The Hero I Need by Nicole Snow
An Up-Roar (Willow)
Time to check my pulse.
I think somewhere on the way to the table I died and went to heaven. There’s a permanent grin digging at my cheeks as I soak in a rustic warmth I’d never find in San Diego.
The old-fashioned diner is adorable and authentic.
Besides the town photos, it’s decked out with images of Elvis, Betty Boop, James Dean, Sylvester the cat, and more classic rockers than I could try to name.
There’s even an old jukebox in the corner, currently piping out “Hawaii” by the Beach Boys.
Shiny models of famous cars, all from the fifties, decorate the shelves near the ceiling, glinting in the light so often they draw the eye.
But as delightful as this little diner is, it’s got nothing on the two sweet girls across the table from me.
When Grady first suggested “coming clean” about Bruce, my heart crawled up my throat and stuck there. But ever since the big reveal, seeing the sugar rush wonder in their eyes as they drank in a shock from another world, I’ll admit I was wrong.
Grady knows what’s best for his kids, and showing them Bruce was a very special thing.
We’re all part of this secret pact and enjoying every bit of it.
I’m convinced they took their promises seriously.
They won’t tell a single soul about the tiger—at least not until we’re good and gone—and then they’ll have to work hard to convince their friends and maybe even their adored Uncle Hank that they had a real live tiger in the barn.
It’s almost too much for anyone to believe, especially coming from two preteen chatterboxes.
I’ll bet Hank will be the first to find out when Bruce is safe and sound and I’m...hopefully not serving a felony sentence.
They’ve told me about his menagerie, but he’s never had a tiger. Legions of cats, dogs, rabbits, horses, goats, cows, chickens, ducks, and geese can’t hold a candle to an exotic beast who tells everyone who sees him that they’re not in Kansas anymore—or western North Dakota.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
They’re both sorely disappointed that their dad won’t let them have a pet—not even a goldfish per Avery. I have to wonder why as I stare at him, trying to decipher whatever strange logic is behind that chiseled jaw covered in thick dark scruff that makes me wonder how it’d feel on my skin.
Wonder far too freaking much.
Grady McKnight might have a gold lump in his chest for a heart, and I still don’t understand him.
The no pets ever thing just doesn’t add up.
He has the land and the barn to house plenty of animals. I know time could be an issue, what with his bar business and all, but the girls are responsible and old enough. I’m certain they’d pitch in taking care of a cat or dog or even a few chickens.
They’ve begged to help out with Bruce and given me a litany of all the chores they’ve done at their uncle’s place, cleaning out stables and brushing sheep. They tell me they’ve helped feed Tory Faulkner’s goats a few times too, and made friends with a mischievous black goat named Hellboy.
Of course, there’s not much I can let them do with a super-cat who can’t get within ten feet of them. But if they can help with offloading future meat deliveries or something, I’ll gladly let them.
The hamburgers and fries arrive in no time, along with tall frosty milkshakes served in classic glass cups and stainless-steel mixers.
“Brace yourself, woman,” Grady warns, giving me a heavy look. “You’ve gotta savor your first experience with a Mack burger. Four kinds of cheese, deep fried pickles, sauteed onions—
“And peppers that could curl your tail!” The girls belt out together with smiles so big it makes me laugh.
Avery picks up her burger so fast a gooey rope of cheese slides right off it. “Did we get it right, Daddy? What Mr. Larkin always says?”
Grady gives them a nod before turning back to me. “Yep. He’s damn near given the Mack burger its latest marketing pitch.”
Grady takes a massive encouraging bite of his burger, smacking his lips with a smile.
“Don’t be scared to get messy,” he tells me. “That’s the way we roll in this town.”
I hoist up my own hefty burger, my brows lifting at the weight in my hand.
“When in Rome...” My final words before I open my mouth wide for a great big bite of what might be the best hamburger on Earth.
Holy crap.
My mouth zings with greasy flavor, fat, salt, and just the right kick. My knees buckle and my legs shift out under the seat, accidentally bumping Grady’s leg.
“Whoa. Whoa. That’s like...” I barely remember to keep my mouth closed to chew.
“Yeah,” Grady echoes. “Baby, I know.”
I’m not even sure if it’s the orgasm between two buns anymore or the fire in his eyes and riptide smile.
I just know I’m melting into the booth with shameful delight and he’s enjoying every flipping second, those honey-dark eyes dancing over me.
Heat darts up my spine when I imagine what he’s thinking, raking those eyes across my skin, a hunger on his face that’s deeper than hella good diner fare.
Thank Heaven for the girls.
They keep our eyes apart, safely abstinent, and the chatty, laughing twins are just as charming as their father. Right now, they’re engaged in a very civil debate about the merits of chocolate verses strawberry shakes.
“Girls, you want this settled tonight, I think we’d better take a vote,” Grady says, smiling down at them both as he chews his dinner. “You know me, I’m votin’ strawberry. Nothing like having fresh fruit to go with a mess of ice cream and sugar. I like when my sweets come out of the ground.”
I can’t help snickering, which attracts their attention.
“You want to weigh in on this, Willow Wisp?” he asks, his eyes positively charged as his lips find his straw. “Chocolate or strawberry?”
My jaw is in my lap.
I don’t even know where to begin with that Willow Wisp thing, much less his totally big snarly dad logic with food.
