So yeah, he smelled good. And he’d looked mighty fine—from his tight butt to his bulging biceps to his wide shoulders—when she had watched him shovel stalls. But what made her tingle all over was the feel of his muscled arms cradling her against his hard chest as if she weighed nothing. Heady stuff that challenged her determination to get her own life together before she considered a relationship with anyone.
Inside the farmhouse, he hitched her up a little higher against his chest. “Bed, or couch?”
“Couch,” she answered with conviction. If he put her on the bed, she’d have a hard time resisting the urge to pull him down with her. The devil on her shoulder whispered naughty suggestions in her ear: What harm would a little summer fling do?
She was determined not to find out.
He deposited her on the couch next to Georgia, who had already curled into a ball on top of her special red blanket. “Can I get you anything?”
“First-aid kit’s in the laundry room, second cupboard on your left.”
“I’ve put a Band-Aid on it. It’ll be fine.”
“Not good enough. Wash your hands with the bar of Dial soap on the mop sink, then bring the kit in here. Don’t make Dr. Abby come hobbling after you.”
“Fine.” He sighed, then complied, coming back with the kit in his freshly washed hands.
“Light, please.”
He turned on the lamp, pulled up a footstool, and sat in front of her. Reluctantly, it seemed, he held out his injured hand.
“Ow!” Abby commiserated. That bird had taken a chunk out of Quinn’s pointer finger, just below the middle knuckle. “You need stitches.”
“I’ve fixed worse cuts than this with duct tape.” He dug through the kit and handed over a tube of Neosporin. “Just get on with it.”
“How did he get you so bad?” As gently as she could, she smeared the antibiotic cream over the open gash.
“Made the mistake of leaning my hand on the aviary wire when I poured the food into his bowl.” He handed over a fresh Band-Aid. “I won’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry. I hate that you’re having to do all this for me.” She wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger and smoothed down the adhesive edges.
“My fault, remember?” He replaced the bandages and Neosporin and snapped the lid shut. “Can you please stop apologizing?”
“I’m sorry.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How does your foot feel?”
The throbbing pain from earlier this morning now burned with the heat of a thousand suns. “Not too bad. I should probably take something, though, to keep it from getting worse.”
She told him where to find the medicine, and he brought back a couple of tablets and a glass of filtered water from the fridge door. She took the pills and set the glass on the side table. “You want one of my pain pills for your bird finger?”
“No, thanks.” He turned off the lamp. “Lie back.”
She obeyed, and he tucked pillows under her foot, then covered her with an ugly crocheted throw that draped over the back of the couch. “Think you can manage to rest with your foot up for a couple hours? I’ll get some work done next door, then come back and check on you when I’m done.”
“Thank you.”
He put his hands on his hips and scowled down at her. “I wish you’d stop thanking me, too.”
“I’ll try, but I really am grateful for all you’re doing.”
He knelt down next to her, his blue eyes serious. “You are driving me crazy, you know that?”
“Am I? I’m sorry.”
He ran a hand along her arm, a light touch that made her shiver. Then he leaned in close, so close…his mouth inches from hers. “Stop apologizing.”
Then he kissed her. His lips were warm, firm, gentle, exploring. He teased her lips with his tongue, encouraging her to open her mouth. She did, and he slipped his tongue inside, just a little. With light flicks of his tongue on hers, he teased her to respond. She explored the tastes and textures of the inside of his mouth; his tongue soft-rough and sweet, his teeth shiny-slick and tasting of peppermint. And while their mouths were getting acquainted, the rest of her body tightened and tingled, everything in her reaching out toward him.
He stood and brushed his feathery hair back with both hands. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”
* * *
When the streetlight came on and a pair of hummingbird moths’ tiny wings roared quietly among the yellow cat’s-claw flowers, Georgia came to see Wolf. Again, she tenderly cleaned his wound. When she finished, she sat, tail wagging. “It’s better. Smells clean now.”
Wolf licked her face in gratitude.
