Chapter 12
The smell of worn leather and cedar clings to me as I go about my day.
I went straight to bed when Walker dropped me off, not ready to wash away his scent.
I’m blaming it on my hormones going haywire and him being a thirst trap in Wranglers and cowboy boots, and definitely not on the fact that my lips are still tingling from our first kiss.
I’m not ready to confront those complicated feelings, so I’m keeping them under lock and key—happy to live in my delusional world, choosing to believe he’s just showing me the ropes of dating, and that there’s no way I’m developing any romantic attachments.
The reality is, this can’t mean anything more, or our entire arrangement goes up in flames, and our fragile balance will collapse.
It’s still early, but I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up since sunrise, and after feeding the animals, I came to the kitchen to grab some coffee so I can return to being a semi-functioning human.
I take a sip of the oat milk latte I just made and scrunch my nose when the flavor lands on my tongue wrong. Even after adding an extra dash of cinnamon, it still isn’t right. Ever since Walker made me one, I haven’t found anything that compares.
It has me wondering how his morning is going.
He’s supposed to be working on the ranch today.
Maybe I should check in—he did suggest I do just that.
Before I can overanalyze my decision, I send him a message.
After all, I agreed to text him an arguably unnecessary amount, and I can’t very well go back on my word.
Birdie: Thanks for taking me to the drive-in.
Walker: Anytime, sweetheart. I had a damn good time.
Birdie: Me too.
I try another taste of my latte, still disappointed that it doesn’t measure up to Walker’s.
Birdie: Random question.
Walker: I’m listening.
Birdie: Did you put anything special in the oat milk latte you made me the other day?
Walker: No. Just espresso, steamed oat milk, foam, and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Birdie: Well, in that case, I think my coffee machine is broken.
Walker: What makes you think that?
Birdie: Nothing I make tastes as good as yours.
Walker: That won’t do. How can I help?
I should probably keep this conversation friendly, but after surviving our first kiss without a major catastrophe, I feel brave enough to try a little flirting. There’s no harm in practicing, right?
Birdie: I think you owe me a new one, or you’ll have to be my personal barista from now on.
Walker: Wait, am I being falsely accused and sentenced to unpaid coffee service? Do I need a lawyer? *wink face emoji
Birdie: Depends. Do I get damages plus interest?
Walker: If repayment means kissing you again, I’m definitely pleading guilty.
Walker: You tasted so damn sweet, I may never recover.
My fingers drift to my lips as I recall the way his mouth moved against mine, his hands molded to my waist, his erection pressed against my thigh.
Birdie: Careful, Deputy. You’re making a very strong case for a repeat offense.
Birdie: Although I was hoping our next lesson might include some… advanced material.
I squeeze one eye shut as I hit send. Crossing off sharing a steamy kiss with a gorgeous man from my list of things I’ve secretly fantasized about was amazing, but it also left me wanting more. And for once, I’m feeling bold enough to ask for it.
Walker: That can be arranged.
Birdie: What did you have in mind?
Walker: Do you have any toys?
Birdie: Sex toys?
Walker: Yes.
Birdie: I have a vibrator.
Walker: Perfect. The next time you’re in bed, I want you to use it.
Birdie: Are we talking about a live demonstration… over the phone?
The handful of times I’ve tried using a vibrator, I haven’t been able to get off, which is the main reason I haven’t touched the one the girls gave me.
Dirty talking is another thing I didn’t expect I’d like to try, but the thought of Walker on the other end of the line, pushing me to the brink, is enough to send a rush of heat pooling in my belly.
Walker: I’d love nothing more than to watch, but first I want you to get comfortable doing it on your own and learn what you like so you can show me.
Walker: Think you can do that for me?
Birdie: I think so.
Walker: Good girl.
I swear, hearing those two little words again causes my brain to malfunction, leaving me thinking of all the possible ways I could please him next, just so I can hear them again.
I freeze when what sounds like a high-pitched meow drifts in from outside. I shake my head, certain I’m imagining it, until I hear it again, louder this time, and joined by others.
“What on earth is going on out there?” I mutter, rushing toward the front door to investigate.
When I reach the porch, I find a tattered cardboard box.
As I peer inside my suspicions are confirmed: five little tabby kittens are inside.
My heart sinks when I notice there’s no sign of their mama.