Oh my God.
He’s such a dude.
Such a dad.
“As a matter of fact,” I start, folding my arms and turning my face up. “There’s a strong case for chocolate if you’re basing your argument on what’s natural. Ever seen a cacao tree before?”
Big daddy snorts and shakes his head. The girls stare at me in awe.
“It’s true! I saw plenty in Africa, and they’re always magnificent. They don’t call it Theobroma cacao for nothing, you know,” I say, holding a hand to my mouth so I can whisper to the kids. “That’s science-speak for food of the gods, ladies. Keep it between us. No big strawberry-loving lunks allowed.”
“I heard that,” Grady says with a barely concealed chuckle. “Enough with closing arguments. Let’s vote. Everybody convinced by Miss Fancy Schmancy Scientist and her cacao, raise your hands.”
Mine goes up first.
Then two more little hands join me.
Boom.
It’s three-to-one with a very adorable grump accepting his loss like a gentleman.
“You ladies have it,” he says. “Chocolate it is. I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna suck down every last drop of this thick strawberry ambrosia, though.”
A giggle bursts out of me again, totally noticing how he tries to throw the ambrosia word back in my face.
Guess I’m not the only one at this table who can dredge up ten-dollar words.
“Willow, you’ve been to Africa?” Sawyer asks between bites of her fries, still awed by my very presence.
“I sure have, sweet girl. Lots of times...”
So begins a new rapid-fire conversation with the girls.
I tell them about the big parks with their roaring waterfalls, the wild flights on burping planes that always landed hard on rainy airstrips tucked in lush jungle, the unholy swarms of mosquitoes in the interior, and the endless visits with the friendly, big-hearted people we’d meet from Nairobi to Kinshasa to Port Elizabeth.
Grady’s phone goes off while I’m answering another hundred and one questions.
The way he frowns and then tucks his phone back into his pocket pretty fast makes me think it might be a message from Faulk, or someone else involved in cleaning up my mess.
Later, Grady picks up our tab, and as we climb out of the booth, he presses his face so close I can feel his whisper on my neck. “Hold tight. I’ll tell you the latest when we get home.”
“Faulkner?” I mouth back.
He gives me a knowing look and barely-there nod.
My insides tighten, but I try not to panic. The girls make that a little easier on the ride back, hammering me with their bottomless appetite for more adventure stories.
They want to know about all the different animals I’ve worked with and the places I’ve been.
Grady asks questions as well, which I don’t mind one bit.
It’s easy for me to forget how unique my life has been. When you’ve spent half your youth on unpaved roads tracking rhinos with your father and tensing like a stone during rare brushes with poachers, it’s just normal.
Not to Grady and his girls, though.
To them, my life is interesting, intense, and admirable.
In my teen years, I’d travel with Dad all summer, dipping out of Africa for other rhino habitats like India and Indonesia. We’d stay in fancy hotels or soaring castle-like homes generously opened up by wildlife donors. Other times, we had to pitch our own tents and hope we didn’t get eaten by a wild beast in the middle of the night.
“Oh, Willow! Were you scared?” Avery whispers, biting her bottom lip with kitten-like eyes.
I throw back an easy smile.
“I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale if anything bad ever happened. But there was this brush with a herd of forest elephants once in the Congo Basin...they came trampling through our camp, spooked by a Jeep. This huge elephant reared up right in front of me when we came stumbling out of our tents. Dad barely threw me out of the way in time, right before the animal turned at the last second and decided not to run over him.”
The girls are speechless.
Grady gives me a look like granite, a single dark eyebrow raised. “Nice knowing you’ve made it through some close calls before,” he says.
I love how he implies I might make it through one more.
“Yeah. Let’s hope I have nine lives,” I say with a smile.
The memory makes me feel better about my current predicament.
“Seriously, lady. Camping along the Congo sounds unbelievable. You’re lucky to have those stories,” he tells me.
“Oh, no question. They were the most incredible times of my life. And that was the same trip when I fell in love with big cats. A few days on the road and we were up close and personal with a whole pride of lions. I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.”
“Really? I’m going to be a writer when I grow up,” Avery says, a confidence in her tone that makes me grin.
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna own a farm and have every kind of animal possible!” Sawyer says, desperate to one-up her sister. “Maybe even tigers!”
“You go, girl. I’ll write about a farm with a hundred tigers,” Avery whips back.
“People will come from hundreds of miles to see my cats,” Sawyer replies. “And I’ll call it Sawyer McKnight’s Farm! Everybody’s gonna know the name and not to wear it out.”
“Pssh! You need a better name than that,” her sister insists. “Avery McKnight Zoo has a nice ring to it.”
As they go back and forth, escalating their grand dreams, Grady shoots me a sideways glance and we share a smile.
We both laugh softly at some of the suggestions being tossed around in the back seat.
I wish so badly the rest of my time here could be this easy.
* * *
Back at the house,they ask if I’m going to check on Bruce one more time.
When I admit he needs another quick look before bedtime, they ask if they can stand at the door.
Grady hems and haws, but finally agrees, and while I enter to check on Bruce, they stand at their father’s side in the distant entryway with the metal door cracked a sliver, just enough so he can slam it shut in a flash if necessary.
