The Hero I Need by Nicole Snow
Tiger Thief (Grady)
The panicked shout from that seriously pretty down-on-her-luck stray has me spinning around, but it’s the growl—no, the fucking roar—behind me that turns my blood ice-cold.
What the hell?
It came from inside the trailer.
A thousand monster movies and dinosaur flicks whip through my brain. I’ve never heard any bull make a racket like that in my life, a feral, full-bodied rip in the night.
Before I can even think about checking the trailer, along with my sanity, she’s on me.
Little Miss Bad Luck grabs my arm and her soft-blue eyes are bright. Scared.
“Mister, please...” she whispers, a dry rattle sliding off her lips.
I straighten, instantly realizing that whatever’s in that damn trailer, she doesn’t want me to know about it. Which tells me I need to know right now.
Her hold on my bicep tightens fiercely as I step closer and peer between the slats, half expecting to see a pack of velociraptors inside.
Even if it’s not a dinosaur, my mind stumbles, trying to process what I’m seeing.
Maybe those bikers smoking a roadie out back before they left around closing time hadn’t been puffing on some run of the mill pot. I’d gotten a lingering whiff when I’d carried out the trash.
Was that shit laced with something? A hallucinogen?
Because I’ve got to be frigging hallucinating.
The monster cat head staring back at me is as broad as my chest. Two flinty pissed-off green-gold eyes blaze like bonfires in the night. A powerhouse of a body, muscle and sinew and bone layered with princely pumpkin-orange and a latticework of licorice-black stripes.
Something pings off the metal wall of the trailer—its tail—thick and heavy as a knotted rope.
Then the beast peels back its lips, showing knives for teeth, and lets out another low snarl like a twister descending on a cornfield, promising destruction.
Holy shit.
The girl—Willow—a fitting name because she’s willow-like, thin but not skinny, with shapely legs, makes her move. She jumps up on the tongue of the trailer beside me, making us eye level.
I glance at her, willing my heart to beat normally again, and then look back to the trailer as she puts her face near the slats.
As soon as the cat sees her, those deadly lips uncurl, and an odd, almost soft purring starts. The rumble could rival a boat motor, but it sounds...calmer?
I’m gonna hope so.
“He has a sore paw.” She glances at me, her mouth in a tight frown, as if she’s talking about a pint-sized puppy.
“Sore paw?” I repeat, my tongue like leather.
She nods slowly.
Dumbfounded, I stagger away from the trailer, pressing my thumbs into my eyes and swallowing a groan. Is this real life?
“Jesus, lady...you can’t be hauling a wild tiger around in a trailer in these parts,” I grind out.
Words I thought I’d never say.
“Oh, he’s not wild! He was born and raised in captivity his whole life. And I’m a zoologist,” she says cheerfully, flashing me the world’s most awkward thumbs-up.
Yeah.
Like that explains everything.
Like I’m supposed to smile and thank her for this unexpected trip to crazy town.
I suck in a deep breath and try to pick my next words very carefully.
“I don’t give a shit what you are, Willow. Pardon my French,” I grunt, hating how her eyes flash, trying to soften the blow. “This is North Dakota cattle country. Even the odd mountain lion plays havoc on livestock around here. If that damn thing got loose, he’d chew up a whole herd in no time.”
“Okay, I know you’re freaked out, but look...” She jumps off the hitch. “He’s not a mountain lion. He’s a Bengal tiger, and he won’t eat any calves. He’s never so much as hunted a bird. The only beef he gets is already dead and butchered and comes from me. And I promise you, letting him run wild is the last thing I’d ever do. I take good care of him. He isn’t dangerous. Hand to God.”
She lifts her slim fingers for emphasis, her hand shaking in the darkness.
Sighing, I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars, begging somebody up there to explain what in Hades is happening down here.
Also, why somebody decided to choose me to deal with this hot mess.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen plenty running my bar. I’m no stranger to weirdos of all stripes: UFO cranks, crystal healers, aging hippies who never got the memo the summer of love ended, and folks who think they’re secretly cloning Richard Nixon on Mars.
I’ve had to deal with everything from crackpots to crackheads since the day I bought the Purple Bobcat. Yet none of it’s ever come close to this.
