by Lori Foster
It seemed to take a long time to arrive in front of the male’s town house. Thomas was winded and weaker. It took everything he had to bat against the screened door once, twice, three times.
The door opened and the male stepped forward. “Tom.”
Thomas noted the male’s shocked expression. He thought, You should have seen the other cats, just before he crumbled to the walkway.
Through half-closed eyes, he watched as the male disappeared briefly, then returned with a blanket. Thomas felt himself being lifted with care from the walkway and wrapped in soft yarn. He closed his eyes, feeling as safe as he’d only ever felt with Kendra.
Who in the world was leaning on her doorbell? It had better not be Harvey.
Kendra flung open her front door. Her temper drained and her mind blanked at the sight of Paul Strahan holding a bloody and unconscious Thomas.
“Tom! Tom! Oh, no! What happened?”
“We have to get him to a vet.”
Her breath was coming too fast. “Oh, no, oh . . .”
“Kendra.” Paul’s voice was firm, his gaze direct, pulling her back from hysteria.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” She snatched her purse, car keys, and cell phone from a corner cabinet in her living room, then jogged back to her front door on rubbery legs. It took her shaking hands two attempts to lock up.
Paul led her to his car parked in her driveway. “Let’s take my car. The engine’s still running.”
And his doors were still open. “Yes. OK. I’ll direct you to the clinic.” Kendra climbed into the passenger seat, then reached for Thomas.
“Buckle your seat belt.”
Impatient, she strapped herself in, then held out her arms again. Paul helped her settle Thomas on her lap. Kendra swallowed a sob as she studied his wounds. Too many scratches to count. Blood had turned his fur black. Seeing him like this again hurt even more than the first time. Probably because he’d come to mean so much to her. Would he recover this time? He had to.
“Oh, Tom. Hold on, baby. Hold on.”
Paul reversed out of her driveway and broke the speed limit to the clinic. When Kendra wasn’t giving him directions, she was crooning to Thomas.
Paul pulled up to the clinic’s entrance. He jumped out of the car and hurried to help Kendra from the passenger seat with the fragile bundle in her arms.
Kendra walked quickly but carefully to the receptionist’s desk. “Please. My cat’s been badly hurt in a fight.”
One look at her bruised and bloodied companion, and the medical staff rushed into action. They took Thomas from her but wouldn’t let her follow them to surgery. Instead, Kendra remained behind to give the receptionist her information so they could pull Thomas’s chart.
“What’s going on?”
Kendra turned at the low, smoky voice. She hadn’t expected Paul to join her. Then she saw her purse in his fist.
“Oh, thank you.” She shrugged it onto her shoulder. Her mind wandered as she waited for his good-bye.
What cat had attacked her poor Thomas? Was he the same cat from two months ago? Why was he after Thomas?
“What’s going on?” As he repeated himself, Paul guided her toward the waiting room chairs. His touch was warm on her cold skin.
Kendra was confused by his behavior until she saw the concern in his eyes. Concern for her cat. He touched a piece of her heart with that look.
“Tom’s in surgery.” Her voice broke on the final word.
“For how long?” He helped her into one of the cushioned seats.
“I don’t know.” She was grateful that Paul settled into the chair beside her. She didn’t want to be alone.
“He’ll be OK.”
He seemed to be reassuring both of them. Kendra lowered her head to blink away tears and noticed his afghan in her arms. She shuddered at the sight of Thomas’s blood and fur on the yarn.
“Thank you for helping Tom. I’ll wash your afghan before I give it back to you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Paul took the blanket back, folding it so neither of them could see the evidence of Thomas’s wounds.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. My mother made it.”
And he’d wrapped her bleeding cat in it. “How did you find Tom?”
“He came to me. He knocked on my door. I don’t know how he knew where I lived.”
It took mere moments for Kendra to figure it out. “Tom took a walk right after you left yesterday. He must have followed you home.”
“Why?”