At the other end of the barn, Bruce stands in his trailer and walks to the edge of it, where I hold up a hand, encouraging him to stop. I’m sure if he takes a single step into the barn, Grady will be shoving his girls back and slamming the door shut.
But my big orange baby doesn’t move. He just stands there looking at me, lazily flicking his tail like a paintbrush.
Well? What’s the plan?he seems to ask.
I don’t know.
I wish I had one.
So I shrug slowly, blowing him a gentle kiss. “Rest easy tonight, big guy. You’re safe and sound and you need to heal that paw. When I know where we’re going, and when, you’ll be the first to know.”
The giant stretches, his hind end bowing up in bright orange. Paws bigger than catchers’ mitts taper out in front of him, and he slowly turns, pacing back into the trailer with a final theatrical flick of his tail.
I smile as he settles into his main nesting spot, as if he accepts my answer for now.
I’ll wait, lady. But not forever,those huge, lidded eyes beam back, more green than gold in the dim light.
“I know,” I whisper into the night. “I’m working hard for you, buddy. Just give me time to figure it out.”
The water trough is still full, and he’s already eaten, so I take my leave, knowing he’ll be fine.
He’s actually very content having his trailer and most of the barn area to roam.
Sadly, it’s more space than he ever had at Exotic Plains.
He was supposed to have a fenced-in exercise area outside most days, but the lions were using it every day since I’d started working there. Sam and Tilda were out there the most, a proud tawny lion couple.
Tilda had just given birth to a litter of two cubs a couple weeks before I left. Both female.
I worry how the babies are doing now.
Both Sam and Tilda were older lions, having lived in captivity their entire lives. I was afraid the pregnancy would be too much for Tilda, but she’d come through it like a tough mama.
Even so, they hadn’t been at the fake rescue for long.
Their papers said they’d arrived only a few months before I had, originating from a zoo somewhere down in the gulf. The place had a storm that flooded the lion’s habitat and they couldn’t raise enough money to fix it, so the pair were sent to North Dakota, where the Fosses conveniently had space.
According to the records, they were supposed to return to the zoo this winter.
I hope that still happens.
I hope we can shut that place down and send all the big cats to better homes, away from the filth and the torture that makes Niles and Priscilla disgustingly rich. Her vast designer wardrobe and his retirement home under endless construction in the Virgin Islands didn’t just materialize out of thin air.
A wave of guilt roils my stomach.
There are so many creatures at the rescue needing help. If only I’d had a small ark to take them all.
Not just Bruce, or Sam and Tilda and the other lions, or Churchill the poor MIA chimp.
The list is growing all the time. The Fosses keep importing animals and flipping them for reasons God only knows.
I have to figure out what’s going on, what to do before it’s too late to help any of them.
And I’d bet my life that those little blue stickers are still being attached to cages.
It feels like this constant nagging timer that’s always running—always running out for some unlucky creature.
With a sigh, I walk to the door and exit behind Grady and the girls. At his urging, they hurry toward the house while I wait for him to lock up.
“So did Faulk text you earlier?” I ask.
He nods, squaring his huge shoulders.
“We’ll talk after the girls are asleep.”
A shiver like an army of spiders flits up my neck, wondering if it’s good news or bad.
I can’t blame him for keeping it under wraps.
Even if the girls know about Bruce, they don’t need to know all the sordid, horrifying details of what we’re up against.
Instead of a movie, the girls decide they want to play a game before bed. They pick Yahtzee, and soon all four of us are sitting on pillows around the coffee table, trying to rack up points as we toss dice around the table.
The laughter, the teasing, the fun, is something I’ve been missing since long nights around campfires with Dad. And even that wasn’t quite like this.
Like a family or something.
Sawyer’s words from supper hit true. I’ve never had a family like this either.
When I was young, I always worried Dad would get married again. He’d find a new woman, maybe a woman with kids, and I’d have to learn to fit my lonely self into the patchwork of their lives.
Back then, it scared me. I liked having just the two of us around, but now, as an adult?
I wonder where those thoughts started.
I wonder why they freaked me out.
I wonder what I missed.
Even though Dad never dated seriously, it was never truly the two of us forever.
Nannies became a lovely, supportive third wheel in my life. When I got older, Dad took to calling them live-in housekeepers. He seemed to fear me getting too close, too confused by anyone, even the kind, energetic women and keepers who looked after me during the school year when I couldn’t join him on long trips.
And that’s not counting our travels. We always had good company in fellow researchers, professors so close they felt like kin, and eager-to-impress students on his team.
If his latest research excursion wasn’t finished by the end of summer, I came home on a plane with one of his team members, where our housekeeper was always waiting with a smile, a few soft words, and more cookies than any teenager should’ve had access to.
The lady we’d had the longest was Margo Carlson. Dad hired her on when I was in tenth grade, and she still works for him to this day, even though she just turned seventy-one her last birthday.
We didn’t have a large, tight-knit family.
We had to make do.
So maybe that’s why I wonder as I look around the table, watching how Grady smiles when he reaches across to ruffle the girls’ hair, and then jerks his hand back.
“Dad! No lice, remember? We’ve been shampooed like ten times,” Sawyer reminds him, sticking her tongue out.
“That so, peanut? Guess your old man’s getting forgetful in his old age—or just awfully nervous with cooties.” He sticks his tongue out, eyes crossed, and they laugh.
