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“Whatever works best,” I answer with a wink.
Before he gets in his truck to swing the trailer around to the barn, Grady tells Hank to go inside the house and make sure the girls are still asleep. He’s happy to oblige, looking more than a little worn out from the surreal situation he’s been tossed into.
Once the trailer is backed in as close to the barn as possible—still leaving just enough room for me to put down the back door—Grady climbs out of his pickup.
“Let’s go. I’ll pull my truck on one side, unhitch the trailer, and let him rip. Already got Hank’s truck on the other side. Bruce should be walled in.” He looks at his setup, using the trucks as extra barricades since the Larkin’s trailer is too tall to back right into the barn.
“Good idea.” I’ve already laid out a slab of meat in the center of the pen, hoping Bruce will go for it.
If we’re lucky, maybe his nighttime excursion worked up an appetite.
Our plan works perfectly.
Within minutes, Bruce is settled back in the barn, with the meat devoured and the new sliding door closed and locked. My last look inside shows him licking his chops.
A short time later, Grady leaves to take the stock trailer back to Drake’s house, and Hank heads home.
I peek in on the girls, both still fast asleep, and then flop down on the sofa.
It’s after five in the flipping morning and I’m so tired I feel emptied out.
Even so, I wait until I hear Grady’s truck pull in closer to the house before drifting off.
There’s no doubt now—not that there was much before.
This damaged, growly man with a gold-plated heart is the hero I need, and the savior I deserve.
God help me.
“It’s utterly pathetic, Niles. Why, you should’ve seen the look on that cretin’s face when I told him if he didn’t want to pay in full, I’d take our lovely furball and march him right back to—”
I’m standing in the doorframe to the Fosses’ office with my heart drumming in my throat.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Priscilla snarls, twisting angrily in her seat, her heels so tall she might snap her neck if she tries to stand up abruptly and falls.
“Um, sorry. I just came to let you know Bruce seems extra restless today...” I’d noticed him pacing his enclosure since morning, and then the low, mournful sounding growl when I fed him in the evening.
He was slow to eat, which was way weird...
Almost like he’s expecting something.
“Oh, posh, not the upset tummy again.” She sighs, clicking her long pink nails on her desk. “Don’t tell me—we need another look from the vet?”
“Dear.” Niles gives his wife a stern look, his lantern jaw clenched. “I believe he’s scheduled for a checkup within the next week. Remember?”
This weird, sinister looking energy darts back and forth as they make eye contact, and then both turn to face me again.
“For such a talented, highly observant young woman, you sure do worry a lot,” Priscilla says, her tone oddly flat. “Tell you what, missy. Seeing how Niles and I have both got twenty years in with big cats—even if we don’t have one of your fancy degrees—how about you trust us on this one, hmm?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I’m not sure what the hell to say to that. I just know the way they keep looking at each other implies there’s some seriously bad vibes coming.
Bad news for Bruce.
“Understood. I’ll keep an eye on him and I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I whisper, slowly backing out.
But before I’m able, Niles stands, a tall whipcord of a man. He moves across the office in two lunging steps and grabs the door, looking down at me.
“Forgive me, Miss Macklin, but you’re certain you’re not becoming...shall we say, attached to Bruce?” His eyes are haunted pinpricks, daggers aimed at my soul.
What the hell does he mean? My skin crawls.
“I mean, I...I know how things work around here,” I assure them, forcing the phoniest smile of my life. “I know we look after the animals as long as we’re able, and sometimes they have to move on. For their own good. You...you’ve made that very clear. Bruce is a darling, but if you think I’d ever object—”
“You’d better bloody well not,” he spits in that ice-cold accent that’s not quite British, but not American either. I wonder if it’s something he picked up on the British side of the Virgin Islands he’s disturbingly obsessed with.
“Niles!” The Queen Bitch hisses behind him.
He stands up to his full height, barely flustered, adjusting his tie. Then he plasters on that hellish smile I want to rip right off his face.
“My apologies for the harsh tone. No, you’d never be so foolish, certainly. I think you’re practically one of us now, Miss Macklin,” he says with an ominous, sly smile. “In another month or two, we’d like to see how you’ll handle the full overnight shift.”
