The Hero I Need: A Small Town Romance

by Snow, Nicole

This is what I was afraid of.

  Before I have a chance to get tongue-tied, Willow lays one hand on Avery’s shoulder—and the other on mine.

  “It’s for his safety. He could get agitated if too many people start coming out to see him, and you know this is a town where nobody’s business stays secret for long,” Willow says gently. “And anyone who hears about him...well, they’ll react just like you two did. They’ll be beating down the doors to this barn for a look. It’s not every day you find out there’s a tiger next door, right?”

  Slowly, their little heads nod, and I do too.

  Damn good answer.

  I’m grateful she saved me some explaining.

  “So, um, Willow...are you our nanny or not? Are you actually a zookeeper?” Sawyer asks, always obsessed with finding out everything right down to the smallest detail.

  My girls could run circles around Holmes and Watson.

  And are Willow’s eyes twinkling or am I just drunk on adrenaline?

  “Yes, that’s part of the deal,” she whispers. “Your father agreed to help me with Bruce, and I agreed to help him by taking care of you two troublemakers. Until we find a new home for Bruce, I’m your nanny.”

  We stand there for some time with the girls rushing out questions, their excitement growing as Willow answers kindly and patiently.

  Bruce snores on below. I’m relieved to find out their high-pitched little girl voices don’t keep him up.

  When Willow admits she’s a zoologist, the animal questions come flying fast and furious.

  How old is he?

  What does he eat?

  Why are tigers striped?

  Was he born in the wild?

  How’d you get him here?

  Does he have cubs?

  The whip-fast Q & A session makes my brain whirl in a mini tiger education frenzy. Willow takes it in stride, full of wisdom and saintly smiles.

  Eventually, after a good half hour or more, I say it’s time to leave.

  Naturally, the girls don’t want to go, but they’ll do anything for another chance to see him, so they agree—after I pinky swear we’ll be back a few more times before Bruce leaves.

  “I’m gonna write a poem about him!” Avery hollers as soon as we’re outside and on the ground again. “Oh! And I wanna draw pictures. I’ll use the fancy crayons you got me for school, Daddy.” Glancing up at me as we walk to the door, she adds, “But I’ll only show it to you and Willow. Promise.”

  “And me,” Sawyer says, sticking her tongue out.

  “And you,” Avery agrees with a groan.

  We all share a laugh.

  “Time for supper,” she says. “What’s everybody hungry for?”

  I lower the ladder. “How about burgers, fries, and milkshakes? Dinner out sounds good after the busy day we’ve had. Don’t think anybody feels up to cooking after all that excitement.”

  The girls cheer, and Willow smiles.

  “You’re sure about eating out?” she asks.

  I fold up the ladder to start carrying it to the shed. “Yeah, gotta fuel up the truck anyway. Plus, watching that tiger get his fill of beef makes me jealous. I could use a good burger.”

  She laughs. “Oh, really? Or are you just that afraid of my cooking? I wasn’t serious about the food poisoning, Grady.”

  “Nah.” I lift a brow at her. “You’ll get your chance to wow us another night.”

  She laughs harder, but steers the girls to the house. “Come on, let’s go wash up so we can sink our teeth into burgers and fries.”

  “And milkshakes—don’t forget the best part!” Avery adds. “The strawberry shakes are awesomesauce.”

  A short time later, we’re on our way to town in my truck. Sawyer pulls up the playlist on her phone, and she, Avery, and Willow waste no time singing to the music.

  Sounds like some modern bubblegum fluff piece about finding love in a gingerbread house by Milah Holly.

  Damn if I don’t love how they all giggle, cracking up as they try to keep up with the jaunty beat, losing it several times when Avery messes up the lyrics. Looks like I’m in for an encore, too, because Sawyer finds another song the instant the first one finishes, and the singing starts all over again.

  I’m back in a war zone—only this time I’m surrounded by loud, happy girls punch-drunk on their own music mistakes.

  It hurts in the best way to have their smiles circling me, though, and the music cut by messy laughter that makes it hard to focus on the road.

  The fun continues as I pull into the gas station. Sawyer turns her phone off, and I can hear them giggling while I fuel up my ride and pay at the pump.

  The local hamburger joint is only a couple blocks away, and it looks like the early supper rush is already over. I always get a nostalgic smile every time I step into this place. Hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid.

  Black-and-white-checkered linoleum plasters the floors, the booths are a worn mix of bright-red and licorice-black Naugahyde, and there’s floor to ceiling 1950’s memorabilia and photos decorating the walls.