Behind my giggle, too many questions are swirling.
If I’d been smarter way back then, when I was a kid, would I have hoped my father would remarry so I could’ve had a sister?
Maybe I wouldn’t have grown up so lonely, so driven, too busy for boys or...well, anyone besides big cats.
It’s just adorable how different the girls are. Sawyer and Avery are opposites in many ways, yet deeply connected and concerned for each other.
Sure, they bicker sometimes, like all siblings do. But at the end of the day, they’re sisters until the bitter end, and the love shared in this three-heart family fills whatever gaping hole was left by Grady’s wife.
The rest of the night goes by in a cozy blur.
Avery wins the first game, Sawyer the second, and Grady the third—meaning we’re on for a fourth round.
Of course, I can’t get a win to save my butt.
The other three are flat-out cheating by the end in sympathy, skipping the score, just so I can save face. I’m honored, but no.
“Enough, guys! Luck’s just not on my side tonight. I can barely get a pair, and when I do, it’s not a pair I need. Let’s just call it a draw, okay?” I beam my friendliest smile around the room.
The girls try to convince me to play one more game, but Grady takes control.
“It’s past time for bed, girls,” he says. “You can have a rematch another night.”
“Fiiine!” they slur out together.
Without another complaint, they agree, and after they each give me a quick hug, they head upstairs. He puts the game in the library-office down the hall and then plods upstairs to tell them good night.
I’d left my phone in the kitchen earlier and I check it for messages, holding my breath.
Of course, I haven’t forgotten what Grady’s holding back, and I’m trying to brace myself for bad news.
I just hope it’s bad and not devastating.
But I think he’d have told me if it was the latter, if it was urgent, rather than spending the whole evening enjoying ourselves. My eyes flit over my screen.
Carroll: Is this Willow Macklin? Hi. I’m from North Auckland University and I’d just like to...
Yeah. No. I’ve been to New Zealand and there is no North Auckland U.
Roger’s Pitstop: Congratulations! You’ve got yourself a brand-new thousand dollar gift card to your choice of—
God. Do the gimmicks ever stop? I honestly can’t tell if this is honest spam or another low-effort trap by the Fosses to nail my location.
I see several more fishy texts promising fake giveaways or begging for donations for every cause imaginable. A message from my dentist in California, reminding me my six-month cleaning is due next month, and another text asking me if I’d like to register to vote.
I leave them all unopened.
I’m almost ready to scream and chuck my phone across the room when I see the name Walton on the screen.
Hi, Miss Macklin. Checking in to let you know the blood work looks good. I apologize for the delay. Perfectly average, healthy results for a grown male. No abnormalities. White cell count adequate. I’d attach the full test results, but it appears your carrier’s kicking them back. Call me immediately if he shows signs of discomfort.
Finally, some good news.
As much as I’d love to see the full blood panel, I remember what Grady and Faulk warned me about and won’t take attachments.
There are no issues yet with his paw healing up—other than the sad fact that he’s homeless.
Sigh.
I have no earthly clue how this is going to work out.
By now, the rescue has probably called in help from every other cat sanctuary across the country they can either bamboozle or blackmail. Telling them to be on the lookout for a crazy chick who rocks out like a dorkasaurus at the wheel and one big stolen tiger in a clunker of an unmarked service truck.
I just hope they haven’t also called my father, casting their lures.
Grady enters the kitchen, snatching me from my thoughts.
Biting my lip, I set my phone on the counter, taking a moment to draw in a deep breath. I hold it to calm down the hurried beat of my heart before turning to face him.
“Grady...”
“Looks like you’re ready,” he says, raking a hand through his thick dark hair. “Give me one minute.”
“Ready for what?”
“To check the cameras,” he whispers darkly.
Oh, crap. Right.
“Is that the message you got earlier?”
“Yeah, Faulk gave me an update. He hasn’t cracked your laptop yet, but he’s convinced something’s bound to happen at the site tonight. If there’s one gut instinct I’ll always trust, it’s his. He wants us to touch base as soon as we see something.” He holds up his phone. “I have the app on my phone, but the big screens downstairs can show us in better detail.”
“Right behind you,” I say.
Once we’re downstairs, he fetches us each a beer out of the small fridge behind the wooden bar covered with a thick shellac that reflects the overhead light. He then pulls up an extra chair next to the three wide screens, each with a split screen setting so all six cameras show with good visibility.
It’s dark by the airstrip. No surprise, considering the time.
There’s no movement, an eerie calm, nothing but a bug or leaf blowing across the nightscape now and then.
“Why do you have three computer screens?” I ask, suddenly curious if he makes it a habit to bail out strange, desperate women.
“I don’t. Only one’s a monitor, the other two are old TVs. Grabbed one from my bedroom and the other from the library. I figured I’d set them up so we could see all six cameras at once.”
I take a sip off my beer bottle before asking a question that’s been banging around in my head.
“So, um, while we’re waiting...why don’t you let the girls have pets? You have the perfect place for it.” My breath catches in my throat. “Sorry. I’m not trying to stomp around in your business, but I’m curious...”
“Don’t need the extra work,” he says coldly, leaning back in his chair.
“Sawyer and Avery would help. I’m sure of it after seeing how excited they get with Hank’s animals.”
