The Hero I Need by Nicole Snow
It’s a Jungle (Grady)
Willow watches me the entire time I’m on the phone, but I rip my eyes away.
I can’t look at her anymore.
Can’t let her tears affect my judgment.
Can’t put my girls in danger.
That’s the bottom line.
No woman, no corruption story, and no crazy-ass tiger is worth more than Sawyer and Avery. The things she’s talking about are fucking Twilight Zone territory.
Black-market bones, eyes, tiger wine?
Ludicrous.
Still, I don’t have the heart to turn her in and leave the tiger to state officials. Not yet, anyway.
This nagging pulse in my petrified lump of a heart says, Wait, you idiot. Help her.
So that’s why I press the phone against my ear, ignoring her longing looks and stalled breaths, trying to do my damnedest to save both of our gooses from being cooked for Christmas.
“Tomorrow?” I grunt.
My mind stops to clarify what Weston just said.
“Yeah, Uncle Grady,” he says. “Tomorrow at the earliest. I had to order the part from Bismarck and you know how it goes shipping things from there. Rain, sleet, snow, and timeliness don’t apply here in Dallas.”
Fuck!
Too bad he’s right. I keep the curse silent as Weston talks up the condition of the truck, how he spent time giving it an oil change and tuning it, then went looking for other issues that could trip any driver up.
“All right, man. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” I click off the phone and set it on the counter.
“So will my truck be done today?” Willow asks, hope gleaming in her wet, shiny eyes.
She’s stopped freaking out for now, after she realized I wasn’t calling the cops.
“No,” I say, as disappointed as she is. “Weston’s got your part on order, and he found a few other issues.”
“Oh.” She freezes and casts me that helpless look again. “Like what?”
“Bent tie-rod, for one. He can tell by the wear on the driver’s tire.”
“A bent what?” She shakes her head, giving me a skeptical stare. “Wait, wouldn’t I have known if something was bent?”
“How does it steer?” I ask, mainly because I’m trying to process what the hell I’m gonna do with this chick and her man-eater being holed up here longer.
“Fine, I guess. I never had any trouble.”
“Even turning corners?” I ask.
“Yep. It turns just fine.” Her face falls, and then she does the thing where she touches the end of one long lock of chestnut hair to her lips.
Her nervous tic sends an instant rush of fire to places it damn well shouldn’t.
I pinch my jaw.
Yeah, I need her gone as fast as possible, along with that tiger, and it’s not just the danger they pose.
The longer they’re here, the more I realize it’s not even a question—bad things will happen.
I’ve got half a mind to load up her cat and offer to haul them both down to Wyoming myself, except she looks at me again. The girl’s a blue-eyed medusa, and my train of thought is already flying off the cliff as she opens those pert strawberry lips.
“Well, come to think of it, the truck sorta jerks whenever I’d turn left on ramps or streets going through little towns. I just figured that was the trailer or something. If it’s not that...” She huffs out a breath. “Crap.”
“Told ya. Classic case of bent tie-rod if I ever heard it.” I’d already believed Weston. Having her confirm it was just for her benefit.
I wish like hell it wasn’t.
I really need her out of here, dammit.
“Call me crazy, but here’s a thought,” she says, brightening and snapping her fingers. “I’ll buy a truck! There must be somebody around here willing to part ways with wheels able to pull a trailer?”
My brows go up.
“Using your unlimited spending credit card?” I try to soften the blow.
“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly.
It’s hard not to groan.
Instead, I level a solid stare on her. “So anyone looking for you can track your purchase nice and neat, huh? Find out what you bought and when?”
For a second, her mouth opens, then closes again into a thin frowning line.
Her eyes grow as round as quarters before her shoulders droop.
“Oh,” she mutters sadly.
My heart doubles over for the poor girl. She obviously has no clue about the weight of the situation she’s put herself in—the same trouble I’ve stepped in by helping her.