Crackpot doesn’t begin to describe a woman who thinks a five-hundred-pound Bengal tiger isn’t dangerous. This woman is clinically insane.
“Okay. Look,” I say gently, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. “I don’t know what’s going on here or why you’re trucking him around, but lady, I can’t have a tiger on my property.”
A tiger.Part of me wants to burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
“Grady, wait!” She moves like lightning, lunging for my phone, those blue eyes spinning. “Who are you calling?”
I wonder if I can eyeball some sanity into her if I just stare hard enough...
I can’t stop thinking about the shitshow coming if that behemoth escapes and heads for the ranches around these parts.
Holding the phone out of her reach, I swipe the screen.
“Sheriff Wallace. It’s not like I’m happy about it, but he’ll know what to do with this—”
“Oh, no! No! You can’t.” She grabs my wrist with both hands like a vise, still clinging even when I lift my hand higher in the air. “Please, if you’ll just hear me out—”
“I’ve heard all I need to, and seen it too,” I grumble.
Willow doesn’t seem to be the reasoning type.
Big surprise.
Her feet, covered in her knee-high boots, are dangling off the ground, but she still refuses to let go of my wrist.
“Please. Grady, I’m begging you!” Her voice cracks and there’s a jerky sniffle. “If they find out he’s here, they’ll...they’ll kill him!”
Apparently, him means the tiger.
She has my attention, unfortunately.
I pause. “Who? Who wants to kill him?”
“Really awful people. They’re abusive traffickers, and I can prove it, but before I could do anything I just...I had to get him away,” she whimpers, rubbing at her reddening face with her free hand.
I can’t believe I’m listening to this. Maybe the sight of a damsel in distress plays my heartstrings like a fiddle, but—
Fuck.
No.
I can’t let her sob story talk me out of common sense, or law-abiding citizen territory. Time to shut this down.
“If somebody isn’t treating him right, then that’s more reason to call the sheriff,” I say.
“You can’t! Y-you don’t understand,” she whispers, digging her nails into my skin, those teary eyes locked on mine and whirling. “If he finds out, your sheriff will call the closest cat sanctuary and...that’s where I took him from. That’s the place he can never go back to.”
“Took him?” My brows go up. “You’re telling me you stole this tiger?”
She doesn’t need to answer, her face says it all.
“I...I didn’t have a choice. I rescued him.” Her face droops, framed in brown-haired silk.
Tired of holding her off the ground with one hand, I lower my arm till she’s standing evenly again. My gut tells me I shouldn’t dive deeper into this madness, but there’s no denying I’m intrigued.
What motivates a brunette pixie like this to run off with a tiger?
She mentioned abuse. What kind?
More importantly, how did she manage to get this quarter ton Bengal beast as far as she has without anybody up her butt about it?
I hold in a sigh and lay my hands on her shoulders, gentle but firm.
“Two minutes, Willow. That’s what I’m gonna give you to fess up and tell me what’s really going on here, or we’ll both be telling it to Sheriff Wallace.”
“Okay, okay, I...” She pulls out of my grasp, rubbing her face, inhaling several deep breaths before she turns to face me again.
I watch her pull the hem of her oversized sweatshirt down over her black leggings, suddenly bashful.
“Clock’s ticking,” I remind her, pointing to my old-school watch.
“Okay! So, we’re not just roaming the highways for fun. We’ve only been on the road for a few hours. I’m taking him to a sanctuary in Wyoming. A good one. A legit one,” she rushes out. “He’ll be taken care of properly there. Not sold for his fur and everything else.”
Her voice cracks on that last remark. Unshed tears in her big blue eyes shimmer in the overhead light, but I refuse to let crying make her case.
“Yeah? And how’d you wind up being his chauffeur?” I ask, leveling my best court-is-in-session look on her.
She huffs out a breath, planting both hands on her hips. “I stole him, all right? That’s what you want to hear. I admit it, and I’m not sorry I did.”
Her feistiness is too real. I fight back a smile.
If she’s a crackpot, at least she’s an honest one.
“Look,” she says, pointing at her truck. “I have money. A credit card with unlimited spending and a debit card with more than ten thousand bucks in my bank account. I’ll give them both to you for your pickup truck. I’ll drive away and you can forget I was ever here.”
Now, I chuckle. Forget her and that illegal cat?