She gazed into his brown eyes. He had such kind eyes. “He must have sensed something in you that he liked.”
A corner of his full lips curved upward. “Unlike the way he feels about your boyfriend?”
Kendra nodded. “And he’s right. Harvey wouldn’t have wrapped Tom in paper towels much less an afghan his mother had made for him. And he wouldn’t be sitting here beside me waiting for news on Tom’s recovery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So am I. That’s why we’re not together anymore.”
Paul arched a brow. “Really?”
“Really. I owe that to Tom as well.”
“Smart cat.”
Kendra smiled. “That he is. Have you ever had a pet?”
“My family had cats and dogs. And goldfish.”
Kendra’s smile grew. “A menagerie. We didn’t have pets. Tom is my first.”
“Where did you get him?”
“I found him in our complex a couple of blocks from my town house. He’d been pretty badly beaten. I wonder if it was the same cat he fought with today?”
“What made you keep him?”
Kendra shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s because he had nowhere else to go.” She huffed a breath and crossed her arms. “Why does he have to roam the streets and get into fights? Why can’t he just sit in the window and look cute?”
Paul gave a surprised bark of laughter. “Then he wouldn’t be a cat. He’d be an ornament.”
Kendra blinked at him, then she laughed, too. “I guess you’re right.”
They talked about nothing. The act of making conversation kept her nerves at bay. More than an hour passed. Paul offered to get some lunch, but neither of them was hungry.
Finally, Thomas’s doctor entered the waiting room. The petite, curvy redhead approached them. The paper booties covering her shoes crunched against the tiled floor.
Paul offered Kendra his hand to help her stand.
The veterinarian smiled her greeting. “Kendra Willis. I remember you from Tom’s first fight. Or the first one we know of.”
Kendra clasped the other woman’s hand. “Dr. Maxwell. I’m glad you were on duty. How’s Tom?”
The doctor sobered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and needed a lot of stitches. Well over a hundred. But he should be fine. We’ll have to watch for infection.”
Relieved, Kendra leaned into Paul. “But he’ll be OK?”
“Yes.”
“Can we see him?”
The other woman’s gaze moved to Paul, then back to Kendra. “Sure, but he’s probably still asleep.”
“That’s OK. We just need to see him.”
Dr. Maxwell turned to lead them back through the doors she’d used to enter the waiting area. Her crunching steps led them down a hallway to a small, sterile recovery room.
Thomas lay on his side on an olive green examining bed topped by a paper sheet. He was covered in stitches and bandages from head almost to tail. They’d washed most of the blood from his fur. His stomach rose and fell in a slow, steady breathing pattern.
Kendra quietly approached her dozing cat. With the tip of her index finger, she brushed back the fur from the bridge of his nose over his forehead. His favorite spot.
“Oh, my poor Tom. My poor baby.” She crooned in a whisper, not wanting to disturb him.
Paul put a hand on her shoulder, sharing comfort and support. He spoke over his shoulder to the doctor. “When can we take him
home?”
Kendra looked at his profile in surprise. Harvey wouldn’t have cared about reuniting her with her cat. He probably would have asked Dr. Maxwell if she knew of any animal shelters. Paul had just claimed another piece of her heart.
Dr. Maxwell glanced at Thomas before responding to Paul. “We’ll keep him overnight to make sure he doesn’t develop an infection. If everything goes well, you should be able to take him home tomorrow after lunch.”
Kendra sighed with satisfaction. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
The veterinarian nodded with a smile. “I’ll give you a few moments alone. Don’t tire him.” She left, closing the door softly.
Kendra turned back to Thomas. He was watching her through sleepy green eyes. She stroked his favorite spot again and spoke gently. “Hey. You scared me.”
Paul squeezed her shoulder. “You scared both of us.”
Kendra looked up at her neighbor. This was what she wanted. Someone she could share the important things with. Someone she could share her life with. Was Paul that someone?