She also doesn’t know the first damn thing about keeping a low profile.
Not good.
“Tell me this. Did you use your card on your way here?” I ask, studying her closely.
Sighing, she runs a hand through her wavy brown hair, making her bangs bounce as they fall back in place.
“No. I’m sure I didn’t. The truck had a full tank of gas. I never stopped until it up and died at your place.”
“Thank God for that.” Relief escapes my lungs. “Rule number one of not being found: you don’t use plastic to pay for anything. No fill-ups, no fast food, definitely no ATMs. It’s cold hard cash or nothing.”
She nods slowly, then shakes her head and looks down at the floor. I know a look of shame and I feel for her.
I’m not here to lecture her into the ground, just help jog her common sense.
Also wish I could stop fucking noticing her so much.
Only, my traitor eyes flick down, staring at her bare feet with their pink-painted toenails, shifting slightly apart as she ponders.
The grey leggings she’s wearing today show off her legs as much as the leggings did last night. The pink t-shirt with a cartoon tiger on it defines the curve of her chest a lot more than the baggy sweatshirt last night had.
Without realizing it, I suck in a sharp breath and hold it.
Christ. How much torture can a man take?
A lightning bolt attraction is the absolute last thing I need in my life right now.
Actually, make that second to the last. Because the biggest blunder in my entire life would be catching feelings—any feelings at all—for this frayed slip of a woman and her homeless tiger.
What the hell happened to me last night?
Is it just a twisted dream?
Am I gonna wake up without Willow and Bruce and a colossal mess on my hands?
A man can still hope, even if the sad pout on her lips tells me I’ll never be so lucky to pinch myself and make it go away.
“Grady, I have to say...I’m sorry. I truly am. This isn’t your problem, and—”
“Enough. Save the apologies.”
I hold up a hand, needing her to zip it. If what she says is true, that there’s some sort of illegal black-market animal shit going on here in North Dakota, she could be in real danger.
Probably already is.
And that makes me the asshole who should be apologizing for not giving her total assurance I’ve got her back.
Trouble is, I don’t know how to help her. Not with this insanity.
I’m a thirty-six-year-old bartender and business owner pushing forty sooner than I’d like. Juggling danger like falling knives ended for me the day I hung up my Army sniper rifle.
I straight-up don’t know enough about the illegal animal trade to save her bacon.
I’ve never heard of tiger wine, and I wish I fucking hadn’t when the fact that it exists makes me gag.
Still, I’ve got connections.
If anybody would know about this illegal bullshit or where to find out more about it, and would tell me, it’s my buddy, Quinn Faulkner.
As a former FBI agent married to his best friend, there’s little he doesn’t know and even less he hasn’t at least heard about. Especially after I helped him get that giant freak of a convict off his back when he came to Dallas gunning for Faulk’s head.
“Grady?” Willow looks up at me.
“Hang tight. I promise I’m not calling anybody to turn you in,” I say, picking up my phone.
She turns her back to me and hangs her head.
“I’m calling a friend. Just give me a minute.”
She doesn’t turn around, but I can see her shaking her head. “The fewer people who know about this the better, you know,” she whispers.
Like I don’t know that?
Right.
The last thing I want to do is dump this crap in anybody else’s sandbox, but I have to know what I’m dealing with before I decide what happens next.
Willow needs help, that’s a given, but my kids’ safety comes first.
“He’s a trusted friend and he knows when to keep his mouth shut,” I tell her, hoping it’ll make her feel a smidge better.
Without looking back, she walks into the bedroom off the kitchen and closes the door.
Whatever.
Let her sulk. Separation works for now. She can sort out her thoughts and pull her shit together in peace while I pull up Faulk’s contact and hit Call.
He answers on the third ring.
“Grady! What’s up, my man? Everything cool at the Bobcat?”
Leaning against the counter, I smile the second I hear his Oklahoma drawl.
“The bar’s fine. I’m calling ’cause I need some intel. You got a minute?”