She looked toward the farmhouse. “Abby can’t come all the way out here anymore. You have to come to the farmhouse to eat. She put out fresh kibble on the patio.”
Wolf looked up to the darkening sky where tiny lights winked through the cat’s-claw canopy. “Not dark enough yet.”
Georgia stood and trotted to the edge of the forest. “You have to let her see you sometime. She won’t hurt you.”
Wolf averted his eyes. “She’ll chase me away.”
“She won’t.” Georgia wagged, her tail making a rhythmic whapping noise against the overhanging vines. “Unless you eat the chickens.”
Wolf believed Georgia’s sincerity, but the memory of being chased away still stung. He wasn’t ready to risk that humiliation again. “I’ll come at night.”
“You’d better hurry, or the raccoons will get it.”
“I’ll come when the house lights go out.”
Georgia sneezed. “She’ll leave the gate open for you.”
When Georgia left, Wolf stretched out on his soft bed of fallen leaves and tried to sleep. Maybe he did sleep a little, but not the deep healing sleep he needed. A tantalizing smell woke him fully; not the smell of food, but the scent of a female dog in heat. The sort of scent an intact male wolf dog such as himself could not ignore. Though his side ached and his stomach growled and his spirit ached for the kind of rest only a dog with a home could afford, he got to his feet and followed the elusive scent through the cat’s-claw forest and beyond.
* * *
Quinn’s Law & Order rerun seemed to have some random, high-pitched noises in the soundtrack. Or was it…? He muted the TV.
“Shit.” He leaped to his feet. Georgia was outside in Abby’s backyard, barking hysterically. He stepped into his shoes, grabbed the flashlight, and ran.
All the way down his drive, all the way down hers, his mind spun with panic-induced scenarios. Abby had fallen on the hard tile floor. Or in the pool’s deep end. Or in the donkey stall where she’d be trampled to death.
Cats fighting.
He heard the sound and slacked off on his headlong sprint to save Abby. It was just a cat fight.
Catching his breath, he rounded the corner of the house. A dozen cats rolled and fought each other on the patio, then broke apart when his movement triggered the motion-sensor safety light at the corner of the house. Blinded for a split second, he moved so the light’s glare wasn’t coming straight at him and swung the flashlight’s beam toward the melee.
Not cats.
Raccoons.
Raccoons and cats. A screaming, yowling, chattering heap of raccoons and cats fought each other. He’d seen some pretty intense bar brawls in his lifetime, but nothing to rival this. The fighting animals attacked, defended, rolled, and sprang apart, all the while hissing, screaming, yowling and moaning. Georgia barked with high drama, darting in now and then to snap at a raccoon’s backside whenever the opportunity presented itself.
With thoughts of rabies shots spinning through his mind, Quinn charged at the unruly group. “Shoo! Stop it! Break it up!”
The fight calmed, and most of the animals, raccoons and cats alike, fled for the safety of th
e shadows. But the biggest raccoon turned and hissed at him, teeth bared.
Quinn took two steps back. The thing was huge. The granddaddy of all raccoons stood on his hind legs, just about tall enough to reach Quinn’s crotch.
With those long, sharp teeth.
With those long, sharp, possibly rabies-infected teeth.
Quinn swung the flashlight at the creature, whose mouth, Quinn was sure, dripped with blood. “Shoo! Get out of here!”
The raccoon dropped back down to all fours and glared at Quinn. Its eyes shone gold in the porch light. Georgia lunged at it, snapping and barking.
“No, Georgia,” Quinn commanded. That granddaddy raccoon was bigger and meaner than Georgia ever thought about being. “Let him go on his way.”
But still the raccoon lingered, eyeing the metal pan of dog kibble Abby had left on the back porch for that damn stray dog. Tonight would be the last night she did that, if Quinn had anything to say about it.
And, he decided, he did. He did have something to say, and by God, whether she wanted to or not, she’d listen.
Quinn flung the metal pan toward the raccoon Frisbee-style, sending the few remaining morsels of kibble flying. The pan wobbled in a wide arc, completely missing the raccoon, but he got the message. With one last aggrieved glance, he trundled off.