I think it’d take more than a few blows to the head to wipe that from my memory.
Of course, I don’t tell her that.
“What a deal. My sweet new ride that’s under a year old for a beat-up Dodge that doesn’t even run, ten thousand bucks, and a credit card I’d never tap if my life depended on it? Woman, I don’t think so.” She has no earthly clue who I am, and it’s not the kind of dude who’d ever agree to any of that.
“Please? You’re right about the clock ticking...in a few more hours, they’ll realize I’m gone. Then they’ll come looking,” she whispers it so darkly a chill rides up my back. “I need to get far away by then, over the state line at least.”
“Away from where?”
Willow hesitates, then lets out a sigh.
“Minot, okay? The more miles between us and that town, the better.”
“Only a couple of hours from here,” I say, rubbing my chin. “You’re telling me you only got this far before your ride clunked out?”
She throws her hands up in the air.
“I know!” Grasping her chestnut-brown hair with one hand, she lifts a long lock off the back of her neck, spinning it nervously around to brush her cheek, just like she had earlier. “I can get you more money. Enough so you can buy another new truck. Anything. Grady, please. I swear, I’m good for it. I’ll even throw in a reward for helping me.”
I’m not thinking about a reward, or money at all.
I make a good, honest living off the Purple Bobcat—the place I could lose if anyone finds out I had a damn tiger in my lot and didn’t report it ASAP.
Even if this place has always been a magnet for trouble, it’s never burned me. I’ve worked my ass into the ground, changing the clientele from the lowlifes who’d frequent it under the previous owner to good, hardworking townsfolk who just want a safe place to unwind.
Still, we’re located off a back road near the highway. The joint still gets its fair share of shady men and desperadoes wandering in. Some came looking for people I consider friends.
Good friends. Best friends. Brothers.
How many times have I helped bail out my buddies? Always the sidekick, never the hero, and that was fine by me.
I’m not a movie-star rescuer like Ridge, or a data hound ex-FBI dude like Faulk, but...aw hell.
It’s my turn, isn’t it? My time to step up and deal with the epic pile of crap Dallas brings in like it’s always been the price of living here.
“Fine,” I grunt out.
“Fine?” She clasps her hands together and holds them to her chest like she’s praying. Or maybe just winding up to bounce over and squeal in my face, which she does a second later. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Grady!”
Before I know what’s happening, those slender arms are pinched around my chest, holding on for dear life, a look in her mellow eyes like I just breathed life into her.
Shit.
I’m stiffer than a board when she flounces back a second later, her cheeks cherry-red.
“Sorry about that. So how much do I owe you?” she whispers.
“Come again?” I growl back.
“I’ll have it sent to you ASAP, whatever it is! Twenty thousand? Thirty?”
My jaw nearly slaps the ground for the tenth time tonight.
Who the hell is this woman? Tossing out fat numbers like she’s made of money? If she’s some kind of secret millionaire...then why didn’t she hire someone to steal the cat for her?
I swallow. Hard. The groan I push back into my gut feels jagged on the way down.
Yeah, I’m gonna regret this in the morning, but right now, I can’t think of a better solution.
It’s almost two o’clock in the morning and I sure as hell don’t need someone showing up at my bar, looking for their stolen tiger.
“I don’t want your money and I’m not selling my truck,” I say slowly, watching as her face falls. “But I know a safe place where you can stay till your ride’s fixed. Then you can be on your merry way to Wyoming and we’ll both pretend this never happened.”
“Oh, you do? Where?” She glances around. “Here?”
“Definitely not here.” I walk over, unlatch the hitch, and lower the bulldog jack on the trailer so I can move her truck.
“Then where?” she asks, her voice tight.
I unhook the safety chains, taking my sweet time. Not that it delays any bit of this misery.
I almost can’t even force it out.
“My place,” I rumble.
Willow’s feet scuff the ground as she sways back a few steps.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I can’t. We—”
“What’s the alternative?” I’m searching my own mind for one and coming up blank. A contraband tiger is sure to cause a ruckus sooner or later, and it ain’t happening in my lot.
Her full pink lips flutter open a couple times and then clamp shut.
“Exactly.” Shaking my head at myself as much as at her, I say, “Wait here, I’ll get my truck and tow yours behind the building.”