“Sure do! Tory’s down at the new dance studio and I’m getting ready to mow the lawn, which can wait in this heat.”
Hearing a noise, I say, “Hold on a minute.”
The door to the bedroom opens and Willow walks in, wearing her knee-high brown leather boots. She skirts past me and then heads out the sliding glass door.
I have to yank my eyes off her ass, bobbing like a lush fruit in those leggings.
Pressing a hard fist against my thigh, I dig my knuckles in for focus and ask Faulk, “What do you know about exotic animals and the black market?”
“Huh?” He lets out a snort. “You gotta be more specific than that. That shit is as deep as the ocean and just as wide. What’s going on?”
My lips twist and I whip out the first thing that comes to mind.
“You ever heard of tiger wine?”
“Tiger wi—fuck, Grady! You don’t want to get caught up in that! Don’t tell me somebody sent a bottle to the Bobcat?”
“Nah, nothing like that, thank God.” I shake my head and push off the counter to walk across the room and look out the sliding glass door. “It’s not my problem, really, but I might know someone who appears to be getting swept up in something like it. They need help.”
“Shitfire, dude, you’d better start explaining,” Faulk growls.
Yeah, he’s got me there.
I can’t dance around the mammoth in the room, especially when that elephant is actually a wild cat bigger than the tractor I use for plowing snow.
Willow enters the barn carefully, securing the door behind her. My eyes narrow like a hawk.
While watching her, I give Faulk a rundown on the last twenty-four hours, and repeat everything Willow told me, hoping I don’t sound like I’m ready for the nuthouse.
“Dude,” Faulk whispers as soon as I finish.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble back.
“Okay. Dammit. This is gonna take some thinkin’. Good news is, your barn is the perfect spot to hold a tiger, but we need to get Ridge in on this. He can dig up a good vet considering how many movie stars own exotic pets. Hopefully one who knows about big cats and won’t say a word if we grease the wheels enough with cash. Don’t ask how I know that, I just do.”
“Done,” I tell him, even if I’m not keen on the idea.
It’s not a trust issue. Ridge Barnet has been nothing besides a rock-solid friend ever since he left his fancy Hollywood career, took out a few asshole mobsters, and decided Dallas was where he wanted to lay down roots with his wife and kids.
“Next up, that brand or burn you mentioned needs to be looked at. There could be info. In the meantime, I bet we can get Ridge to butcher a cow or two for you to keep that cat fed. We both know his organic beef business is booming. Buying the amount of fresh meat you’ll need will raise eyebrows anywhere else. Don’t worry, I’ll call Ridge and get the doctor and the grub lined up. You need to take care of her truck. Where’s it at?”
“Still at the Bobcat. West did what he could in the parking lot, but I didn’t want to bring it home and paint a target on my property if there’s anyone out on the highway, actively looking for it.”
“Yeah, we need to get that ride hidden right the fuck now. What about the trailer? Is it still in your barn?”
“It’s inside. I’ll get the truck hidden as soon as I get off the horn,” I say, already feeling better with Faulk’s FBI brains moving at light speed.
“Cool, after I check in with Ridge, I’ll make some other calls. I’ll keep you posted on whatever I find out about these Foss people and the crooked conservation officer. Whatever you do, keep the tiger thief and her ferocious buddy out of sight.” He pauses. “By the way, where’s Sawyer and Avery?”
“Summer camp. Damn good timing on my part.”
“I’ll say!” He lets out a happy sigh. “Man, I probably don’t need to tell you, but this is some serious crap, Grady. We’re talking devil dealing black-market runners doing things to critters you don’t even want to know.”
Yeah, exactly what I’ve been afraid of.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” Faulk says.
“Thanks for reminding me what friends are for. Drinks are on the house for the next year if you help save my ass.”
“Nah, you know my money’s good, Grady. And after what you did for me...what are brothers for?”
