“Oh, sure. Stock,” I whisper meekly. I’m too dumbstruck by the situation to even lie anymore when I know I’m about to be busted.
“You’re lucky you hit a rough patch here. This is cattle country. And horse country. Even a little bit of goat country, too, besides being pumpkin and oil country,” he says, chuckling at an inside joke that goes over my head.
His sense of humor, sticking pumpkins in there is just odd, but his laugh is nice. Wholesome and real enough to make me smile back through my rapid-firing panic brain. Or maybe I grin because I’m SOL and there’s nothing better to do than smile at a handsome stranger who’ll probably be the dude to call the cops on me.
He sticks out a hand bigger than my head.
“Grady McKnight. The pleasure’s all mine. I own this joint. I just locked up for the night and was about to head home when I noticed you.”
For some unholy reason, I shake his hand.
It’s warm, solid, weirdly comforting.
Just like him.
“Willow,” I breathe. “Willow Macklin.”
“Mighty nice to meet you, Willow.” He releases my hand and steps away. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a look at that hitch and make sure it’s the right size.”
I’m rubbing my palm on my thigh, dispelling the tingling shock left by his hand, when his last sentence clicks in my mind. The word hitch makes sense. And so does how close he’ll be to Bruce while looking at it.
Crap.
I can’t show my true stripes. Not like this. Not ever.
“No!” I shout, running toward him. “Actually, I do mind!”
2
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.”