I walk across the parking lot to my truck, still questioning if there’s really no alternative.
Honestly, I’ve got no love for letting a crazy chick and her tiger crash at my house.
My girls aren’t home and won’t be for a couple days yet, thank God.
Still, I really don’t need this.
What happens if the girls come home and these “guests” are still around?
My face burns behind my whiskers. I’ve got half a mind to step back into my bar and pour myself a few fingers of something potent to help me face this bullshit.
The timing works, though.
Barely.
As long as my nephew can get her truck running tomorrow, she and her murder-kitten will be gone before they get home. Gone before anyone ever learns about this.
Besides Weston, no one ever needs to know I lost my frigging mind and took in two strays who could kill me.
Plus, I’ll still have a solid day to figure out what to do about Sawyer and Avery. My heart aches at the thought of them.
This is the longest we’ve ever been apart, but with Aunt Faye gone for the summer, a week of summer camp was my best option to keep the bar running full time in its busiest season. Joyce was a godsend, helping keep an eye on them as much as she could before camp started, but I can’t ask her to watch the girls day and night.
Or Hank, once my brother-in-law.
He helps too much as it is.
At ten, the girls think they’re old enough to stay home alone.
Nope. Not for the long hours I’m gone working at the Bobcat. I let them come with me now and again well before bedtime, but I don’t want them raised in a bar, watching their old man keep this town fueled up on two-for-one specials and Bingo Fish Fry nights.
The life of a single dad sucks.
It’s harder than I ever imagined, and scarier, too.
But it’s my sole responsibility to make sure my girls have everything they need and grow up right, blossoming into good, happy people. I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Every square inch of my heart, my soul, and my love belongs to my girls. And maybe part of love is taking a weird detour or two to protect our lives, which is exactly why I can’t have a stolen goddamn tiger at my bar.
I’ll text Weston as soon as I get her to my place.
Then I’ll buckle up and deal with getting the Tiger Princess out of my life fast.
* * *
It doesn’t take longto pull her truck behind the bar, where no one will notice it, and then to hook mine up to the trailer.
My property is only five miles away from the Bobcat, and it doesn’t take long to get there, or to back the trailer into the old barn. I try not to think about what’s inside.
For once, I’m damn grateful my dad was a practical man who went for brute efficiency over style. The walls of this building are more than rustic, made from heaping concrete blocks back when my father tore down an old North Earhart Oil building.
In the old days, he and old man Reed—the oil company’s head honcho—were close friends, always making crazy deals for land access and supplies.
Most of these schemes worked out well for our family, including the barn. It was built stronger than some Army barracks. Even the hog pens on the outside are concrete, designed to withstand time and the elements, and they’ve done it beautifully.
After unhooking the trailer and parking my truck, I run a hose into the barn to fill up a water trough while Willow gets her hellcat settled.
Bruce.
She told me that’s the giant’s name.
He’s even larger and more menacing than the first glimpse suggested. I’ve never seen a tiger up close, and have to admit, he’s a magnificent animal—if you ignore the fact that he’s an exotic predator capable of snapping your head off in the blink of an eye.
Yeah, flesh-ripping teeth and claws aside, he’s not half bad.
I’ve never seen anything devour a hunk of meat like the tiger does, either.
She takes a red, raw roast out of the cooler we’d transferred from the back of her truck to mine. I nearly have a heart attack when she struts over and lays it down in front of him, like serving dinner to a king.
The beast doesn’t go for the meat till she steps back and tells Bruce to eat.
Oh, he eats it up, all right.
Every fucking morsel.
In about two hulking chomps.
“I’ve never seen a barn like this,” she says as we exit the building a short while later. “It’s so sturdy, almost like it was made for him.”
“Amen to that. Don’t know if I’d feel safe keeping this boy behind nothing but wood,” I tell her, closing the solid steel door and securing the outside latch. “My father built this place years ago. Designed and built it, I should say.”
“What for?” she asks with a giggle. “Doomsday?”
I snort because that’s exactly the running joke whenever people see it.
“Nah, my dad wanted to raise pigs originally, but my mama told him any pig that got her vegetable garden would be a dead one. Pigs are notorious escape artists, so my father got the supplies from our local oil company and built himself hog Alcatraz.”
She snickers, batting her soft-blue eyes in a way I’m careful to ignore.