I smile and click off, agreeing with that more than ever.
My friends are like extended family, all of us baptized by the fires that love to visit this little town.
My gaze lingers on the barn and I exhale slowly.
Faulk didn’t need to drop that warning, but I read more into it than he’d said.
If his instincts are right, Willow and her tiger are in grave danger.
I call Weston to give him the latest. He’s already taken the liberty of towing her truck to his place and guarantees he’ll park it deep in the shed he uses for demo derby stuff.
Perfect.
He also assures me nobody else is gonna know about it, much less come sneaking around his property.
I’ve barely hung up when Ridge calls and tells me to expect a vet before noon, and a massive delivery of carved up meat by tomorrow morning. I thank him and appreciate the way he doesn’t probe deeper. Not that I’d have expected it.
Right now, I’m feeling damn lucky I’d hauled home an extra deep freezer from the Bobcat when I bought a newer model for the bar’s kitchen. It’s still in good shape and purrs like a champ.
I head off to plug it in so it can cool down and tell Willow she’s not going anywhere.
Not for a few days at least.
She’s in the barn, sitting on one of the short walls of stalls that Dad used for birthing sows way back in the day. I nod at her, then enter the storage room and plug in the freezer.
It’s a good-sized room but feels small when I turn and see her in the doorway.
“Grady, look...I truly am sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to storm off after what you’ve done for me, and I never meant for you to get caught up in all of this. I’m just...stressed isn’t even the word.”
The sorrow on her face could convince any jury.
“Kitten, I know.” I gesture to a wooden bench along the wall. We’ll ignore that spontaneous kitten falling out of my mouth. “Take a seat. We need to talk.”
She does.
Then I lean back against the freezer, keeping as much space between us as possible. For some mysterious and worrisome reason, I want to give her a hug, let her know it’s not her fault.
I’m also smart enough to know where that leads, though, so I keep my grubby paws to myself.
“How’s Bruce holding up?” I ask.
“Fine. He’s as content as ever.” Her face softens as she shakes her head. “He really is a gentle giant, a born sweetheart. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone murdering him for his parts. I only had one chance to stop it from happening. Take him and run.”
“You’re totally sure that’s the dirty dealing going on in Minot? Black-market tiger stuff?” Redundant or not, I need to confirm.
Even a little detail or two could mean the world to Faulk’s investigation.
“I am. And it’s not just tigers.” She sighs, pushing her face in her palms. “The big cats are just worth the most. Everything I witnessed was for show—not for the good of the animals—and that’s why I questioned so many things from the start.” She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “I had a gut feeling right away, but...” Sighing, she adds, “But I didn’t act. I didn’t turn them in quick enough to the right person.”
“That’s gonna change real fast. The friend I called was an FBI agent once—”
“No! Grady—”
“Hold up, honey, don’t jump to conclusions. I said was. He’s more like a retired private eye and farmer now, and he’s damn sure on our side. Another buddy of mine is sending a vet out here to look at Bruce’s paw and get some fresh beef to feed him. I talked to Weston again, too, and he’s busy towing your truck to his shop and will keep it hidden.”
“Hidden? For how long?”
I shrug. “As long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?”
“Helping your sweet tiger-saving ass out,” I growl, nodding to the door. “And helping Bruce.”
She gives me what looks like a real smile for the first time.
At least these words of mine still do something.
“I—it’s okay. We just need a ride to Wyoming. To the sanctuary there.” She tucks her arms around her shoulders. “No need to go through more trouble.”
“Yeah? How do you know you’ll be safe in Wyoming?” I ask, casting her a fierce glance.
She leans her head against the wall and closes her pretty blue eyes.
“Honestly, I don’t. It was the only emergency plan I could think of on the fly.”
Holding my breath, I will myself to keep my distance.
A hug isn’t gonna make her feel better, or me.
“We’ll know more after the vet has a look,” I say. “In the meantime, let’s go have some breakfast.”