“Same,” he agrees. “But they’re ten years old, and hopefully any animal I’d get them would have a good, long life. That means they’ll grow up in a flash, run off to college, and I’ll be stuck here with their leftover critters.”
Hmm. That makes sense, I guess, but I don’t believe it’s the whole truth.
Not by the dark edge in his voice.
“Where’s the harm in that?” I venture. “Pets would make good company when they’re gone and you’re home alone here on this big old farm.”
“Don’t need any four-legged company, that’s what two-legged friends are for. After so many years running my ass off, frankly, I’ll be enjoying my time alone.” His voice slips into a growl, too rigid and annoyed to not be hiding something.
I smile, refusing to believe him for a minute.
I also remember how lonesome my dad was when I went off to college, whenever he wasn’t on his trips. He almost stopped coming home at all except for holiday breaks we’d spend together.
Not like Grady, who’s here every day with his daughters.
I don’t say anything—don’t need to—not with the melancholy, unsure way he’s looking at me, like he’s wondering what I’ll fire off next.
He’s too good at reading my thoughts, and even better at hiding his behind that stoic mask of scruff and eyes like strong whiskey.
“Fine,” he says at last. “You really want to know, huh? Here’s the deal: I don’t want to get them a pet just to have it die.”
Wow, what?
My lips tremble. “I’m not sure I follow. Why would it die?”
“Who the hell knows? Dallas isn’t just the sleepy, quaint little place I’m sure you’re thinking from our outing for dinner. It could get hit by a car, eat poison, have a run-in with a coyote...any number of brutal, fucked up things.” The unexpected sadness in his voice guts me.
“I mean, sure. You live in a rural place. Risks are always part of owning pets.”
“Exactly why I don’t want my girls exposed to that,” he snaps.
For a second, our gazes lock.
His eyes might be hieroglyphics, guarded and unbreakable.
Then I realize what he doesn’t want them exposed to.
It’s not just innocent worries about a pet roaming around with coyotes or speeding cars or any normal kinds of big bad things.
He’s shielding them from death.
My heartbeat quickens.
This is when I should step back and hold my tongue, focus on the cameras, and leave this kind, closed off beast-man behind his barbed wire to brood away in peace.
But if you think I’m that kinda girl, if you think I’ve got that much sense, if you think I’m not hurting like hell for him, wellll...
“Grady...you don’t have to answer this, but is the pet thing because of your wife?” I whisper slowly.
His eyes sharpen, fully leveled, naked and vulnerable and ever so slightly pissed off.
A storm in a glance that makes my heart wobble.
“Watching someone die is pure hell, Willow Wisp. Death can get fucked,” he snarls, his knuckles turning white around his beer bottle.
I’m half expecting the glass to shatter in his hand.
I know I should stop.
Just shut my mouth and leave him to his agony, this raw wound I’ve poked at without having any right to. Better to cut my losses before I find out how much of a cornered bear he is.
But if he’s saving me...I owe him something, don’t I?
“You’re a good man and crazy smart, but you know it’s also a part of life, right?” I say gently. “You can’t protect them from something as big as death forever. Eventually, they’re going to experience it head-on.”
“Not if I can help it,” he rumbles. “Not if I can spare them that shit, that arrow to the heart. Not if I’m the dad I always swore I’d be.”
God.
His voice rips through me like a current, an ache oozing to my knees.
He sounds so fierce, so stern, so firm that I let it go there. But I do feel sorry for him, his heartache cuts me open and makes me bleed for his sad, brave delusions.
He’ll have to figure them out on his own.
In his state of mind, he’s not going to believe what anyone else has to say about it.
“So...” I take another nervous swig of beer and gesture to the screens with my bottle. “What convinced Faulk that something’s happening tonight? Did he give you a reason?”
“The burn on Bruce’s paw.”
I sit up straighter.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Besides the numbers matching the stickers, we found time stamps. Multiple dates. Faulk thinks one’s meant to be a delivery date.”
I see there’s more on his stony face, so mellow and dark in the basement light.
“And?” I whisper, tensing in my seat. “What about the rest?”
He looks at me for a long moment before sighing. “And the other’s probably one of two things: a pay date or a kill date.”
Holy hell.
I don’t know what falls faster, my heart or my stomach, and shatters like a glass ornament.
All the awful blue stickers I’d seen at the rescue since arriving flash through my mind.
I never checked the other animals that went missing for burn marks, but they all must have had them somewhere, those sickening tattoos. A setup marking their price, their transfer, their doom.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“Tell me more,” I urge, swallowing the lump lodged in my throat. “Grady, I have to know...”
“From what he’s caught, Faulk believes the deaths occur shortly after the animals are shipped, though payment would explain it too. It’s usually several hours after the original stamp, which is what he believes is the pickup time.”
His angry glance at the screen tells me he’s looking at the time.
“Bruce was supposed to be transported tonight?” I ask.
“About fifteen minutes from now,” he says. “Unless the tiger disappearing scared them into delaying business, we should see action soon. Especially if these sick fucks are as greedy as you say, and they’ve got more animals to sell.”
My head hurts, a dull, brutal throb spun by my heart banging on my ribs.
Everything he’s said hits me harder then.
“So Bruce was scheduled to be transferred and...what, killed?” My question comes out hoarse.
