Brown and black, and really, really fat. Blue eyes.”

  This means nothing to me. He’s describing the animal like I’d recognize it and say, “Oh… yes. That’s Tillie the goat. I know her well.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Where did you see it last?”

  He pointed back down by the road, and I hope to hell it hasn’t been hit by a car and is laying in a ditch.

  “Let me get some rope for a leash,” I tell him as I walk back up to my truck. I hop in the back, my cowboy boots clunking on the metal. Inside my tool box bolted to the cab, I pull out a length of rope and hop back out again.

  “Get another pan of food out of the barn and meet me down there,” I instruct the man but I don’t look back at him. I’m still irritated he bought a farm and has no clue how to care for the animals. Admittedly, his foreman was nowhere to be found, but still… it’s careless at best, reckless at worst. Animals aren’t to be taken for granted. There’s really no excuse for him to have bought this place and not have ensured there was a good crew here to work it if he wasn’t.

  I also don’t want to look at the man because while he may be a farming idiot, he’s also totally gorgeous and pushes every one of my buttons. He’s big, and I like my guys that way. Easily as tall as Colt, who stands at six and a half feet, but way more muscular. I totally have a thing for muscles.

  He’s got dark hair, also a button pusher for me, but silver shoots through it and you can tell within a few years, none of the dark will be left. He’s not old, though, so I gather he’s going prematurely gray. He doesn’t look much older than I am at thirty. But best of all is his beard. It’s black and silver, full and soft looking.

  Another weakness of mine.

  God… if he has tattoos under that business attire, I would totally throw all my indignation out the window and put my charms on him.

  Shaking my head to dispel those stupid thoughts, I stomp through the deep grass that borders the outside of the pasture fence. When I make it to the road, I hop the ditch that sits between the grass and the asphalt, then start walking west away from the farm entrance. My eyes are pinned to the small gulley the entire time, hoping I don’t see
a dead goat lying there. It will slay me.

  It always does.

  As a veterinarian, I see my fair share of animal death. I euthanize animals that are old and in pain.

  And it kills me every single time.

  When I make it about a hundred yards down, I cross to the other side of the road and start walking toward the farm entrance. The man walks toward me, shaking a pan full of feed, and I can’t help but snicker as I hear him call out, “Here, little goat. Come here, nice little goat.”

  When I’m ten yards away from him, I’m totally surprised when the brown and black goat he described bursts out of a row of blackberry bushes on the other side of the ditch. I see why he called it fat, or rather, I should say “her.” It’s a female, and she’s pregnant.

  The goat rushes up to the man, and he puts the pan down on the ground for her to eat from. She snuffles at the feed hungrily, gulping it down and hardly bothering to chew. I deftly tie a loop in the rope and when she lifts her head to look gratefully at the man for feeding her, I slip it over her head.

  She’s docile and doesn’t buck against me, and I let her remain in place for a bit while she continues to eat some more.

  “Thank you for helping me,” the man says and his words startle me. I look over at him and practically groan as he pushes his dress shirtsleeves up his arms, revealing tattoos covering every bare inch of skin.

  Just great.

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter and look back at the goat.

  It’s safer.

  “Are you still pissed at me?” he asks.

  “Yup,” I say, refusing to meet his stare.

  “For what?” he asks, curiosity evident in his voice.

  “Because you were rude when you came in the bar looking for me,” I reply stiffly. “And you looked right over my sister and me… I’m assuming because you couldn’t accept there could be such a thing as a female veterinarian.”

  He makes a scoffing sound deep in his throat, and I look up to find his eyes narrowed. And wow, are they great eyes. Deep brown, soft, and expressive. Right now, they are expressing that I’ve pissed him off.