She agrees and lets me help her up by the hand. We head back to the house where I fry up an old-fashioned pile of scrambled eggs and bacon with toast.
After we eat, I spend more time on the phone, following up with Weston, who has her truck securely hidden now. My backup manager at the Bobcat also gets a call, letting him know I won’t be in today.
He’s just as surprised as I am at the fact that I’m taking a full day off.
Seems like even when I do it for the girls, I usually manage to swing by there at least once.
After that, it’s outside for chores around my place, and sweet distance from Willow.
If only I had a hundred miles more.
Shit, I know I’m getting in too deep already. Can’t have her or Bruce here when the girls get home.
I consider calling Ridge, but his barn would never hold Bruce, and asking him to take on a fucking tiger after the trouble he’s had just seems wrong. Plus, he’s got a little one with Grace, not to mention his pumpkin-loving father-in-law, Nelson, always roaming around and looking for trouble.
Faulk’s place is off limits too when Tory has a baby on the way. Drake’s is full of horses, kids, and has a direct line to the tiny Dallas PD since he’s a cop.
There’s nowhere for Bruce but my concrete barn, dammit.
I’m still outside when a familiar truck rolls up the driveway.
It’s Ridge’s, but he’s not the one driving it.
Assuming it has to be the vet, I walk over as the vehicle rolls to a stop. The guy looks middle-aged with short black hair and he’s wearing aviator shades.
“Grady McKnight?”
I nod.
“Pleasure’s mine. I’m Mark Walton.” He opens the truck door. “I came straight here after flying into Dickinson.” Shaking my hand, he continues. “I’ve known Ridge for years, and he filled me in on everything he knew, but I might have a few questions after examining our patient.”
“Of course.” I point to the barn. “He’s in there.”
Willow steps out of the house and I gesture for her to join us.
Good timing.
“Ask her anything. She knows the cat far better than I do,” I say.
The two of them introduce themselves and we walk to the barn. The vet questions her on Bruce’s temperament before we reach the door.
Of course, all of her answers make Bruce sound like a harmless kitten. The way the vet looks at her over his dark glasses tells me he’s taking it with a boulder-sized grain of salt.
Once we’re in the barn with the door securely shut, the vet follows Willow as she enters the center pen and walks up to the side of the trailer. Bruce is inside, and from where I’m standing, I can hear a dull rumble rattling off the metal walls.
It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s the beast purring.
Guess that’s how he greets her.
The two of them talk quietly. I’d have to step closer to hear, but considering that means entering a tiger’s lair?
Nope.
I don’t need to know what they’re saying that bad.
As I watch from a distance, she whispers and croons softly to the tiger through the slats on the trailer while the doctor sets his case on the cement block railing and opens it.
I don’t know much about doctoring animals, but nobody could miss that needle he pulls out.
Willow climbs up on the side of the trailer and reaches through the window. She strokes the top of the cat’s wide head the second Bruce sits up in the trailer.
The vet moves next to her, and though I can’t tell for sure, I’m fairly certain he just numbed up our furry friend.
A few moments later, the two of them climb down and walk back over to where I’m standing.
While Doc Walton says they’re waiting for the shot to work, Willow pulls her cell out of a pocket on her leggings and starts scrolling through pictures.
“Here it is. I’ve got a few on here, you can just scroll left and right.” She passes the vet her phone, then tells me, “Pictures of those blue stickers I told you about.”
“Have you ever seen anything like them before?” I ask the vet.
“No, but I’ve heard of something similar. Markers. A few years ago, I worked on a documentary about the black-market trade in exotics. The film never made it to full production because the government stepped in and shut it down. The USDA agents told us we were spilling too much classified info on pending cases still in litigation. I saw right through it, and so did the producer.”
I fold my arms. “Why?”