I’m not letting those manic pixie stranger good-looks do more damage than they already have.
“But there aren’t any pigs now?” Willow asks as we head for the house.
“Nope, that was over when I was young. My folks died in a car accident shortly after I joined the Army. The pigs were sold by my brother, and when I came home, I didn’t want to be a pig farmer.”
That’s close enough to the truth.
She doesn’t need to know I couldn’t pig farm, even if I wanted to try it. Didn’t have the time, not with Brittany’s illness and the girls.
“Is that when you bought the bar?”
I answer with a nod, though technically I hadn’t bought the bar till a few years ago, well after Brittany was dead and buried along with my parents.
Luckily, between the Army pay and my inheritance, finances weren’t a dream killer.
Some days, when I struggle to balance the girls and work, I wonder if I should’ve chosen something else. If it wasn’t for Aunt Faye, I might have. I hadn’t realized just how much I depended on her watching the girls till she’d left this summer.
Just a couple months. I thought it’d be fine. Simple and easy.
Right.
We step on the front porch and embarrassment strikes. I’m not a messy dude, but even after strict military training, I’m not the neatest person born, either.
Between my aunt being gone, and the girls leaving for camp, the place isn’t in the best shape. I’d planned on cleaning it before they come home, and still do.
It’s like I’m waiting for a miracle. Mary Poppins to drop out of the sky and take care of the girls till Aunt Faye returns—which won’t be till school starts, probably, over two months from now.
Whatever. I’ll figure it out.
Ideally after I sort out this crazy tiger chick dilemma.
“Wow!” she says with a gasp that yanks me from my thoughts. “Such a beautiful home. It reminds me of the big old farm houses you see on TV all the time. You’re not Netflix famous, right?”
I shoot her a glare of disbelief. “Do I look Netflix famous?”
“Sorry. Bad joke.” She flushes and shakes her head, her bottom lip dipping into her mouth pensively.
“Forget it. I’m the one who’s sorry for being on edge,” I whisper, dragging my door open. “There’s a bedroom off the kitchen you can sleep in.”
It was a back porch once, but I’d turned it into a bedroom and bathroom for Brittany in her final days. Climbing the stairs was too much for her then.
Pushing those dark thoughts away, I click on the overhead light in the living room.
“This way,” I tell her, leading us through the house.
We walk past the living room with its sofa and both armchairs still covered with clothes the girls pulled downstairs. They wanted to take the outfits to camp before they figured out there wasn’t enough room in their suitcases for everything. Ignoring the clothes, I press onward to the kitchen.
“Gold star for having an actual home. I was expecting a man cave. Who else lives here?” she asks.
“My daughters, but they’re off at summer camp.” Knowing she saw the piles of clothes, I add, “Sorry for the mess. They didn’t have time to put away everything before they left.”
“And your wife?”
I almost fucking choke.
It’s such an innocent, honest, disarming question but...
I don’t expect it.
I’m used to dealing with folks who know my situation.
“Deceased. Roughly five years ago,” I tell her, pinching my jaw.
I click on the kitchen light, and flinch. The dishes are piled high in the sink. Another fun thing I forgot.
Shit.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Willow says over my shoulder, her voice so gentle.
I nod tightly, eager to get off that subject. At least the dirty dishes can help.
“Haven’t been home much this past week, so things are chaotic,” I say, squaring my shoulders and turning to look her in the eye.
She gives me a syrupy smile that says she gets it.
Does she? If she comes from a rich background, I’m sure she’s got the creepy crawlies right now in my very lived-in, messy family house.
Sure, I can blame it on spending so much time at the bar this past week, training a couple new part-timers. Then again, I can’t blame the bar for truly needing me there for sixteen hours a day.
Without the girls, the house is too lonely, so I’ve purposefully kept busy all day and half the night since the day they left.
“How old are your girls?” she asks, sensing a change in the air.
“Ten.” I cross the room.
“Both of them?”
“Yep. That’s the beauty with twins. Sawyer and Avery are their names.” On the far side of the kitchen, I open a door, thankful this room is tidy.
Flicking the light switch on, I give her a minute to take a good look.
“It’s not a five-star resort suite, but it’s a place to bed down in peace and quiet. Bathroom’s right through that door,” I say, pointing.
