by Snow, Nicole
His tone sours as he pauses, shaking his head.
“You’re saying shady insiders are the norm with this shit? Figures,” I grind out.
“Show me a snake and I’ll find the politician keeping him fed,” Walton snaps, angry and whimsical.
I have no doubt about that.
Then the doc glances from me to Willow. “That documentary’s the reason I’m a vet in Topeka these days instead of L.A.”
The seriousness of his tone and gaze isn’t lost on me.
“I have a family,” he says. “I trust Ridge, just like I trusted his mama when she brought her Savannah cat in for checkups years ago, and that’s why I’m here.”
I nod, fully understanding his own plight more.
He hands the phone back to Willow.
“That’s a chip sticker if I’m not mistaken. The numbers on it correlate with the tag inside the animal. Every exotic is supposed to get chipped in the US of A and that tag’s proof when a chip has been deactivated.”
“What? Why would a chip ever need to be deactivated?” I ask, fearing I won’t like the answer.
“Two reasons. Theft, for one. Or to make sure no part of the animal can be identified or traced back to the owner,” Walton says coldly.
Sick.
Willow flashes me a sad look. I shift my weight, fighting back the bile in my gut, loathing the fact that I have to share a planet with people who part out tigers.
I’ve officially arrived in a dark jungle I never knew existed.
“I’m sure you’re aware a large percentage of domestic pet owners have their animals chipped mainly in case they’re stolen. Exotics must be chipped by law. The chips are the size of a grain of rice. Once inserted, they can move around inside the body sometimes and they’re goddamned impossible to remove.”
“But, Doctor—” Willow holds a finger up as the doctor’s eyes flash.
“Right. I shouldn’t say impossible,” he cuts in. “A skilled surgeon could remove one, but it would be quite time-consuming and costly if it’s shifted to a vulnerable place. An exotic animal’s carcass can still be identified by an active chip. Once Bruce is fully sedated, I know what I’ll find on his paw. A tattoo that matches the numbers and symbols on that blue sticker.”
Willow gasps. I reach out, gingerly clasping her shoulder. Call it a bad reflex, but I’m not sorry I try to comfort her.
“I’m trying to follow. What’s that mean if the tattoo’s there?” I ask slowly.
“It’s proof for whoever he was meant to be sold to that his chip is deactivated. That means they’re free to use up every last body part without any fear it’ll blow back to the authorities.”
Shit.
I look at Willow, meet her gaze, and see the unshed tears in her eyes. She’s shaking. My hand clasps her shoulder and squeezes, this time tighter.
“So you mean...those other blue stickers I saw were because the animals were sold on the black market and...and sold for parts?” Willow’s voice breaks.
Walton nods. “Deactivation devices are all over the black market, too, and that blue sticker is proof they have a good one. It won’t print a sticker unless the scanner can’t pick up the chip.”
“Holy crap.” Willow wobbles slightly and I shift closer, helping hold her up. “It’s a farm, isn’t it? The whole freaking Exotic Plains Rescue is a black-market farm.”
I take a mental note in my head since it’s the first time I’ve heard her name the place.
If I have my way, then soon the only reason it’ll be named by anyone is for history. A place that was stormed and shut the fuck down after every last animal got safely extracted.
I’m thoroughly pissed, halfway to becoming the overprotective Neanderthal I turn into around my girls.
This is bigger than Willow and Bruce now, even if they’re in the gravest danger.
“That would be my guess,” Walton says. “What’s the name of the main vet there?”
I never catch her answer, stepping away once I’m confident Willow is back on her feet with her head screwed on straight.
Plus, I could use a break with my own mind spinning a hundred RPMs a minute.
When they check up on the tiger again, and then enter the trailer, I tag along.
He’s an even bigger giant up close, and majestic to a fault.
His markings and fur are remarkable. His tail twitches at his side, as thick as my arm. I’m actually in awe.
Willow asks me to hold the paw up so they can get a few photos from different angles. Walton explains the injury likely resulted from the electric probes used to brand the tattoos on the beasts, something that gets etched into the skin more than inked.
A probe went between Bruce’s pads and burned through his tender skin. He continues examining the beast while Willow clicks away with her phone camera.
Then it’s my turn to be branded.
The lightning zing of her hand touching mine as she repositions to get the paw in the light makes me bristle.
Fuck.
It’s been years since I felt a young woman’s soft, bare skin, and it’s not something I need now.
I’ve turned down my fair share of offers from women at the bar for a reason. Between the girls and work, I don’t have time for dating or anything else.
My attention swings back to the mess I’ve willingly stepped in when the vet and Willow start talking about drawing Bruce’s blood. It sounds like the cat has been lethargic lately, and the vet wants to run some tests to see if he’s been drugged.
My damn mind is blown, but I stay and help out where I can.
Before he takes his leave, Doc Walton gives instructions for how long Bruce should stay sedated, what to watch for when he starts coming around, and promises he’ll be in contact with the blood work results.
After he drives away, Willow and I go in the house.
“There’s something else you should see. Hold on,” she says, running off to her room and returning a minute later.
