“No shit,” I mutter. I wander over to the fridge where glossy pictures of little boys—strangers—stare back at me. I guess I’m supposed to throw these out? “This is weird.”

“Yup,” Jonah agrees. “But I guess it’d be a lot for him to clear all this out by himself. Probably hard, too, with all those memories of his wife here.”

I open the fridge. “Yeah, I’m sure this half-eaten sandwich was way too sentimental to throw out.” My voice is thick with a mixture of bitterness and frustration. There are bite marks in it. Next to it is a jug of milk, a few loose processed cheese slices, and several jars of preserves—pickles, beets, jam … eggs? Smears of grease and food drippings coat the bottom shelf. Nothing has been wiped down.

Jonah opens a cupboard to reveal an array of spices and canned goods. The cupboard beside it is equally full, this one with mismatched mugs and glassware. He slowly spins in a circle. “At least he cleaned up the kitchen a bit.”

I cringe at the dried soap suds and crusted food particles at the bottom of the sink. “Jonah, this place is filthy!” And something tells me cleaning products to tackle the mess are the only thing Phil didn’t leave for us. The dull ache in my head that appeared halfway through the bumpy flight here blossoms with my dread for the work ahead of us. I pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the pain. “How are you not snapping?” Because I’m ready to scream, or cry, or both.

As wary as I was about buying Phil’s place in the beginning, I’ve been imagining this day with excitement since we signed the papers a month ago. I pictured us strolling into our new house, the rooms barren, the walls bare, our gazes greedily taking in all the empty corners, spotting little secrets and imperfections previously hidden. We’d start making a mental list about what we’d tackle first as we toasted to this exciting new beginning. I even packed champagne flutes in my purse.

This is not at all what I pictured.

Jonah comes up behind me, roping his arms around my waist. “It’ll take no time for the two of us to get through this. And I’ll bet there’s a lot we can use. That cold cellar was full of preserves the last time we checked.”

“And what about all the stuff we can’t use?” Decades of it, I’d imagine. They were married for fifty years! They’ve lived in this house since 1985!

“We’ll donate or dump it. Or burn it. We can have a big-ass bonfire. Looks like there’s a nice pit down by the lake.”

He’s far too even tempered right now.

I rest my head against his chest, trying my best to focus on the positives—I’m in Alaska with Jonah, and we’ve bought our first home together. A place that’s going to see so many important milestones for us. It’s a bit of clutter, some dirt. Nothing we can’t easily deal with. Nothing compared to what we’ve already faced together.

“I am so damn annoyed,” I growl.

Jonah chuckles. “I know you are. But you’ll laugh about it one day.”

“Will I?”

Jonah dips his head to graze the side of my neck with his lips, tickling me with his beard. “I promise.” His breath skates over my skin.

“You’re right. Maybe in an hour, after I’ve finished guzzling that bottle of champagne George and Bobbie sent with us, this’ll be really funny.”

“Drunk, angry Barbie. Can’t wait,” Jonah says wryly, drawing out my chuckle. “Before you pop that cork, though … we have a problem we have to deal with out back.” He sighs heavily. “And you’re gonna be really pissed about this.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Jonah scratches his beard. “Nope.”

“What happened to his neighbor taking it?” I was sitting right across from Phil at his kitchen counter when he confirmed—several whiskeys in—that the guy on the other side of the lake was taking his livestock.

“The note says they had a fight and the guy changed his mind. He took the chickens, though.” Jonah stands in front of the sizeable animal pen, enclosed with wire fencing, his hands on his hips, in a staring match with Phil’s black-and-white goat.

Our black-and-white goat now, apparently.

I wrinkle my nose against the faint, acrid scent of bird poop that permeates the cold. The empty chicken coop is a ramshackle box of plywood and haphazardly nailed shingles that sits three feet off the ground to our left. Next to it is a much larger but equally dilapidated structure. I assume, nighttime shelter for Zeke. “A fight about what? What kind of argument ends in ‘I’ll take your chickens but keep your goat’?”

“No idea. That’s all the note said—that him and this guy, Roy, had a falling-out, and there should be enough hay and grain to last Zeke until spring.” Jonah presses his lips together in thought.

I don’t like that look on his face. I’ve seen it before. He’s problem-solving, weighing options.

There are no options here.

“So, we’re going to convince Roy to change his mind, right?”

“I guess.” Jonah cocks his head. “You’re seriously scared of this little guy?”

Zeke lets out a loud bleat and turns those disturbing horizontal pupils my way. A shiver runs down my spine. “We don’t need a goat.”

“Bandit might like a friend.”

“Raccoons don’t have friends.”

Jonah sets his jaw. “Who says he can’t be friends with a goat? And goats don’t like to be alone.”

I see where this is going, and my frustration flares. “I agreed to move to a log cabin in the woods for you. I didn’t complain about the raccoon in the cage. I’m about to sort through fifty years’ worth of someone else’s shit and there is piss all over the bathroom floor because Phil was too drunk to hit the toilet bowl. I draw the line at owning a goat!” My voice carries through the dense, quiet forest that surrounds us.

Jonah’s lips twitch.

“This is not funny!”

He rubs his forehead. “Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” I take a calming breath. “So, let’s go meet Roy.”

Jonah’s eyebrows spike. “What, like, right now? We just got here. I thought you wanted to go pick up the mattress today.”

Zeke bleats loudly, his hoof kicking at the steely wire fence of the enclosure.

“Yes. Like, right now.”

Chapter Ten

“This has to be it.” Jonah slows at the end of the road where a rustic wooden sign with R. Donovan carved into it is nailed to a tree. It’s a good thing he suggested we take one of Phil’s old snow machines because the path ahead looks more like a hiking trail than a driveway, unfit for any full-sized vehicle. A trail that’s not in use. It hasn’t snowed in almost a week, according to the local weather reports, and yet there isn’t a hint of tracks in or out of the property from this direction.

My arms are roped tightly around Jonah’s waist as we coast down the lane, deeper and deeper into the woods, passing two neon yellow No Trespassing signs. A little farther ahead is yet another sign, this one wooden with carved letters painted black, that reads, “I support the right to stand my ground.”