Page 39 of The Clifftop Cottage

The kitten yelped.

Erica’s hands flew to her mouth. “Should I take it to the vet?”

Gabriel studied the tiny creature, frowning. “It’s a bit of a drive. There’s only the farming vet, and I know he’s run off his feet right now – dealing with a bad case of pneumonia in the cattle over at the Macleod farm.”

Erica’s face fell. “But maybe I could go to him? If I catch him on a break⁠—”

He heard the desperation in her voice. She looked paler than usual, dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“Have you been up all night with him?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. His gaze flicked to the armchair by the stove, where a blanket lay tangled.

“I’ve been feeding him with my finger, but I don’t think it’s enough. I can’t leave him, and I’ve had no phone signal.” Her voice wavered, and he noticed the blotchy redness on her forehead – the telltale sign she’d already been crying.

Gabriel softened. “You’ve done great, Erica. But dragging him out in a car now wouldn’t be wise. He needs more food in him first.” He scratched his chin, thinking back to the kittens his mother had once saved, nursing them against her chest, letting her heartbeat steady them. They had survived, despite being nearly drowned by a farmer who hadn’t known any better.

“Do you have an egg?” Gabriel asked, already pushing to his feet. “And some milk?”

Erica shot him a confused look but handed them over without question.

He headed for the hall cupboard beside the boiler, where his old red first-aid box sat wedged at the bottom, stuffed with all manner of odd bits and pieces. He rummaged through it, muttering at the contents: a torch with dead batteries, a coil of twine, antiseptic wipes, an emergency whistle, a few mismatched bandages. He was nothing if not prepared for most emergencies.

Finally, he found what he was looking for – a small syringe.

He hurried back into the kitchen, where Erica stood watching him, like he might know what to do.

He got to work, mixing the egg and milk into a thin, nourishing formula. Setting a tea towel across his lap, he placed the kitten gently on top. Erica hovered beside him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of vanilla.

Carefully, he syringed a few drops into the kitten’s mouth. It spat the first bit out, and Erica gasped, her hands tightening into fists.

“Easy,” Gabriel murmured. He let the kitten breathe, watched the rise and fall of its tiny chest. “That’s it … steady now.”

He tried again.

This time the kitten swallowed. Then again. And again.

Gabriel let out a slow breath. “Good lad.” He paused, then stopped. “We need to go slowly. He’s had a shock. Too much all at once and it’ll be too much for him.”

The kitten made a soft, broken sound.

Then, barely more than a vibration, came a purr.

Erica’s face lit up. “Did you hear that? That’s good, right? Purring means he’s okay?”

“It’s a good sign,” Gabriel said, smiling. “Means he feels safe.”

He passed the syringe to her and watched as she took over, cradling the tiny body with surprising steadiness, murmuring softly.

“I’ll check the boiler,” he said quietly.

She barely looked up, focused entirely on the fragile life in her hands.

By the time he returned, the kitchen was quiet, the fire crackling softly in the Rayburn. Erica had curled into the armchair, fast asleep, the kitten tucked against her chest.

Gabriel stood for a moment, watching them. The rise and fall of the kitten’s belly. The way Erica’s fingers still curled protectively around it.

The next morning, he called by the cottage to check on them both, expecting to find her inside. Instead, she was in the garden.

Crouched by the low stone wall, sleeves pushed up, hands buried in damp earth.