I recognize the stolen computer in her hands. It’s locked, without a password, and I’m afraid we’ll trip some security measure that deletes data if we try to just guess.
“I’ll have Faulk take a look,” I say. “If he can’t break into it, he’ll know someone who can.”
“Thanks. When?” she asks, seemingly more anxious than before the vet’s visit. “We have to get to the bottom of this before they find me.”
I’m well aware.
“I’ll call him again—” I stop mid-sentence.
An unexpected popping noise catches my attention. My ears perk, straining to listen, hoping I just imagined it.
“Grady? Was that a car door?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Yeah. Shit!” I take off and make it as far as the living room when the door flies open.
Sawyer and Avery come bounding through it, all whipping hair and smiles that’d be as heartwarming as ever—if only I wasn’t completely fucking smashed over the head right now.
Act normal.
It’s my only shot.
At least I’m honestly excited to see them and catch them both in big hugs before asking, “What are you two doing home early?”
“We live here, Dad!” Sawyer says in her usual sassy, yet adorable way. “Did you already forget?”
“Hm. Now that you mention it, I do remember having a couple munchkins boarding here,” I tease, planting a kiss on her forehead.
“Joyce had to pick us up,” Avery says, ever the quieter and more serious twin.
Still hugging one with each arm, I ask, “Where is she? Where’s your stuff?”
“Right here, papa bear!” Joyce sings, walking inside. “Their luggage is on the porch, where it needs to stay for now. The camp called me to pick them up this morning, a day early. I texted but you must’ve been busy.”
Yeah, hell, busy might be the understatement of the year.
“Why’s that? Was there a problem?” I ask. I don’t understand why they’re home a day early.
“Sure was. Head lice epidemic at camp. Everyone had to leave early.” She’s an older woman, but fit for her age, and she shrugs her trim shoulders. “They’ve been treated, but they need to be checked daily. So if you see a bug or nit on these two angels, be sure to shampoo them again. All their stuff should be washed before it comes in the house, too.”
“Head lice?” I echo, holding in a groan.
When it rains, it fucking pours.
A quiver rips up my spine. I try to resist the sudden urge to scratch at my tingling head like a madman.
Joyce just grimaces and nods, scrunching up her nose.
Can things even get more complicated?
I shouldn’t ask.
Because a second later, Sawyer looks over my shoulder at Willow, blinking several times before she drops an atomic bomb. “Hey, Dad...who’s she?”
5
Tiger’s Den (Willow)
I bite my bottom lip at the way Grady’s entire being quivers.
He’s trying to put on a brave face and hide it, but it’s too freaking late. The poor guy’s out of his element.
Head lice is no laughing matter, but it’s not the end of the world.
I had it once as a kid when my entire school came down with a bad case of creepy crawlies. Some rancid-smelling shampoo and a fine-toothed comb made quick work of it.
His daughters are adorable, though, and not quite identical like I expected. One’s a little taller, and they both have long dark hair, the same shade as his.
For some crazy reason, I keep glancing at the woman by the door, wondering who she is.
With short dark hair cut fashionably and lines around her eyes, the woman must be in her fifties. I can’t assume she’s a girlfriend unless Grady’s tastes run much older, but who knows.
Who cares.
I’m not here to wonder about the women in his life, right?
Especially when I’ve got a bashful little face staring at me over her father’s shoulder, blinking like she isn’t sure if I’m a ghost.
“Hey, Dad...who’s she?” the kid asks.
Delightful.
Grady lets go of his girls and slowly turns, staring at me with the same look a deer gives a rapidly approaching pickup truck.
Inwardly, I flinch, but I pull up a cheery smile for the girls and the strange woman staring at me.
“This is, uh—”
“Willow,” I prompt, when I’m sure he can’t remember my name in his panic.
“Yeah, Willow, she’s here for...” Grady clears his throat, his eyes searching mine.
Don’t worry, big guy. I’ve got you covered.
“Saving your lives! From messes, I mean. I cleaned this whole floor of the house, but I wasn’t sure where to put your clothes,” I say, dredging up my best excuse.
I certainly can’t fess up to the fact that I’ve brought a flipping tiger onto their farm and I’m basically a fugitive at this point.
Pointing to the piles of clothes still on the coffee table, I smile again. “I wasn’t sure what belongs to you girls. Care to help a nanny out?”
“Nanny?” The twins say it simultaneously.
They stare at me, taking me in, then look at their father like they aren’t sure.
Oof.
Tough crowd.
Not that I can blame them.
I’d be doing the same thing if I was ten years old and dear old Dad brought a total stranger into the house without any warning.
“Hello, Willow,” the older woman cuts in. “I’m Joyce, a good friend of Grady’s. I’m so glad he finally listened and hired a nanny while Faye left town! Hope the head lice thing won’t scare you off. This is out of the ordinary. We all take good care of these two little angels. Lord knows he needs the help sometimes, right, papa bear?”
Nanny? Oh, God, I said it, didn’t I?
Now I’m the one who’s tongue-tied, and I’m also curious why he needs so much help.
Grady gives his friend a pained smile. “The day I turn down an extra pair of hands, you’re welcome to slap me upside the head, Joyce.”