Quinn knelt down and snapped his fingers at Georgia. “Come here, girl.”
She crept close, her head down, her tail tucked, her demeanor submissive.
“I’m not gonna hurt you.” He set the flashlight down. “I just want to see if you’re okay.”
He skimmed his hands along her face and head, then down her sides and back. “You okay?” He didn’t feel the dampness of blood, and she didn’t flinch at his examination. “You’re lucky they didn’t get you.”
A low, moaning meow came from the shrubs between the house and the aviary.
“Griff?” Quinn stood and shone the flashlight at the base of the shrubbery. A pair of yellow eyes blinked. “Come here, buddy.”
The cat growled, a low, whining sound.
Georgia went to the cat and sniffed cautiously, then sat back, whining.
“Dammit.” Quinn laid his flashlight on the ground so the beam illuminated the cat, then dropped to his knees and crawled under the shrubs. Griffin’s eyes flashed, and he hissed. “I’m sorry, dude.” Though Quinn felt sure that he was about to be flayed alive by the cat’s claws, and that spiders and ticks were at this moment skittering down his shirt like teenage groupies slipping past the bouncer into a New Orleans bar at midnight, he bent lower and reached farther. “I’ve gotta bring you out of there.”
Griff growled and hissed again. Quinn grabbed the cat’s scruff and dragged it out of the bushes. Miraculously, the cat hung limp and didn’t bite or scratch. Quinn cradled the battered feline and got to his feet. “You’re really hurt, aren’t you?” The cat’s fur felt matted and lumpy, and Quinn felt the stickiness of blood seeping through his shirt.
And now, Quinn wondered for the first time, where was Abby? Either drugged enough to have slept through all this or, as he’d worried before, passed out on the tile floor inside the house, trampled to death by donkeys, or dead at the bottom of the pool?
The farm next door wasn’t just loud; it was exhausting. He was too old for this shit.
He glanced into the pool. No floaters at the surface, nor dead bodies being sucked down to the bottom by the drain. Dismissing the donkey scenario as the ramblings of a sleep-deprived brain, he knocked at the sliding glass door. When Abby didn’t answer, he tested the door, and it slid effortlessly open.
Now, he could add a new worst-case scenario for Abby: the victim of a violent criminal who stalked the neighborhood at night, looking for unlocked doors.
Quinn was not a worrier; never had been. He had only recently trained himself to ponder decisions before making them because of the disastrous outcome of some of his more spontaneous choices. He had always flung himself headlong into whatever he wanted to do without fear or doubt.
He had never worried about Melissa or Sean. Melissa, with her high-heeled shoes and manicured nails, was tougher than the most seasoned cage fighter. He pitied anyone, armed or not, who tried to cross her, and if anyone messed with Sean, Melissa’s mama bear came out with a fury. Her vicious and public dressing-down of the vice principal when he had unfairly accused Sean of cheating was the stuff of Audubon Elementary School legend.
Abby’s vulnerability brought out something unexpected and tender inside him, and it scared Quinn to death. He hadn’t been able to give Melissa the support she’d needed, and she was one of the most self-sufficient people he’d ever met. Abby came with an entire multispecies crowd of needy creatures, including the battered cat he held in his arms.
He paused in the bedroom’s open doorway. He could see Abby bundled up under the covers despite the muggy warmth of the Louisiana night. “Abby. Wake up.”
She didn’t move. Her deep breaths were audible, just shy of actually snoring.
“Abby!” He didn’t want to alarm her, but hell, maybe he did. This was a veterinary emergency, after all. Griffin, the hefty toolbox pisser, was way too limp and passive in his arms. “Wake up. We have a problem.”
Abby stirred, rolled over, and made a quiet huffing sound before settling down again.
“Abby.” Quinn made sure his voice was as deep and booming as he could make it. “Wake the fuck up.”
“Huh?” Abby sat up, and, no doubt seeing his shadow looming in the bedroom doorway, screamed.
“It’s me, Quinn.” He flicked on the bedroom light. “Get up. We have a problem.”