“Because this kind of criminal bullcrap runs deep. They don’t want the general public to know,” Walton says, enlarging a picture, his busy brows furrowed. “Like who’s behind where the money comes from and where it ends up. When it’s a few bumbling clowns running a tiger sanctuary in the sticks, yeah, they’re happy to come down like a ton of bricks. But when the Feds or state officials are getting their cut? Nope. They’re happy to knock out their competition and take illegal kickbacks while pretending to enforce the laws.”
His tone sours as he pauses, shaking his head.
“You’re saying shady insiders are the norm with this shit? Figures,” I grind out.
“Show me a snake and I’ll find the politician keeping him fed,” Walton snaps, angry and whimsical.
I have no doubt about that.
Then the doc glances from me to Willow. “That documentary’s the reason I’m a vet in Topeka these days instead of L.A.”
The seriousness of his tone and gaze isn’t lost on me.
“I have a family,” he says. “I trust Ridge, just like I trusted his mama when she brought her Savannah cat in for checkups years ago, and that’s why I’m here.”
I nod, fully understanding his own plight more.
He hands the phone back to Willow.
“That’s a chip sticker if I’m not mistaken. The numbers on it correlate with the tag inside the animal. Every exotic is supposed to get chipped in the US of A and that tag’s proof when a chip has been deactivated.”
“What? Why would a chip ever need to be deactivated?” I ask, fearing I won’t like the answer.
“Two reasons. Theft, for one. Or to make sure no part of the animal can be identified or traced back to the owner,” Walton says coldly.
Sick.
Willow flashes me a sad look. I shift my weight, fighting back the bile in my gut, loathing the fact that I have to share a planet with people who part out tigers.
I’ve officially arrived in a dark jungle I never knew existed.
“I’m sure you’re aware a large percentage of domestic pet owners have their animals chipped mainly in case they’re stolen. Exotics must be chipped by law. The chips are the size of a grain of rice. Once inserted, they can move around inside the body sometimes and they’re goddamned impossible to remove.”
“But, Doctor—” Willow holds a finger up as the doctor’s eyes flash.
“Right. I shouldn’t say impossible,” he cuts in. “A skilled surgeon could remove one, but it would be quite time-consuming and costly if it’s shifted to a vulnerable place. An exotic animal’s carcass can still be identified by an active chip. Once Bruce is fully sedated, I know what I’ll find on his paw. A tattoo that matches the numbers and symbols on that blue sticker.”
Willow gasps. I reach out, gingerly clasping her shoulder. Call it a bad reflex, but I’m not sorry I try to comfort her.
“I’m trying to follow. What’s that mean if the tattoo’s there?” I ask slowly.
“It’s proof for whoever he was meant to be sold to that his chip is deactivated. That means they’re free to use up every last body part without any fear it’ll blow back to the authorities.”
Shit.
I look at Willow, meet her gaze, and see the unshed tears in her eyes. She’s shaking. My hand clasps her shoulder and squeezes, this time tighter.
“So you mean...those other blue stickers I saw were because the animals were sold on the black market and...and sold for parts?” Willow’s voice breaks.
Walton nods. “Deactivation devices are all over the black market, too, and that blue sticker is proof they have a good one. It won’t print a sticker unless the scanner can’t pick up the chip.”
“Holy crap.” Willow wobbles slightly and I shift closer, helping hold her up. “It’s a farm, isn’t it? The whole freaking Exotic Plains Rescue is a black-market farm.”
I take a mental note in my head since it’s the first time I’ve heard her name the place.
If I have my way, then soon the only reason it’ll be named by anyone is for history. A place that was stormed and shut the fuck down after every last animal got safely extracted.
I’m thoroughly pissed, halfway to becoming the overprotective Neanderthal I turn into around my girls.
This is bigger than Willow and Bruce now, even if they’re in the gravest danger.
“That would be my guess,” Walton says. “What’s the name of the main vet there?”
I never catch her answer, stepping away once I’m confident Willow is back on her feet with her head screwed on straight.