“Yes. Last date is marked for roughly twelve hours from now.”
“And picked up in fifteen minutes?”
“Right.”
I wouldn’t call it exhilaration, but a form of grim righteousness that I’d been right hits. Along with sickly gratitude that Bruce is still alive. Relief slams through me like catching myself on a ledge before a ten-story fall.
“Damn them,” I spit, my head spinning as I glance at the screens. “So, even without Bruce, you think they’ll still show up? You think they’ll transfer...”
“Another animal,” he finishes. “Did you ever see more than one go missing at a time?”
“Sometimes. Smaller ones, mostly, but usually with larger animals, it was always just one.”
“We’ll wait and see,” he growls. The edge in his tone says it’s the last thing he wants to do.
My spine quivers as I stare at the screen, staring into the blackness.
It’s like we’re not in his safe, quiet basement, but there, helpless in the night with sinister things on the prowl.
The room grows so silent I jump when the fridge kicks in behind the bar. I rub the tension in my neck, stretching, fighting the urge to grab a second beer and slam it.
I need to be numb for this.
“Want another drink?” Grady asks, reading my mind. “Something stronger, maybe?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Want something else? Water? Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be up all night with caffeine.” I take a deep, shaky breath and release it, trying to regain control.
I wish like hell I’d acted sooner.
It would have saved so many animals. But if I’d taken off like I did with Bruce and hadn’t smacked into Grady—then where would I be?
Those thoughts freeze when the screens shift over.
“Look! Lights,” I whisper, leaning forward.
We both stare intently, our eyes glued to the scene.
All six cameras, each showing different angles, pick up a cube truck coming up the road. It stops next to the airstrip.
A man climbs out then, and his image makes me suck in air so I don’t faint.
“You recognize him? Willow?” Grady asks, his gaze wild with concern.
“That’s...that’s the conservation officer. Wayne Bordell.”
Crap.
There’s no mistaking that face, his block of a head, or his boxy build.
Starting near the truck, he places lights in the poles along the airstrip, illuminating the entire length of it.
“They can’t leave them out there,” Grady explains with a sense that’s better than mine for this sort of nightmare. “Lights would get picked up by other airplanes, sooner or later, causing someone to grow suspicious and come check it out. So they have to put them up and take them down every trip. Every transfer.”
We both continue watching while I try to remember how to breathe.
Sometime in the next ten minutes, a plane lands. It taxies to the end of the single runway and turns around, stopping next to the truck.
A man climbs out of the plane, and though it’s definitely a smaller civilian jet, it has a back hatch in the underbelly, completely in view of one camera. When the door slides open like a gaping mouth, it shows an empty cargo hold.
Empty except for a dolly that the man retrieves, rolling it down the short ramp onto the paved airstrip.
Another man climbs out of the plane. He’s short, wearing a black jumpsuit. The camera doesn’t show his face close up, but I can tell he has a faint pencil mustache.
“Do you recognize him?” Grady asks.
“No,” I whisper, half afraid the people on the screen will hear us. “But I definitely recognize her.”
I point at the woman climbing out of the box truck. Even doing a dirty deal in the middle of the night on a secret runway doesn’t faze her.
She’s wearing one of her signature outfits, a tight skirt and leopard print short jacket, along with zebra-striped heels. Every bit the money addicted junkie looking for another hit to fuel her bad habit for chic designer fashion and comfort bought in blood.
“That’s Priscilla Foss from the rescue,” I tell him, wishing I didn’t have to say those words.
She saunters over and meets the man with the mustache on the airstrip in one fluid devil walk.
We can’t hear them from this distance, but I can tell by her movements—mainly her hands as she talks—that she’s trying to smooth something over.
The evil witch always presses a hand to her heart like she’s oh-so-wounded whenever anyone doubts her.
Guess how many times she did it when she wanted me to shut up, stop asking questions, and believe her.
Now guess what she’s doing right now.
Mr. Mustache shakes his head, his face a scowl. He points at her—or is it something behind her?
She folds her hands across her chest with a haughty eye roll, talks some more, and then gestures for Bordell. He stomps over to the box truck to retrieve something while Priscilla waves her hand at the man with the dolly, as if it won’t be needed.
Wayne returns carrying what looks like a large blue storage tub.
Are those...holes poked in the top?
Sweet Jesus.
I know what’s coming before the nausea washes over me.
There’s an animal inside, and these horrible pukes don’t even have the decency or intelligence to transport it in a proper cage. But a second later, I realize there’s no need to.
Not when Wayne sets it on the ground next to Priscilla, undoes a makeshift wrap of bungee cords holding the lid on, and peels off the cover.
Priscilla reaches in with a sour expression and comes back with a small tan-brown lump, squirming in her hands.
A lion cub.
“No!” I hiss, gasping, stumbling onto my feet.
There’s nothing I can do from here, but my fight-or-flight outrage doesn’t want to accept it.
I wish for its sake the baby lion was sedated, but it’s movements tell me otherwise.
It’s still very much alive, but if Grady and Faulk are right about that other time stamp, that vicious, final one...maybe not for long.
My soul rips in two.
The Queen Bitch holds it up by the scuff of its neck, as if the poor thing is just one more baggy purse.
“Willow? If it’s too much, say the word...” Grady’s right behind me, laying those big hands on my shoulders like a comfort blanket.
