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.