She seems to know I’m on the verge of telling her I don’t want to get my face eaten off by a feral barn cat, ‘cause she hits me with a sad look.
“Please? I have a towel to hold him, so he won’t scratch me this time,” she begs, holding up the pink beach towel.
Against my better judgment, I reach behind the bale of hay. I ignore the feeling of tiny teeth and claws digging into my skin and keep hold of the little fluff ball that’s hissing and spitting and making a big ruckus.
“Shhh. It’s okay,buddy,” I say through gritted teeth as I clutch the thing close even though my first instinct is to toss it back behind the hay bale where it can’t draw blood. Instead, I pass him to Quinn’s waiting hands.
Her face lights up as she looks at the spitting ball of fur with all the love of a five-year-old girl who is certain she can tame this hellcat with love and some chicken nuggets. “Hi, you sweet thing,” she coos, sounding like Grams.
The little kitten hisses again, hair sticking out all over. Ferocious.
“See, Tripp?” Quinn says.
It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about, but then I spot its hind leg hanging at a weird angle.
Ouch! No wonder he’s so feisty.
“That doesn’t look right,” I agree.
“I’m gonna go show him to Grams. She’ll know what to do.”
And then Quinn is running with the kitten held out in front of her in the towel so he can’t reach her skin with those sharp claws.
“Found ya!” Wes says as he sprints into the barn.
I groan. “I was helpin’ Quinn. Count again.”
“No way. Don’t be a sore loser. It’s your turn to count.”
Girls. They always ruin everything.
Poppycock
Quinn
Islept like shit alone in the old farmhouse, but I manage to pry myself from my bed before Wes trudges in to wake me. I weave through the boxes still crowding my room to get to my clothes. With calving season in full swing, I decide to dress casually in jeans and a T-shirt in case I’m needed. I expect my veterinary expertise will be required at some point during my stay.
I scrounge up some breakfast and start a pot of coffee. By the time Wes lets himself in, I’ve eaten and a steady caffeine buzz hums through my veins.
“Hey, Sawyer will be over in a bit to take you to the hospital.”
“You’re not coming?”
He shakes his head. “I figured you’d want to see him this morning. I won’t be free until this afternoon, and I can’t stay long. Got a meetingwith the contractor and a million things to do, but I wanted you to have more than a few minutes with him.”
I sigh and head to the sink to wash out my coffee mug. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”
“Alright, I’ve gotta head out, but I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“See you later,” I say, and with a quick wave he’s out the door.
Running a ranch is a huge undertaking, and he’s still finding his footing—not to mention his new house going up on another part of the property. I was hoping for some time with my brother so we could discuss Pops’ care plan after I talk to the doctors, but it looks like if I want to have more than a two-minute conversation with him I’m going to have to mount a horse and follow him out to the pasture.
I’m grateful when Sawyer shows up a few minutes later, eager to see for myself that Pops is okay.
“Hey,” I say, pulling her into a hug. She hugs me back, albeit a bit less enthusiastically than I do. But that’s just Sawyer.
“I’m glad you came. Wes has been... I feel like stressed is an understatement,” she says, tilting her head toward her truck.