  A few of those pics show off Dallas in its old days, back when I was growing up here with my brother. Everybody who didn’t work for old man Jonah Reed and North Earhart Oil was a farmer then.

  God help me, I take Willow’s hand, and she flashes me a smile that could own my soul.

  Can’t resist the urge to point at the pics, giving her a quick history lesson on Dallas.

  “What’s with all the cute little airplanes on the way in?” she asks, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

  “This town staked its bread and butter on the oil business for a long while,” I tell her. “North Earhart Oil still signs a lot of paychecks to this day. That’s Earhart as in Amelia Earhart. The old man who founded the company swore she was a relative of his. Still a hotly debated subject, I’ve broken up more fights at the Bobcat than you’d believe over it.”

  Willow laughs, her small round nose wrinkling.

  “Darlin’, I’m serious. The only thing that’s bigger fighting words around here than town history after folks have knocked a few back are town legends. And that oil company’s given us plenty of both. The Larkins who own it these days are good people, though. Just like her Gramps, Bella Larkin makes sure a lot of that oil money goes to people who really need it here in town. Money doesn’t mean much like it does in some places. Rich or poor, we all take care of each other.”

  Her fingers twine with mine, delivering an excited squeeze that says she approves of our old-fashioned ways. I pump her fingers back.

  There’s nothing like an outsider’s appreciation to remind a man what makes our little town mean something.

  She loves the rodeo images and a couple candid shots of wild cougars who’d tear into Dallas from the sticks most of all. No surprise.

  A waitress finally guides us to a booth, where the girls settle in on one side, and Willow and I on the other. I’m not used to sharing a seat with anybody, not even with Aunt Faye.

  I tell myself not to think about it.

  Not to worry.

  Not to wonder why it’s so damn difficult to release her hand.

  “Gosh, Dad!” Sawyer says, her eyelids fluttering as she looks across the booth at us. “Were you...are you holding her hand? It’s like we’re a family or something.”

  Oh, shit.

  With my size in a small booth, it’s hard to scoot a couple inches away from Willow like she’s suddenly on fire, but Lord knows I try.

  Yeah, I’m being ridiculous. But the kid popped me right between the eyes.

  My insides flip in this odd way, and suddenly it feels like a feat of strength just to look Willow in the eyes.

  “More like we’re a group of good friends going out for burgers and fries,” Willow says, glancing at me before grinning at the girls. “Kinda refreshing, honestly. I’ve been so busy I haven’t been out with friends like this forever.”

  Slowly, I sigh and settle back in my seat, thanking my lucky stars this woman
just bailed my ass out.

  Again.

  “Why not?” Sawyer asks.

  “Oh, that’s how fieldwork goes. I’m still pretty fresh out of school, too. It’s a lot to take on.” Leaning across the table, she whispers, “Taking care of you know who.”

  The girls cover their mouths and giggle at our shared secret. I’m grateful for her ability to take control of the situation, no matter what my daughters throw at her.

  As I keep casting glances that last longer than they should at Willow Macklin, there’s no denying her talent.

  Looks like tigers aren’t the only things she knows how to tame.

  9

  An Up-Roar (Willow)

  Time to check my pulse.

  I think somewhere on the way to the table I died and went to heaven. There’s a permanent grin digging at my cheeks as I soak in a rustic warmth I’d never find in San Diego.

  The old-fashioned diner is adorable and authentic.

  Besides the town photos, it’s decked out with images of Elvis, Betty Boop, James Dean, Sylvester the cat, and more classic rockers than I could try to name.

  There’s even an old jukebox in the corner, currently piping out “Hawaii” by the Beach Boys.

  Shiny models of famous cars, all from the fifties, decorate the shelves near the ceiling, glinting in the light so often they draw the eye.

  But as delightful as this little diner is, it’s got nothing on the two sweet girls across the table from me.

  When Grady first suggested “coming clean” about Bruce, my heart crawled up my throat and stuck there. But ever since the big reveal, seeing the sugar rush wonder in their eyes as they drank in a shock from another world, I’ll admit I was wrong.

  Grady knows what’s best for his kids, and showing them Bruce was a very special thing.

  We’re all part of this secret pact and enjoying every bit of it.

  I’m convinced they took their promises seriously.

  They won’t tell a single soul about the tiger—at least not until we’re good and gone—and then they’ll have to work hard to convince their friends and maybe even their adored Uncle Hank that they had a real live tiger in the barn.

  It’s almost too much for anyone to believe, especially coming from two preteen chatterboxes.

