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.”
“Okay, I know you’re freaked out, but look...” She jumps off the hitch. “He’s not a mountain lion. He’s a Bengal tiger, and he won’t eat any calves. He’s never so much as hunted a bird. The only beef he gets is already dead and butchered and comes from me. And I promise you, letting him run wild is the last thing I’d ever do. I take good care of him. He isn’t dangerous. Hand to God.”
She lifts her slim fingers for emphasis, her hand shaking in the darkness.
Sighing, I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars, begging somebody up there to explain what in Hades is happening down here.
Also, why somebody decided to choose me to deal with this hot mess.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen plenty running my bar. I’m no stranger to weirdos of all stripes: UFO cranks, crystal healers, aging hippies who never got the memo the summer of love ended, and folks who think they’re secretly cloning Richard Nixon on Mars.
I’ve had to deal with everything from crackpots to crackheads since the day I bought the Purple Bobcat. Yet none of it’s ever come close to this.
Crackpot doesn’t begin to describe a woman who thinks a five-hundred-pound Bengal tiger isn’t dangerous. This woman is clinically insane.
“Okay. Look,” I say gently, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. “I don’t know what’s going on here or why you’re trucking him around, but lady, I can’t have a tiger on my property.”
A tiger. Part of me wants to burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
“Grady, wait!” She moves like lightning, lunging for my phone, those blue eyes spinning. “Who are you calling?”
I wonder if I can eyeball some sanity into her if I just stare hard enough...
I can’t stop thinking about the shitshow coming if that behemoth escapes and heads for the ranches around these parts.
Holding the phone out of her reach, I swipe the screen.
“Sheriff Wallace. It’s not like I’m happy about it, but he’ll know what to do with this—”
“Oh, no! No! You can’t.” She grabs my wrist with both hands like a vise, still clinging even when I lift my hand higher in the air. “Please, if you’ll just hear me out—”
“I’ve heard all I need to, and seen it too,” I grumble.
Willow doesn’t seem to be the reasoning type.
Big surprise.
Her feet, covered in her knee-high boots, are dangling off the ground, but she still refuses to let go of my wrist.
“Please. Grady, I’m begging you!” Her voice cracks and there’s a jerky sniffle. “If they find out he’s here, they’ll...they’ll kill him!”
Apparently, him means the tiger.
She has my attention, unfortunately.
I pause. “Who? Who wants to kill him?”
“Really awful people. They’re abusive traffickers, and I can prove it, but before I could do anything I just...I had to get him away,” she whimpers, rubbing at her reddening face with her free hand.
I can’t believe I’m listening to this. Maybe the sight of a damsel in distress plays my heartstrings like a fiddle, but—
Fuck.
No.
I can’t let her sob story talk me out of common sense, or law-abiding citizen territory. Time to shut this down.
“If somebody isn’t treating him right, then that’s more reason to call the sheriff,” I say.
“You can’t! Y-you don’t understand,” she whispers, digging her nails into my skin, those teary eyes locked on mine and whirling. “If he finds out, your sheriff will call the closest cat sanctuary and...that’s where I took him from. That’s the place he can never go back to.”
“Took him?” My brows go up. “You’re telling me you stole this tiger?”
She doesn’t need to answer, her face says it all.
“I...I didn’t have a choice. I rescued him.” Her face droops, framed in brown-haired silk.
Tired of holding her off the ground with one hand, I lower my arm till she’s standing evenly again. My gut tells me I shouldn’t dive deeper into this madness, but there’s no denying I’m intrigued.
What motivates a brunette pixie like this to run off with a tiger?
She mentioned abuse. What kind?
More importantly, how did she manage to get this quarter ton Bengal beast as far as she has without anybody up her butt about it?