Chapter 2 #2
Her shoulders loosen only slightly. “Oh, this is your land. These are yours?”
It takes a second before it dawns on me that she’s talking about the fresh strays. “Uh, no.” I hold out the orange kitten. He lets out a big meow. “Finders keepers.”
Her expression falls. “My dad isn’t going to let me keep them at his place. He’s horribly allergic, and his garage is full of all his—well.” She looks around. “Is there a shelter nearby?”
“Billings has the closest rescue. I think someone in town helps out with finding local foster homes, but you’d have to go through the main office anyway.”
The blue in her eyes darkens. “Oh, no. Crap. Where am I going to keep them?” She pokes at the screen of her phone. “Is there really nothing? ”
I pet the orange kitten she didn’t take from me. It starts purring. Don’t do that. “People around here either just keep them, or as you can see, a lot of people dump them. My brothers each have litters they rescued.”
“What about you?” she asks, too interested.
I don’t need more animals. Well, I do, but I don’t need pets.
I’m used to the tragic things that can happen to cattle and chickens.
The fate of working dogs that fend off creatures with fangs and claws bigger than theirs or just decide to eat the wrong thing on the wrong day.
And cats. Barn cats can have a short life expectancy.
They can also be extra cuddly and friendly, and then they’re gone.
Am I going to end up with three kittens and a dog by the end of this conversation? With the hem of her dress fluttering in the breeze, it’s lucky I can think at all. “I had a barn cat, but she disappeared last winter.”
Sympathy fills her luminous eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Happens.” She doesn’t ask for details, and I don’t have them. Without the cats, I have a lot more mice and pocket gophers though.
A sad sigh escapes her. “It does happen.” She holds up her hands, tipped with manicured nails. “I’ll figure out what to do.”
I don’t hand my furry bundle over. It’s still purring, but passed out.
A quick look over the woman’s shoulder shows the others all in some sort of napping phase.
What is she going to do with them? Her car’s packed full.
Is she moving? Where is she heading? Whatever the case, she has plans and stopped to help, and now she’s stuck with four little bellies to feed.
Hell. I can’t just drive away and let her figure it out. “Do you have somewhere to keep them until you find help? ”
She shakes her head. “I’m staying with my dad, and trust me—that’s harrowing enough without animals, which he won’t tolerate.” She licks her bottom lip, and suddenly, I’m a hawk circling overhead, my focus on the ripe little mouse in front of me. “Is there a vet in town?”
I don’t have to check the time. I’ve already put in a full day for a Saturday. “Dr. Small is closed. She’ll do after hours, but she charges extra.”
“Oh.”
Her disappointment worms through the walls of my chest. “How about you keep them in my barn until you find them a home?”
“How secure is your barn?”
I didn’t expect her to jump into my arms, but the question still catches me off guard. “How many other options do you have?”
“I’m not tossing them from the frying pan into the fire.” She stands like a wall between me and the critters, except for the one in my arms.
Frustration builds like a thundercloud on the horizon. She’s not impressed that I’m a cowboy, and she doesn’t trust me with baby animals. Ouch. Though I did just tell her I lost my last barn cat. “I wouldn’t do that to them either.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just that I don’t want them getting under hooves or anything.”
I’m mollified by her unnecessary apology. “Everything’s out to pasture, including the bottle calves. Though I do have horses.”
“Where do you live?”
I point down the way I came. “Straight down that way. Where you probably turned off, you take the highway around to the other side of Huckleberry Springs. By the Foster House Distillery.”
“Just how far is Huckleberry Springs?”
“Only a few miles. Straight that way.”
Her red lips turn down. “So close. And the old something mine?”
“Old Hennessy mine.” Pride fills my chest. “That’s the distillery now.”
“Oh, right. I think I heard about that.”
If my ego was recovering, it’s kicked back down again. I’ve come a long way since being the hired help at the Hawthorne ranch. Now I am Haven Hennessy, part owner of Foster House Gold and of a ranch with my brothers. Being a distiller and a rancher is all I do, yet neither impresses her.
I’ve got to get over myself. I’m not special. “Want to follow me?”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, indecision scrawled across her face. Her gaze darts around, and some of her flush leeches from her cheeks. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Right. She’s alone with some guy, and that guy just asked her to seclude herself even more. “I can call a sister-in-law and see if she can meet us at our place,” I offer. “Or they can meet us here, and we’ll convoy in.”
She nods like she’s pondering it. “I should call my dad and make sure you’re a stand-up guy.”
“Who’s your dad?”
“Silas Young.”
Shock propels through me, and I take a step back. “Silas?”