She could tell he was attracted to her. Her gaze slipped over his tall, tight form. She was definitely attracted to him. But she wouldn’t rush into another relationship. She’d just broken up with Harvey that morning. It had taken her four months to realize how selfish, self-centered, and mean Harvey was. That must be some kind of world record for poor perception.
But Thomas likes Paul. He’d followed him home.
As much as she loved Thomas, she wasn’t going to trust her love life to a cat.
Besides, did Paul really care about her cat or was he trying to impress her?
Don’t even go there. Paul’s concern for Thomas was real. After all, he’d carried Thomas to her wrapped in the afghan his mother had made for him, then raced through Westerville to the clinic with her.
He really cared, and it showed.
Paul gave her a quizzical smile. “What are you thinking about?”
“How glad I am that you’re here with me.”
His smile softened and the expression in his eyes warmed. “So am I.”
Thomas could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted to see what was going on. He wanted to know who was with him, not because he was worried. He was just curious.
Kendra leaned over him, rubbing his nose. He sighed. As always, her touch soothed him, easing his fear of this strange place and his remaining tension from the fight. Shadow and his cats had done a number on him, but this time he’d been the one to chase them off. In the future, they wouldn’t challenge him.
He’d also brought the male to his mistress. He was glad. Thomas strained against his drooping eyelids and watched the male smiling down at Kendra. He had a good, kind face. And, despite the concern in her eyes, Kendra looked happy. Content.
His mission accomplished, Thomas closed his eyes to nap.
A MAN, A WOMAN, AND HAGGIS
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
CHAPTER ONE
Loch Lomond, Scotland
’Tis the haggis you’ll be wanting, lass.
A sharp, high-pitched bark gave prompt agreement.
Jilly Pepper, American tourist on a mission, dropped her menu and whipped around, ready to tell the aged Scotsman that it wasn’t necessary to whisper his recommendation so close to her.
Nor did she need his canine companion splitting her ear-drums.
She looked about, frowning.
Not that a scan of the inn’s plaid-decorated dining room helped matters. The yappy little dog had high-tailed it. And the owner of the voice wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
The cozy pub-restaurant loomed as empty as when she’d claimed a quiet corner behind the bar.
Jilly shivered.
Maybe the Colquhoun Arms was haunted? Yet she’d been traveling around Scotland for two weeks and hadn’t seen a single ghost.
She had heard stories though.
Scotland was full of such tales.
Her heart began to pound and she lifted a hand to her neck, fingering the antique silver locket that rested against her throat. If a Scottish ghost wanted a piece of her, Luss on Loch Lomond would be the place any such spook would come after her.
Or so she was willing to consider until she caught a movement near the door. A crusty-looking Scotsman in a kilt stood there, a walking stick in his hand. He was looking right at her, his blue eyes twinkling.
The dog was there, too.
Little, as she’d guessed. The cheeky creature appeared to be a brown and white Jack Russell terrier. He struck a jaunty pose beside the Scotsman, the same mischievous air about him as his master.
The haggis, lass.
You’ll no’ regret it.
The words came as before, this time without an accompanying bark. Yap or not, the dog did wag his tail. He also appeared to smile, displaying crooked teeth.
But what really caught her eye was that, for a moment, she would’ve sworn she could see through the dog’s wig-wagging tail.
Jilly blinked. The old man grinned and winked at her. Then he turned on his heel to stride out the door, his little dog trotting after him.
Until both seemed to vanish into thin air.
“Huh?” Jilly’s eyes widened. She leaned forward, trying to see out the windows if they’d nipped around the corner to the inn’s car-park. But the parking lot looked as empty as the restaurant and nothing moved across the way except a flock of wooly sheep ambling about a large, tree-edged field.
The road down to the loch—Luss’s only real thoroughfare—proved equally deserted. Quaint stone cottages hugged the road all the way to the shore, but an air of stillness prevailed there, too.