Chapter 12
Abby flung the covers back. The sudden flare of the bedroom light half blinded her. “What’s wrong?”
“You just slept through a damn poolside turf war.”
“What?” She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She’d been sleeping so deeply that her whole body buzzed with the shock of waking up. “I slept through what?”
“Look,” Quinn commanded.
She did, and… “Oh, my God, Griffie! What happened?” She grabbed the scooter’s handlebars and hurried toward Quinn. The cat was lying limp in Quinn’s arms, torn and bleeding, eyes half-closed, tongue hanging out. “What happened,” she screeched, one-hundred-percent awake now. She reached out to stroke Griff’s head, but couldn’t find a spot to touch that wasn’t bleeding.
“He was fighting a bunch of raccoons on the patio. I heard Georgia barking.”
“Oh, no. Why would—” She stopped. She knew why. The raccoons had come to eat the dog food she’d left out for the stray, and Griffin had been defending his territory.
“Some of the other cats were involved, too, but he’s the only one I saw. Hopefully, everyone else is okay.” Quinn paused. “Or okay enough.”
“Shit.” This was all her fault, and with her damn self tied to a damn scooter, there was just about nothing she could do about it. “He’s in shock, and hurt too badly for Band-Aids and Neosporin to do any good.”
She sat on the scooter’s seat and called Mack’s cell phone. He answered, sounding groggy. She explained the situation, and he agreed to meet them at the vet’s office in fifteen minutes. “Okay,” she said to Quinn. “Give him to me. You’ll have to get a crate from the laundry room and line it with towels.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the vet’s office. The lights were on, and the front door stood open a crack. Quinn grabbed the carrier and rushed up the steps, then looked back at Abby—he’d forgotten her handicap.
“Go,” she ordered. “I’ll use the wheelchair ramp and catch up with you.” When she came in, the bell that hung from the doorknob jangled, and Mack called out. “Lock that door, then come on back.”
Though the waiting area had been dusty the last time Abby was in the clinic, the s
urgical room gleamed with shiny silver everything and smelled faintly of Clorox. Mack wore jeans and a wrinkled green scrub top, and his dark-brown hair stood up on one side. He had clearly rolled out of bed and come straight to the office, but he already wore a pair of surgical gloves and had assembled a tray of sharp objects and other frightening veterinary paraphernalia.
Griffin lay on a big, silver operating table, his mangled body illuminated by a bright adjustable lamp above the table.
“Y’all want to stay and help?”
“Um.” Abby looked down at the cat’s bloody gashes, and a spotty haze started to close in on her. She gulped. “I think I might wait outside, if that’s okay.”
Mack shrugged. “I don’t want to be picking you up off the floor, so yes, it’s fine.”
Quinn wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Are you okay? Do you need me to take you out to the car? Or take you home? Tell me what you need.”
She burrowed into his warmth. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Held on to his solid strength. “I’m okay.”
He squeezed her tight. “Can you make it back to the waiting room?”
She made herself pull away. “Yes.” She scrubbed her face with her shaking hands, though there were no tears to wipe away. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. If you can stay, I’ll wait.”
He stepped closer and tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “You sure?”
Not at all sure but determined not to be a wimp, she nodded and stepped back, gripping the handlebars of the scooter. “I’m sure. I’ll go to the waiting room and text Reva.” She turned and left the room, glad for Mack and Quinn’s ironclad stomachs and compassionate resolve.
“I’ll stay,” she heard Quinn volunteer.
“Great, thanks,” Mack said. “They sure got him good, didn’t they?”
She didn’t hear Quinn’s response; she had already scootered halfway down the hall, headed for the dusty waiting room. She almost fell off the scooter when her cell phone buzzed in her back pocket. For a split second, she imagined that a big, hairy raccoon had come up behind her and taken a swipe at her butt. She stopped near the receptionist’s desk, pulled the phone from her pocket, and looked at the screen. Aunt Reva, of course. Calling after midnight—no doubt because she’d had a disturbing dream about raccoons.
Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay Page 14