“Go careful,” I warn her, eyeing the mother cat as she comes trotting toward where Niamh loves on the babies. Three of them are in her lap, another in her arms as she nuzzles her face into its fur while two more play fight by her knee. Behind the mom, the final kitten follows.
“Have you named them?” Niamh asks, watching the last kitten arrive, a knot forming between her brows. She’s spotted what I have. It looks too thin, its fur sparse, and its eyes look weepy and sore.
“No,” I tell her, “We have too many to keep track of.”
She pouts and puts the kitten she was holding down so she can reach for the newest one. It comes willingly, and the mother just sits and watches, content with Niamh handling her babies. I don’t dare move in case I scare them.
“This one is sick,” She strokes it softly, “Really poorly.”
“We have a vet on site.” Crouching down, I pick up the kitten currently using the toe of my boot as a scratching post and use my finger to tickle under its chin.
“Can I take her?” I can see the concern twisting her face.
“We can right now,” I promise, rising to stand.
Her eyes light up, and she gets to her feet, cradling the kitten like it’s made of glass. We have a resident vet who works and lives on site, she’s the very best in the state, so if there’s anyone who can help this kitten, it’s her.
I guide Niamh to the truck and then climb in behind the wheel, getting the engine started a minute later. She doesn’t say a word; all her focus is pointed toward the baby in her arms. She’s soft and warm, but I see the way her watery eyes worry for the kitten.
It cracks something in my chest.
It shouldn’t, but it does.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care what makes her sad, but I don’t want to see that look. I want her sharp thorns, the bites, the glares. Notthis.
Chapter 11
“It’s likely parasites,” Darcy, Roman’s resident vet, says as she handles the kitten, her touch gentle but thorough. She has a no-nonsense approach, something I picked up on the moment we stepped foot into this office. “But I’ll run the tests and let you know.”
“Could it be anything else?” I press as I pick at the skin around the nail on my thumb. The vet flicks her eyes to Roman before they come back to me, and I know what they say.
Why do I care?
Animals are innocent. They always have been, and I’ve never been able to turn a blind eye to an animal in need. It’s how I ended up with a baby raccoon in my care when I was thirteen. I’d found it in a dumpster,thin and crying out for a mother that was long gone or dead. I looked for her, but it was only the baby around. My dad and I got it the help it needed, fed and loved it until a rehab could take it in. It’s also how I had a crow with an injured wing, a squirrel and a couple of chickens. Did I have the knowledge or experience? No, but I couldn’t leave any of them when they needed my help.
“There are a number of things it could be,” Darcy says, “But the tests will give a better insight. I don’t like to speculate, but I promise to be thorough. Have you named her?”
I nod in agreement and run my hand down the small orange kitten, feeling its body vibrate as it purrs. “Not yet.”
“Well, when you decide, let me know. We’ll use it so she gets used to it.”
“Thank you.” I release a breath. “Can you just keep me updated? Even if it’s small, I can give you my number.”
“Of course,” Darcy picks up the kitten, “Just write your number down at the front desk and I’ll update you once the results start coming in.”
“Thanks, Darcy,” Roman’s deep, whiskey-warm voice sounds from behind me. I’d forgotten he was even there, which seems impossible since he’s a force all on his own, but I’d been so focused on the kitten, everything else was just noise.
It kick starts me back to reality, puts me back in the real world where I have a bar and a gig I need to prepare for. I hate it, not being here, but my bar needs me.
“I’ll call,” Darcy promises as if sensing the shift, her hand coming to rest on my arm. “She’s in safe hands.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I give her a smile or what I assume is a smile since it rarely comes out naturally anymore.
Leaving the kitten with the vet, I follow Roman back out to the truck, and we ride back to the house in silence, a light breeze flowing through the cab from the open window.
“I’m surprised he didn’t steal you away for some fancy honeymoon,” Linda, one of my regulars, says as she nurses her glass of wine. She only ever comes in for one, around five p.m. every day before she goes off to the care home to have dinner with her husband, who is a resident there. She’d spotted the ring the moment she sat down at the bar, and while my first instinct was to lie through my teeth, I realized I couldn’t. This marriage is meant to be as real as hers, and I can’t exactly pretend the ring on my finger isn’t precisely what it is. She isn’t the first one to notice it either, though they’re more subtle about their curiosity.
“Oh, we are much too busy for that,” I wave her off. “He’s got the ranch, and well, this place won’t run itself.”