“Well, your load’s already lighter. My hairdresser met me at my place and treated the girls as soon as I picked them up this morning. I left you enough shampoo in a bag on the porch for another round. You’re welcome.” Joyce beams another pearl-white smile around the room.
“You’re a rock star,” Grady tells her before turning back to me. “I put an ad online and Willow answered it yesterday. Lucky me. She was looking for quick work and I was desperate to clean the place up, so here we are. Getting along like two strays on catnip.”
He gives me a brown-eyed wink.
Holy crap.
I hold in a laugh, both amused and nervous as hell at his cheesy innuendo.
Sure, I have to go along with this. Don’t have a choice. But we’re really rolling with this nanny thing?
Wow.
This is going to take some serious acting, and I sucked at theater in high school.
Fortunately, I did have a string of nannies growing up.
“Nice to meet you, Joyce, and it’s no big deal. I’ve dealt with lice before,” I say, still smiling. At least that’s no lie. “I’ll give them both a thorough checkup and get their things in the washer right away.”
Then I notice two sets of big brown eyes still glued to me, thickly lashed just like their father’s.
I wave a hand.
“Hi. Sawyer and Avery, right? Nice to meet you,” I say, unsure which girl is which.
The shorter one, by less than half an inch, smiles softly and waves a few fingers back.
The taller one frowns and gives me a slight bashful nod when Grady gently taps her shoulder, as if prompting her.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Oh, I can’t tell you what a relief this is, Willow,” Joyce gushes, her eyes sparkling, having also seen Grady’s reaction to touching his daughter. “I feel so much better leaving them now, knowing Grady doesn’t have to deal with this on his own. Good timing, too. I’ve got an appointment to get my car fumigated, just to be on the safe side.”
I nod, wondering again how this older woman who isn’t related fits in their life.
So does Grady before he says, “Thanks for picking them up, Joyce. I appreciate it. Have the car detailed at Berland’s and tell him to send me the bill.”
“Nonsense, it needed a deep cleaning anyway. They can have it for the next two days while I’m in Montana. Perfect fishing weather, and you know how antsy my daughter gets for company in Missoula.” With a friendly parting wave, she adds, “Hey, Willow, call me if you have any issues. I’m always glad to help and I know this place like the back of my hand.”
“I will,” I respond, even though it’s a lie.
I won’t be here that long and I’m definitely not a real nanny.
As soon as she leaves, Grady pivots back to the girls, dad-mode fully activated. “Go on, you munchkins. Upstairs, shower, put on clean clothes, and bring the ones you’re wearing straight down to the laundry room. Don’t touch anything on the way to your rooms.”
“Aw, Dad,” the shorter girl says, pouting for a second before she sighs and trails after her sister. “Fiiine.”
I look up at the ceiling and shake my head, but I wait until the girls are running up the stairs before I open my mouth.
“So we’ve found your weakness, huh? Cooties?” I have to rib him. The opportunity is too good to pass up.
He runs a stiff hand through his thick crop of hair, grumbling under his breath. Then his shoulders quiver again as he snatches his hand back, staring like he just touched a hot plate.
“Relax, dude. You can’t catch them that easily! Lice don’t have gliders and parachutes to get to your head.” Chuckling, I walk toward the staircase. “Also, they should take a bath, not a shower. You don’t want them to rinse out the medicated shampoo they’ve just been treated with.”
He watches me silently without so much as a nod.
I swallow, hoping I’m not
being too presumptuous here.
I’ve only had lice once, but I’ve dealt with fleas, mites, and more pests than I could ever name on long trips overseas with Dad into the wild.
He touches my arm. It’s a light touch, a friendly touch, but for some unholy reason, it’s just like before.
That skin contact with his rough, thick hand makes my arm tingle.
Oh, God.
What is it about this dude?
I’m not the kinda girl who goes melty for any man.
Definitely not the kind who goes weak in the knees, fighting off swarms of butterflies.
“Willow, I’m sorry for that shitshow. I blanked. Couldn’t think up a better reason why you’re here, much less why you’d be staying in the guest room. Don’t think they noticed that part. We’ll have to explain it later.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, trying not to rub my arm as I pull away.
“Forget it. You’re helping me, and it’s only fair I help you until Bruce and I make our great escape.” The thudding door has me heading for the stairs again. “I’d better get up there before they jump in the shower.”
If we’re going with this nanny story, I’d better play the part.
The upstairs looks like it’s been refurbished as well. Hardwood floors gleam with varnish, and all of the trim wood glows papery white, just like downstairs. The doors are a dark grey, which pops nicely with the white trim and soft grey walls.
I spot two doors, both closed. A purple heart hangs on one with Sawyer painted on it, and there’s a pink one on the door across the hall with Avery.
I knock on Avery’s door first, and after I’m given permission, I open it.
“Hey there. Just came up to let you know a bath would be better than a shower. You don’t want to wash out the shampoo the hairdresser used.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Her eyes flit around nervously before looking back at me. “So...you’re really going to be our nanny? Like a live-in one?”
“Looks that way,” I say, giving her a wink. Then I pull the door shut and cross the hall.
