A shiver stabs me then, so fierce I roll my shoulders.
Willow’s face flashes through my mind like lightning—damn her—for the first of many times this restless night.
3
Tiger Fight (Willow)
Even though the clock beside the bed said it was after three when I’d climbed between the sheets that smell like freshly cut flowers and sunshine, by seven o’clock, I can’t stay in bed a second longer.
I’m too worried.
My mind keeps spinning in all directions simultaneously.
Priscilla and Niles Foss must know Bruce and I are gone by now, along with the laptop. I’d snatched that, too.
A damning indictment of everything wrong at Exotic Plains.
That’s what I want to believe, anyway, if I can find someone who can break through the password encryption for proof, hopefully.
And I’m going to need plenty of rock-solid proof to save my own butt from a prison cell when—not if—the law steps into this.
Right now, I’m running on pure jittery instinct. Too wound up to sleep and too worried to try.
I climb out of bed, make it up real quick, and then tiptoe into the bathroom.
Once I’m showered and dressed, the reek of adrenaline gone, I head for the barn to check on Bruce.
He’s still sleeping inside the trailer Grady backed into the barn through the big sliding metal door, but I can see paw prints. He was up during the night, pacing, without putting much weight on his injured front foot.
I should’ve waited until this morning to feed him, but I hoped if I could get some food into him last night, then he’d sleep like the huge baby he is.
The ache in my heart makes me look away.
This is way out of the ordinary for him. Other big cats wouldn’t adjust nearly as well. They’d be pacing all the time, anxious and growling and afraid, hurt paw or not.
But Bruce? He takes it in stride, trusting the situation as long as I’m with him.
Trusting me.
One more reason why I can’t let him down, not for anything.
He’s such a unique animal. Personable, tender, and entirely gorgeous. Even his markings are a living masterpiece, from the layered orange and creamy white fur to the charcoal-black stripes cutting through his coat in sharp, slashing intervals.
He groans in his sleep, opening a lazy eye, glancing at me for a second before he’s out like a brick again.
“Sleep, big guy. Just a little longer until we sort this crap out,” I whisper.
Huffing out a worried breath, I walk to the gate that separates the center of the barn from other areas around the old, empty farm.
No exaggeration, the building is put together like Fort Knox. Even while I’m terrified my luck could run out any hour, I have to admit I couldn’t have picked a better place to crash-land for the night.
Or a better stranger to crash into.
Grady and his fortress of a barn are a double miracle.
The center of the building, where he backed the trailer in, is a large space that runs the length of the barn with big, heavy sliding metal doors. On both sides of the area are walls of cement blocks, broken up with metal gates every five feet for entrances into cement block stalls.
There’s also a sweeping storage room, which is where I left the ice chest, my next worry.
It’s got just enough meat for one more feeding before I’ll have to scramble for Bruce’s meals. Next to the storeroom is a set of stairs leading to the loft overhead.
Yeah, I couldn’t have dreamed up a better place to house Bruce overnight. I’m also happy about the row of windows near the ceiling, where plenty of sunlight spills in.
A tiger needs natural light, and lots of it. The lack of it at the refuge bothered me from the start.
His pen there was cave-like and cramped, and they barely gave the poor cat enough caged-in space to step on the grass in his minuscule enclosure outside. It was more mud than anything else.
I worried about muscle atrophy from day one, and that’s not counting the effect on Bruce’s moods or the other poor animals there in similar condition.
Opening the door leading outside, I exit and make sure the latch is secure before walking back to the house.
If the barn is an unexpected fortress, the old farmhouse is almost too normal—and I mean it in the best way.
The place looks picture-perfect by day.
All stark white with a green metal roof, a huge front porch, and gabled dormer windows on the second floor.
Those cute windows are framed with wide shutters, each painted a rustic red. There’s even a tall brick chimney running up one side.
The room I slept in must’ve been a back porch once from the looks of it. A sliding glass door off the dining area is how I’d walked outside, and I use the same door to reenter. Very quietly, because the handsome owner must still be sleeping.
I can’t help smiling because Grady reminds me a little of a big cat himself.
Silly, I know, but the comparison kinda hits you in the face.
He’s big, tough, totally built, and a little scary on the outside...but deep down?
I already sense a walking teddy bear.
That’s where the similarities end, though.
Because if I’m being honest, Bruce doesn’t scare me one bit. And Grady’s intimidating good looks and snarlypants style are only scary because he’s scary hot.
Back in my room, I peel off my boots and socks, but decide lying back down would be useless now that I’m wide awake, so I return to the kitchen instead.
The house is clean enough despite its discord. No cobwebs, dirt, or trash piled up, but it’s a bit cluttered, like things just haven’t been put away for several days.
I smile, remembering how Grady’s skin had a hint of red behind his thick scruff last night when we’d first walked in. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.
He shouldn’t be embarrassed.
I know all about single men raising daughters. It was tough on my dad, and I can only imagine how much harder it would’ve been if he’d had two of me to deal with.
A tiny giggle burbles up my throat, knowing the damage double Willows could’ve done to Dad.
I raised plenty of teenage hell all by my lonesome, thank you very much.
Double trouble would’ve sent him to the nuthouse.
Orderly to a fault—as my father describes me—I walk to the sink that’s piled high with dishes.
Cleaning up a few plates is the least I can do to thank Grady for his hospitality, taking me in after midnight along with—you know—a freaking full-grown tiger.
Dad also says I’m impulsive and too stubborn to know what’s good for me. Maybe so, but he loves me anyway.
I also know that had I called him, told him to send Grady thousands of dollars, Dad would’ve questioned me up and down. But in the end, he’d send the money.
Not because it’s ever happened before, of course, but because he trusts me. I don’t make a habit of running off with exotic beasts without one hell of a good reason.
And thank the holy stars this is a first. I don’t want Dad involved.
Sure, I’ll tell him when it’s all over, someday when he’s knocked back a few glasses of good wine and my life is awesome. He’ll be drunk and laughing so hard he’ll always wonder if I’m making the whole thing up...