Jilly swallowed. A chill swept over her. An old man with a walking stick couldn’t move that fast. His dog hadn’t looked sprightly either. She hadn’t missed the telltale white on the Jack’s muzzle and brows.
“Have you decided?” The soft voice startled her.
Jilly glanced up at the inn’s proprietress. She hadn’t even noticed the woman approach her table.
“Do you need more time?” The innkeeper’s gaze flicked to the menu.
“No, I know what I want. I’ll have haggis.” Jilly blurted her choice before she realized what she’d said.
“Haggis?” The woman’s brows arched. “Are you sure?”
Jilly nodded, certain her face had run beet red.
Of course, she wasn’t sure. Everyone knew haggis tasted like moist, ground shoe leather and made hair grow in places it shouldn’t.
But the order had slipped off her tongue and she wasn’t taking it back. If only to prove that she was one American who did eat haggis.
So she bit back a shudder and flashed her best haggis-loving smile. “I eat haggis all the time,” she lied. “I heard yours is really good.”
That, at least, was true.
Not that she was about to admit who’d said so.
“Well, then.” The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Deep-fried haggis with whisky sauce or traditional?”
“Traditional?”
“Haggis served with neeps and tatties.” The woman’s tone said she knew Jilly had never tasted haggis in her life. “Neeps are mashed rutabagas and tatties are mashed potatoes.”
“Oh.” Jilly didn’t bother to try a bluff. “I’ll have traditional haggis.”
If only because she was certain most American tourists ordered the deep-fried variety.
But as soon as a server set down her steaming, traditional-looking haggis, Jilly decided it didn’t matter if she appeared ignorant.
She’d never seen such an unappetizing pile of goo.
But she’d be damned before she wouldn’t scarf down every bite.
She was spared the misery when a fast-moving blur of black and white fur made a flying leap for her table, the dog’s loud-slurping tongue lapping the haggis from her plate.
“Gah!” She leaned back against the booth.
The dog—a border collie—was all over her.
Her eye
s rounded as one of the beast’s muddy paws slid across her thigh, his busy tongue making short work of the neeps and tatties.
The deed done, he kept his paw hard against her leg and simply stared at her.
He also looked incredibly pleased.
“Haggis!” A deep voice, richly-burred and suitably horrified, filled the restaurant. “Have done, laddie. Leave be!”
An enthusiastic tail swish showed the dog had no intention of obeying.
He kept his canine stare pinned on Jilly, totally ignoring the man who drew to a halt beside him.
Jilly looked at him and forgot to breathe.
“Holy heather, lass, I’m sorry!” The man—probably the most gorgeous she’d ever seen—curled firm fingers beneath the dog’s collar and pulled him away from her. “He meant no harm, I swear. It was the haggis, no’ you.”
“The haggis?” Jilly glanced at the clean-licked plate.
Cutie nodded. “He has an insatiable hunger for haggis. That’s the reason I have him.”
“Oh?” Jilly stared at him, thunderstruck by his dimples and buttery-rich burr.
The dimples deepened, his clear blue gaze not wavering from hers. “Haggis can’t resist haggis. He—”
“His name is Haggis?” Jilly glanced at the dog, his wagging tail answer enough.
“Och, aye, he’s Haggis right enough.” The man smiled. “He belonged to the owners of another inn, but when they couldn’t put a stop to his haggis-napping, they meant to put him away. I couldn’t bear to think of him in a kennel and so”—he shoved a hand through his dark hair—“he’s been mine ever since.”
A thump of Haggis’s tail against a chair said how much he approved of the relationship.
Jilly understood. With his bold good looks—there was definitely a flair of the Celt about him—she was sure the Scot charmed everyone, including capricious canines.
But it was hard to fully appreciate him with his furry-faced friend still eyeing her as if she might be as edible as her haggis.
Even so, she did note his remarkable blue eyes and the sensual curve of his lips. He had the kind of mouth that would have set her heart to galloping if they’d met under different circumstances.