God.
“No, no, I have to keep watching. I have to know.”
I think his huge, powerful hands are the only thing that keeps me from breaking apart.
“That’s one of Tilda’s cubs,” I whisper, my voice shaken and beat. “A perfectly healthy baby lion cub, born just weeks ago.”
“They must be trying to placate whoever wanted Bruce,” Grady says. “These cubs must be awful valuable, even if it’s less than a full-grown tiger.”
“Yes,” I whimper, entirely sick to my stomach.
The man examines the cub like a butcher inspecting a cut of meat, and I wish to Lord Almighty I could hear what’s being said.
From the looks of it, it’s not an easy discussion. An altercation, some kind of heated talks.
The mustache man finally waves at his assistant who’d pulled the dolly out of the airplane, and Priscilla plunks the cub back into the big blue tub.
Wayne puts the lid back on the container, and the dolly-man picks it up, carrying it to the plane’s yawning cargo hold.
My heart dives in my chest.
Mustache Bastard mutters a few more mushy-looking words to Priscilla, and she nods, her frustration fading off her face.
They shake hands before returning to their vehicles, their crisis seemingly defused.
The plane takes off in no time.
Then Bordell collects the lights, loading them in the truck. A minute later, they’re gone like they were never there, leaving nothing but still, eerie silence.
The entire scene probably lasted less than ten minutes. But I know it’ll affect me for the rest of my life.
My knees are weak. My nerves are tangled ropes. My breath clogs my lungs.
Mostly, my eyes fucking burn for that poor baby lion.
And for Tilda, losing one of her cubs like this.
I try to walk across the room, try to breathe, but my knees don’t want to work any better than my lungs.
I just know I’m more thankful than ever for Grady’s arms, which catch me from behind, pinning me to his huge, warm slab of a chest.
He holds me upright like a redwood, slowly turning me around to catch my tears in his shirt.
When my face touches his fabric, inhaling his scent, I’m absolutely over.
His shirt must be soaked with my grief by the end of it.
“Grady, w-we...we have to—”
“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, his voice pure summer thunder again. “Bruce, the cub, the sadists running that place...I made sure the cameras got everything. I’ll show it to Faulk, and somehow, some way, we’ll get it sorted. Don’t doubt me.”
I don’t, even when every frayed thread of hope in my head wants to.
Grady’s words come straight from the heart.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and this man is courage incarnate.
“You know we’re gonna fix this, right? You trust me?” he asks, his very cadence so soothing.
I nod, but I can’t unsee that sweet helpless cub in my head.
The image keeps repeating like an old video reel from Satan’s crawlspace, a gut-punch reminder of just how heartless, savage, and cruel this world can be.
“I-I should have stopped it. Before I grabbed Bruce, I mean,” I say, shaking through my words. “I just...I didn’t know. I didn’t know if they would hurt me, but I should have stopped it!”
“Woman, you’re stopping it now,” he growls back. “This shit takes time, so take my patience in the meantime. And you’re right, if you’d breathed a word without being safe first, there’s no telling what these people would do.”
I don’t know what he means until he squeezes me so tight I forget my pain.
For a hot, anguished second, I’m so sweetly bundled up in this gorgeous man that there’s nothing but us.
Nothing but his words and warrior-throated promises.
“How, though?” I whisper, lifting my head. “How the hell do we stop them?”
He presses his forehead against mine, urging me to hush. For a second, I’m equally scared and overwhelmed at the thought that he might kiss me to shut me up, his lips only inches away.
“We’ll figure it out. For now, it’s enough that you aren’t alone. You’ve got me and friends I’d trust with my life. I’ll exhaust every damn resource I’ve ever had to put a stop to this crap, Willow. I promise you, I want to save those critters, too.”
I’m beyond grateful for his help, his support, and his glorious strength pressed so snug against my body. But I’m still worried, still terrified for the animals.
“Time for bed,” he says, walking me to my room by the hand.
Just before the door closes, I pull back at his hand, lacing my fingers through his and holding on for dear life.
It’s almost silly how Gothic this feels—the moon splashing through the bedroom window, the halo on his face, the dark heat in his eyes, the freaking tiger in the barn, this sad, hot mess of passion and secrets we’ve become.
Call it absurd, or just my imagination, but an invisible, fraught message passes between us, silent as a grave.
We both whisper “good night,” almost simultaneously, but that’s not what I hear.
It’s something else, and it ripples off every beautiful inch of Grady like static.
You’re not alone anymore.
This is my fight.
This is my promise.
And somehow, after closing the door and collapsing in bed, a very confused part of my heart wants to believe he doesn’t just mean my quagmire with Exotic Plains.
* * *
I layin bed for hours, too tired for sleep.
At least it’s a clear night. When counting imaginary sheep gets boring, I resort to staring out the window at the moon and stars and nothing in particular.
The sickness inside me turns to raw anger.
I’ve been around animals my entire life. I’ve confronted death and sad things plenty of times in nature, but this...the transfer of a lion cub to monsters for nothing but filthy money makes me so furious I want to get up, drive back to the rescue, and slaughter Priscilla and Niles Foss with my bare hands.
Tonight, I’m thankful the truck is still broken down.