That doesn’t mean they won’t survive, but they’ll need to be hand-fed and closely monitored if they’re going to have a fighting chance.
To my surprise, Nugget is in the box too, with all the kittens nestled against her for warmth. When she sees me, she lets out a sharp cluck, as if complaining about their persistent mews—most likely from hunger and confusion at not being fed.
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me like that, Nugget. You’ve been a broody little thing lately, wanting babies—well, congratulations. Now you have a litter of hopefully healthy kittens to look after.”
If only she could feed them herself. Instead, this unexpected responsibility lands squarely on me, and carving out time in my schedule will be a challenge.
Still, whoever left these kittens knew I wouldn’t let them down.
This isn’t the first time strays have ended up on my porch, and I’d take this any day over finding them abandoned on the roadside—or worse.
An hour later, I’m on the kitchen floor, elbows-deep in bottles as frantic little mouths scramble for their first meal in who knows how long.
After checking over all the kittens, it looks like I have three spirited little ladies and two mischievous boys—all surprisingly healthy, considering they were taken from their mama too soon and abandoned on a doorstep.
It’s a good thing I keep the hallway closet packed with rescue supplies, or I’d be in real trouble with five starving kittens and no backup plan.
Now, if only I had a few extra hands to feed them all at once.
Despite her initial reservations, Nugget has fully embraced her role as a surrogate mama and hasn’t left the kittens’ side since I brought them in. She’s even let them burrow beneath her on a fuzzy blanket I grabbed from the living room to keep them warm.
“Look at you taking care of everyone,” I coo.
She’s definitely going to expect extra mealworms and shredded cheese after putting up with these tiny balls of fluff, and I’ll happily give them to her for being such a trooper.
I honestly thought she might bail after meeting them on the porch, but she’s far more nurturing than I gave her credit for.
The kitten I’m feeding now has soft orange fur streaked with faint cream stripes, but despite his earlier cries of hunger, he seems more interested in battling the bottle than actually drinking.
I laugh as he swats at it with determination. “All right, little guy, let’s settle down so we can eat.”
I reposition him in my lap, keeping him snug against me, and exhale in relief when he finally latches on to the bottle.
“There you go,” I murmur. “You’re going to grow up big and strong, aren’t you?”
As he greedily guzzles his milk, I decide now’s as good a time as any to check in with my cousin Shep. He and his fiancée, Noelle, live in Pine Haven, Arizona, where he runs a world-famous honky tonk. He may be grumpy as all get-out, but I’ve been able to coerce him to adopt on occasion.
Birdie: The most stubborn yet adorable kitten showed up on my doorstep this morning. I think he belongs to you.
I send a photo of the tiny menace in my lap, bottle clenched between his teeth, eyes narrowed like he’s ready to throw paws if anyone tries to take his milk away.
Shep: No.
Birdie: But you’re a match made in heaven. He’s stubborn, has a permanent scowl, and pretends that he hates everyone—but secretly just wants cuddles.
Shep: The answer is still no.
Shep: We already have too many animals, thanks to you.
Birdie: There’s no such thing.
Birdie: For the record, if I find another Highland cow, I’m keeping my promise to Noelle and sending it your way.
Shep: I’d expect nothing less.
A while back, I called Shep, begging him to save Maple. At the time, she was a four-month-old miniature Highland cow found neglected in a backyard petting zoo a couple of hours from his place. At first, he refused to get her, but it wasn’t long before his resolve crumbled.
Once he and Noelle got together, she was smitten with Maple too—and now she wants a friend for her.
A soft rap at the door draws my attention from my phone and the kitten still in my lap.
It’s probably Mrs. Bixby, coming to investigate my latest rescues.
I wouldn’t be shocked if she’d seen them being dropped off and came to offer unsolicited advice.
Another round of knocking shakes the door, louder and more persistent this time.
When a third round rattles the doorframe, I sigh in defeat, accepting that whoever it is won’t be ignored.
“Come in,” I call out loudly, and the kitten flinches.
I’m not moving and interrupting his feeding now that he’s settled. That would be asking for a tiny paw attack, and I’d rather stay scratch-free.
Whoever is here must have heard me because the door creaks open and footsteps echo down the hall.
“Birdie Mae Matterson, you’d better not be dead, or I’m switching to the full-sugar syrup at Latte & Lassoed. Your ghost will be stuck haunting me forever!” Charlie hollers, announcing her presence.