She steps into the room and nods at the door I pointed out.
“It’s lovely. Smells like wildflowers in here! Absolutely perfect after a long day.” She turns and looks up at me, again wearing that sunshine smile.
My breath snags in my chest.
It’s the first time I’ve stopped and really seen her up close, face-to-face with enough light to fully make out her features.
They’re damn near flawless.
Her eyes are sky-blue gems in the mellow light, lined with dark lashes and highlights of wispy dark brows. They’re partly hidden behind a thick set of dark-brown bangs. A perfectly adorable nose has a tiny line of faint freckles, extending to her plush cheeks, which I already know ignite too easily. The peak of her top lip is prominent, making her mouth look heart-shaped. Too nice a fit for a man’s hungry lips, much less his—
Stop. You’re doing that thing again,an ugly voice nags in the back of my brain. She’s not your friend and definitely not your eye candy flirt. Pull your shit together, man.
I tear my gaze off her and turn to the door, trying to forget how achingly beautiful this unexpected mess of a woman really is.
“Thank you again, Grady,” she tells me.
My mouth feels like cotton and I realize I’m not breathing. I inhale deeply before answering.
“You’re welcome. I’ll call West first thing in the morning.”
“West?”
“Weston, my nephew. He’s the mechanic I mentioned. We can trust him not to open his mouth about anything. He’ll be able to work on your truck where it’s parked behind my bar.” I’d planned on texting him, but there’s no need to wake him right now. Morning will be here soon enough.
“Oh, okay, thanks!”
I stop at the door, wondering why she’s following me. “Everything okay?”
“I just forgot something...I need to get my bag out of your pickup,” she says shyly.
“I’ll grab it for you. Stay here,” I tell her.
I don’t care how much I’ve opened my home like a good Samaritan or how screaming hot she is. I’m not trusting her more than I need to just yet and letting her roam my property.
Besides, the fresh air will calm my ass down.
I’m still trying not to focus on how pretty she is, how cute she makes an oversized grey sweatshirt and black leggings look, as I collect the bag quickly and carry it back into her room.
“Here you are. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Grady. Thanks again for all you’re doing. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know...and so does Bruce.”
Does that mean he won’t bite me in half?I stop short of saying it and leave her with a conflicted smile, nodding as I pull the door shut and plod through the house.
Great.
Apparently, I’m due for a blue ribbon in Stupid to go with my Purple Heart.
Leave it to me to be attracted to a tiger thief, and actually bring her home with me.
In all the years since Brittany’s death, no woman has caught my eye long enough to come here, and I see plenty of them at the bar.
There’s something about this girl that’s caught more than just my eye.
It’s odd and inexplicable and wrong.
She’ll be gone tomorrow, though. That’s for sure.
As I cross the living room to the stairs leading to my room, I look at the mess I’m too damn exhausted to start on now. Let it linger another day as a reminder.
I have enough chaos in my life, and sure as hell don’t need more—especially not the kind that comes in hilariously illegal black-and-orange and could overpower a hundred men.
Maybe it’s divine punishment for my three unbreakable rules.
One, I’ve sworn off critters of any kind long ago, no matter how much the girls begged.
Two, I’ve also walled myself off from drama. And I’ve been pretty successful at keeping it out of my life in a talkative little town that loves gossip more than it does its famous rodeos.
Finally, I’ve always given a big hell no to romance, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.
Half the ladies in Dallas see that as a challenge.
They think I’m one more rock-hard, closed off caveman who traded his badass card for a dad card, and every last one of ’em are wrong.
Many have come calling with flirty smiles and lipstick so bright it burns the eyes.
All have failed.
When I say I’m a bachelor whose life begins and ends with his girls, his bar, and his best friends in that order, I fucking mean it.
Shame some women still don’t get the message.
Gotta admit, before today, I did a pretty good job of obeying my rules like gospel.
As I climb the stairs to my room, I cringe because the cracks are forming, annoying and unwelcome as a hairline fracture.
Even if it’s just for a day, Willow and Bruce are threatening my resolve with critters and drama.
Thank fuck the romance rule is solid as marble.
A shiver stabs me then, so fierce I roll my shoulders.
Willow’s face flashes through my mind like lightning—damn her—for the first of many times this restless night.