Because if it weren’t, I might be tempted to go berserker, and that wouldn’t turn out any better than running away. So I let my anger speak, and allow my revenge fantasies to pop off in my head through a haze of red.
I question calling Dad again, but I know he can’t do more than Grady.
Actually...
Dad wouldn’t even be able to help as much as Grady is.
Not when his contacts are official, and if the Fosses have minions like Bordell from the state helping them, there’s no telling how deep this goes.
I’m just more thankful than ever that I broke down at the Purple Bobcat, and not somewhere else.
That was Fate looking me dead in the eye and smiling.
Now, I just have to hope my luck holds and brings an end to this mess for everyone involved.
The next morning, after sleeping in short fits, I check on Bruce before returning to the house to cook breakfast. Grady’s up, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and a steaming mug of coffee.
His bearish presence makes me grin. I think he’s smiling back with those eyes full of mahogany shadows.
“I was only joking about the food poisoning, ya know.”
“I know, but I don’t expect you to cook every meal. Aunt Faye never cooked breakfast. That’s always been my job. She’d usually come over in the afternoons, to be here when the girls got off the bus, and she’d head home when I got back from the bar. If it was early enough, she’d leave before dinner, or if it was too late or too cold, she’d stay over till morning.”
The girls told me most of that, too.
I walk over and pour a cup of coffee.
“She’s been doing that for what, years? Spending her free time looking after you guys?”
“Yep, we’re her main family now. Uncle James died while I was in the Army, and my brother moved out of Dallas years ago. Faye’s kids, two boys and a girl, are all grown with families now, and they also live out of state. So Aunt Faye’s happy as hell to get her time in with the girls.”
“So you normally work at the bar every day?” I ask, taking a slurp off my cup. “I wish this time off was actually relaxing for you.”
He gives me a wry smile.
“Nah, I try to duck out on weekends unless there’s a big event going on or something. I try to leave by ten most nights, too, just so Aunt Faye can get home before it’s too late.” He smiles thoughtfully. “Lucky for me, my latest batch of hires is holding up pretty well. Takes the load off my shoulders, and it might also have something to do with folks thinking the Bobcat’s where all the big adventures begin. The young folks want to be there at ground zero for the excitement.”
“Adventures?” I blink.
“For sure. A lot of the ruckus we’ve had in Dallas the last couple years started at my bar. First with Ridge and his now-wife, Grace. She came blowing in one night with her sick father and these scumbags in hot pursuit. Then there was Faulk, who crossed a real nasty group of folks when he was in the FBI. They came sniffing around after him, and I was careful to tip him off. Even old man Reed used to step in for a drink and a little schemin’ with Drake, back when my buddy was just his bodyguard instead of a cop.” Grady kicks back in his chair, slurping his coffee, his eyes somewhere else. “Guess it’s my turn to get mixed up in the thick of it, seeing how Faulk wound up settled down with his ballerina.”
I’m about to ask him more about the crazy happenings he’s seen when little feet come plowing into the room.
The girls are at his side in seconds, greeting him with a big group hug.
“Dad! We got a text from Aunt Faye. She’s asking about our cool new nanny. What should we tell her?” Avery grins, a couple cute little gaps in her mouth from missing baby teeth.
We talk it over briefly.
Grady reminds them not to mention Bruce in any way, shape, or form.
I happily agree to a selfie with the duo, so they can send it back to her, and listen to the long list of things Faye wanted to pass along about the house, and most importantly, the freezer full of meals and casseroles that just need to be thawed and heated.
Hey, if it makes my job easier...
After checking out the freezer, with their help, we sit down at the table and eat cereal with Grady. The girls are full of suggestions for the day ahead—which all include Bruce.
Grady lays down the law and tells them they can make two visits per day, and only with both of us present, if they’ll stop pestering him right now.
“Okay, okay!” they grudgingly agree.
Later, Faulk drops by to see the footage from last night. He disappears downstairs with Grady while I try not to think about it.
He says it’ll be a while before he hears back from his people on how or what we’re going to do.
Not cool.
It’s disappointing, sure, but I get that we can’t just rush in guns blazing. I’d already made a snap decision the night I took off with Bruce, and if it wasn’t for Grady, who knows what would’ve happened to us.
That afternoon, I can sense him getting restless, like he’s spent just too much time cooped up at home and out of his element.
“Go on to the bar,” I tell him, sliding my fingers lightly over his hairy, inked forearm before I even realize it. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on them. Absolutely no Bruce time without you. Pinky swear?”
He snorts as I hold up my little finger and then grasps it with his.
By the time we’re done giving it a good shake, we’re both laughing.
I’m sure he sees I’m redder than a radioactive cranberry when I snatch my hand back, too.
He leaves us with the house to ourselves and an easy dinner hours later.
The girls decide they want a lasagna their great aunt left behind, so yay for Grady not worrying about me poisoning his girls while he’s gone.
This little routine, easy and strangely natural, sets the pattern for the next week or so.
The girls and I find plenty of projects to stay busy—and marvelously Bruce-free—while Grady spends afternoons and early evenings at the bar.
He’s always home in time to put them to bed, and he keeps me updated on the latest news from Faulk.
It’s a quiet, peaceful break in the storm.
And I’d be a fool to trust it one freaking bit.
Every day that passes leaves me wound up, wondering and waiting for the next shoe to drop like a karate kick to my head.
