He nods and glances around me like he’s heard it a hundred times, gazing into the cab of the truck before he makes a sympathetic grimace.
“Sounds like the alternator.”
“Oh, of course!” I say, just a little too eagerly because I’m that hard up for good news. “Uh, how’d you know?”
I wonder if his sympathy is for the broken-down truck or the fact that I’m alone.
I’m not alone, though, nor am I afraid. Hurt paw or not, Bruce is the best protector a girl could ever have. He’s been as defensive of me as I’ve been with him since day one.
Call it a twisted kinda love at first sight.
“Well, don’t know for sure till I take a closer look,” he tells me, “but what you described sounds like what happens when an alternator craps out.”
“An alternator,” I repeat, nodding as if I totally get what that thingamajig is.
“The alternator,” he corrects, amusement sparking in his eyes. “There’s usually just one unless you’ve got a real special ride.”
I nod again like I knew that. “I guess I’ll have to fix it. No big deal, right?”
“Replace it,” he says, reaching up to stroke the dark scruff on his chin. “You’ll need a new one, or a rebuilt unit, possibly, if we can dig one up for you.”
Uh-oh.
Something tells me all this talk about digging and fixing means I’m gonna be here awhile.
Not. Good.
“Where were you headed?” he asks.
“Wyoming. Close to Sheridan.” I flinch as soon as the word falls out.
It’s not quite a lie, but it was a half-baked plan at best.
Yes, there’s another big cat refuge there. A legit one with zero ties to Exotic Plains that I need to get Bruce to before infection sets into his paw.
But I sure as heck don’t need to be broadcasting it to a complete stranger. I don’t even know if this guy is an employee here, though his shirt is a pretty good hint he is.
“Hmm. I’d offer you a jump to charge up your battery, but that would only give you enough juice for a short hop. Not all the way to Bowman, which is a few towns over before you cross the state line.”
“It wouldn’t, huh?”
“Nah, but I know a damn good mechanic. He could probably replace your alternator tomorrow, if you can handle staying in this little town overnight.” He offers me an easy smile I wish I could return.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper, holding my breath.
He might as well have said next month or next year.
By tomorrow, Priscilla and Niles will definitely know I’m gone. They’ll have the hounds out in force looking for me and the wonderful creature they consider their property.
“Yep, he’s good at what he does, won’t take him long once he gets the part,” the stranger continues. “You got stock in that trailer?”
With my mind spinning with all the reasons why tomorrow will be a total disaster, I nod.
“Is it a two-inch ball with your rig?”
“Excuse me?” I bat my eyes, trying to unhear him talking dirty.
What ball? Did he mean bull? In the trailer?
His question ignites my greatest fears—like facing major jail time for stealing an exotic animal without ironclad proof I had to. Seeing him looking at me expectantly, I do the only thing I can.
“Yeah, it’s a bull,” I lie.
“Bull?” He cocks his head, adorably confused.
Isn’t that what he meant? If I had a bull? Or did he say ball? That wouldn’t make any sense.
Gah, I’m confused.
“That’s what I’m taking to Wyoming,” I continue, biting my tongue. “A bull.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I’m closer to a straitjacket than he knows.
“You misheard me. I asked if it was a two-inch ball on your truck,” he says, fighting back a chuckle. “The hitch, I mean. They’re usually a two-inch, but some are bigger. Two and five-sixteenths.”
Oh. Well, at least I’ll have plenty of time to relive this embarrassing conversation when I’m sitting in prison.
I’m a flipping zoologist and still don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
“I don’t follow. Why do you want to know?” I venture.
“Because I have a two-inch ball on my truck. We can unhitch your ride, pull it out of the way, and then hitch my truck up to the trailer to get that bull moving.”
It’s official. My brain is a stress-fried omelet.
He might as well be speaking a foreign language.
“Come again?” I whisper.
“Miss, you sure you’re okay?” For a moment, he sighs, giving me a long look. “So I can give you a ride to Dallas. There’s a bed and breakfast here where you can spend the night. They also have an exercise area for stock when needed.”
“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.