Plus, I could use a break with my own mind spinning a hundred RPMs a minute.
When they check up on the tiger again, and then enter the trailer, I tag along.
He’s an even bigger giant up close, and majestic to a fault.
His markings and fur are remarkable. His tail twitches at his side, as thick as my arm. I’m actually in awe.
Willow asks me to hold the paw up so they can get a few photos from different angles. Walton explains the injury likely resulted from the electric probes used to brand the tattoos on the beasts, something that gets etched into the skin more than inked.
A probe went between Bruce’s pads and burned through his tender skin. He continues examining the beast while Willow clicks away with her phone camera.
Then it’s my turn to be branded.
The lightning zing of her hand touching mine as she repositions to get the paw in the light makes me bristle.
Fuck.
It’s been years since I felt a young woman’s soft, bare skin, and it’s not something I need now.
I’ve turned down my fair share of offers from women at the bar for a reason. Between the girls and work, I don’t have time for dating or anything else.
My attention swings back to the mess I’ve willingly stepped in when the vet and Willow start talking about drawing Bruce’s blood. It sounds like the cat has been lethargic lately, and the vet wants to run some tests to see if he’s been drugged.
My damn mind is blown, but I stay and help out where I can.
Before he takes his leave, Doc Walton gives instructions for how long Bruce should stay sedated, what to watch for when he starts coming around, and promises he’ll be in contact with the blood work results.
After he drives away, Willow and I go in the house.
“There’s something else you should see. Hold on,” she says, running off to her room and returning a minute later.
I recognize the stolen computer in her hands. It’s locked, without a password, and I’m afraid we’ll trip some security measure that deletes data if we try to just guess.
“I’ll have Faulk take a look,” I say. “If he can’t break into it, he’ll know someone who can.”
“Thanks. When?” she asks, seemingly more anxious than before the vet’s visit. “We have to get to the bottom of this before they find me.”
I’m well aware.
“I’ll call him again—” I stop mid-sentence.
An unexpected popping noise catches my attention. My ears perk, straining to listen, hoping I just imagined it.
“Grady? Was that a car door?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Yeah. Shit!” I take off and make it as far as the living room when the door flies open.
Sawyer and Avery come bounding through it, all whipping hair and smiles that’d be as heartwarming as ever—if only I wasn’t completely fucking smashed over the head right now.
Act normal.
It’s my only shot.
At least I’m honestly excited to see them and catch them both in big hugs before asking, “What are you two doing home early?”
“We live here, Dad!” Sawyer says in her usual sassy, yet adorable way. “Did you already forget?”
“Hm. Now that you mention it, I do remember having a couple munchkins boarding here,” I tease, planting a kiss on her forehead.
“Joyce had to pick us up,” Avery says, ever the quieter and more serious twin.
Still hugging one with each arm, I ask, “Where is she? Where’s your stuff?”
“Right here, papa bear!” Joyce sings, walking inside. “Their luggage is on the porch, where it needs to stay for now. The camp called me to pick them up this morning, a day early. I texted but you must’ve been busy.”
Yeah, hell, busy might be the understatement of the year.
“Why’s that? Was there a problem?” I ask. I don’t understand why they’re home a day early.
“Sure was. Head lice epidemic at camp. Everyone had to leave early.” She’s an older woman, but fit for her age, and she shrugs her trim shoulders. “They’ve been treated, but they need to be checked daily. So if you see a bug or nit on these two angels, be sure to shampoo them again. All their stuff should be washed before it comes in the house, too.”
“Head lice?” I echo, holding in a groan.
When it rains, it fucking pours.
A quiver rips up my spine. I try to resist the sudden urge to scratch at my tingling head like a madman.
Joyce just grimaces and nods, scrunching up her nose.
Can things even get more complicated?
I shouldn’t ask.
Because a second later, Sawyer looks over my shoulder at Willow, blinking several times before she drops an atomic bomb. “Hey, Dad...who’s she?”