“You know him?”
“Bootleg’s Silas?” The dive bar owner who only talks about his rodeo days and the price of cattle? The wiry man with shock-white hair and a handlebar-mustache-and-goatee combo who is maybe the same height as this girl? A guy I’ve known for years, and he never once mentioned he had a kid?
“Bootleg Tavern?” Her tone is devoid of emotion. “Yeah. That Silas.”
“Holy shit.” There’s no resemblance. Is there? Was Silas a redhead back in the day? The eyes maybe?
“So if I call him, he can vouch for you?” She is clueless to my astonishment.
“He’d better. I’ve been his patron for years.”
Her brows notch up, but her mouth turns down again. “Years, huh?”
Yeah, that sounds bad. “Go ahead. Ask him whatever you want.”
She taps her phone and puts it to her ear. “Hi, it’s me— Yeah. No. Papa. Papa . I found some strays— I know. Yes, I know. Papa . I’m with a guy who said he can house them until— That’s why I’m calling.”
I bite my tongue to keep from smiling. I’ve heard Silas read plenty of guys the riot act, but never a young woman. He indulges them, but never in a creepy way. Now I know why. He’s a dad. That doesn’t stop a lot of guys, but despite Silas’s very rusty exterior, he’s a good person.
“What’s your name?” She ignores Silas’s raised voice coming through the phone.
“Haven Hennessy.”
“I knew a girl named Haven once,” she says.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that. Five-year-olds everywhere are stealing my name.”
“It’s a pretty one.”
“Sure is, Red. ”
She gives me a look like I could’ve tried harder for a nickname. Only she doesn’t know that I’m not referring to her hair. I’m talking about the vibrant shade of her red panties.
Prescott
Red is such a low-hanging fruit of a nickname, but there’s something about the glint in his warm brown eyes that makes it different. Suddenly, Red gives me tingles.
“Give him the phone,” Papa growls.
I don’t want to hand Haven my phone. He’s got big hands to go with that big body. It takes a lot to make me feel petite, but this guy’s shadow on the pavement has muscles. Not to mention, I just had this thing in my bra. Thankfully, I dug it out when he was looking for the orange kitten.
“Pressie,” Papa prompts.
I roll my eyes. Everything but my full name is getting used right now. To be fair, the hot cowboy doesn’t know my name. To be even more transparent, I’m allergic to giving any information to men just like him. Men who remind me of my dad in his prime.
“He wants to talk to you,” I mumble.
Haven’s lips quirk, and he takes the phone without touching my fingers.
Why am I disappointed? He’s not my type. My ex wore slacks to work and probably thought chocolate milk came from brown cows. But he’d been around. Until he wasn’t.
I’m not Haven’s type either. He’s probably got leggy cowgirls all over him, with their bronzed, shiny skin and slender muscles. I can heft some strays around, but I have little interest in living my life around horses and cowboys again—to my dad’s eternal disappointment.
“Silas,” Haven says smoothly. Surprise lights his face. “Absolutely not. Yes. No, of course. Not a finger. Promise. You know I’m— That was a long time ago. She’s married , Silas.”
Well, that one’s not about me. Not only am I not married, despite all my well-laid plans, I’m also unerringly, publicly single.
“You know I won’t. Not one hair, got it.” He grimaces and hands the phone back. It’s warm from his touch, and I hold it closer to my ear than normal. A faint sandalwood scent clings to it.
“You can trust him,” Papa says with a grumble. “But don’t fall for that pretty face of his.”
I wouldn’t call Haven pretty. His name, yes. The man, though, has long, dark lashes, and his scruff is just shy of a beard. His mustache is a little longer, and his rich-brown hair is crushed behind his ears thanks to his cowboy hat. He’s rugged. Handsome. Appealing. He could melt panties right?—
Oh no. The exact pair of underwear I put on this morning flashes through my head. Red lace. A little uncomfortable, but I needed the pick-me-up as a thirty-two-year-old woman going to live with her dad because she’s single and broke.
Red. Surely, he didn’t mean…No. It’s my hair. It’s like a rite of passage to get called that nickname at least once with this shade.
My face burns as I hang up with my dad. “He vouched for you. ”
“He threatened to hunt me down in the middle of the night and cut my balls off.”
I make a choking sound. “Did he really?”
“I hear him threaten that at least once a week.”
“Who’s married?” I’m nosy. I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t care. Yet I’m hanging on his answer.
“A woman I used to, uh, go out with. She wasn’t married at the time,” he rushes to add.
Sure. The strength with which I want to believe him catches me off guard. Have I learned nothing?