  I’ll bet Hank will be the first to find out when Bruce is safe and sound and I’m...hopefully not serving a felony sentence.

  They’ve told me about his menagerie, but he’s never had a tiger. Legions of cats, dogs, rabbits, horses, goats, cows, chickens, ducks, and geese can’t hold a candle to an exotic beast who tells everyone who sees him that they’re not in Kansas anymore—or western North Dakota.

  Not if I have anything to say about it.

  They’re both sorely disappointed that their dad won’t let them have a pet—not even a goldfish per Avery. I have to wonder why as I stare at him, trying to decipher whatever strange logic is behind that chiseled jaw covered in thick dark scruff that makes me wonder how it’d feel on my skin.

  Wonder far too freaking much.

  Grady McKnight might have a gold lump in his chest for a heart, and I still don’t understand him.

  The no pets ever thing just doesn’t add up.

  He has the land and the barn to house plenty of animals. I know time could be an issue, what with his bar business and all, but the girls are responsible and old enough. I’m certain they’d pitch in taking care of a cat or dog or even a few chickens.

  They’ve begged to help out with Bruce and given me a litany of all the chores they’ve done at their uncle’s place, cleaning out stables and brushing sheep. They tell me they’ve helped feed Tory Faulkner’s goats a few times too, and made friends with a mischievous black goat named Hellboy.

  Of course, there’s not much I can let them do with a super-cat who can’t get within ten feet of them. But if they can help with offloading future meat deliveries or something, I’ll gladly let them.

  The hamburgers and fries arrive in no time, along with tall frosty milkshakes served in classic glass cups and stainless-steel mixers.

  “Brace yourself, woman,” Grady warns, giving me a heavy look. “You’ve gotta savor your first experience with a Mack burger. Four kinds of cheese, deep fried pickles, sauteed onions—

  “And peppers that could curl your tail!” The girls belt out together with smiles so big it makes me laugh.

  Avery picks up her burger so fast a gooey rope of cheese slides right off it. “Did we get it right, Daddy? What Mr. Larkin always says?”

  Grady gives them a nod before turning back to me. “Yep. He’s damn near given the Mack burger its latest marketing pitch.”

  Grady takes a massive encouraging bite of his burger, smacking his lips with a smile.

  “Don’t be scared to get messy,” he tells me. “That’s the way we roll in this town.”

  I hoist up my own hefty burger, my brows lifting at the weight in my hand.

  “When in Rome...” My final words before I open my mouth wide for a great big bite of what might be the best hamburger on Earth.

  Holy crap.

  My mouth zings with greasy flavor, fat, salt, and just the right kick. My knees buckle and my legs shift out under the seat, accidentally bumping Grady’s leg.

  “Whoa. Whoa. That’s like...” I barely remember to keep my mouth closed to chew.

  “Yeah,” Grady echoes. “Baby, I know.”

  I’m not even sure if it’s the orgasm between two buns anymore or the fire in his eyes and riptide smile.

  I just know I’m melting into the booth with shameful delight and he’s enjoying every flipping second, those honey-dark eyes dancing over me.

  Heat darts up my spine when I imagine what he’s thinking, raking those eyes across my skin, a hunger on his face that’s deeper than hella good diner fare.

  Thank Heaven for the girls.

  They keep our eyes apart, safely abstinent, and the chatty, laughing twins are just as charming as their father. Right now, they’re engaged in a very civil debate about the merits of chocolate verses strawberry shakes.

  “Girls, you want this settled tonight, I think we’d better take a vote,” Grady says, smiling down at them both as he chews his dinner. “You know me, I’m votin’ strawberry. Nothing like having fresh fruit to go with a mess of ice cream and sugar. I like when my sweets come out of the ground.”

  I can’t help snickering, which attracts their attention.

  “You want to weigh in on this, Willow Wisp?” he asks, his eyes positively charged as his lips find his straw. “Chocolate or strawberry?”

  My jaw is in my lap.

  I don’t even know where to begin with that Willow Wisp thing, much less his totally big snarly dad logic with food.

  Oh my God.

  He’s such a dude.

  Such a dad.

  “As a matter of fact,” I start, folding my arms and turning my face up. “There’s a strong case for chocolate if you’re basing your argument on what’s natural. Ever seen a cacao tree before?”

  Big daddy snorts and shakes his head. The girls stare at me in awe.

  “It’s true! I saw plenty in Africa, and they’re always magnificent. They don’t call it Theobroma cacao for nothing, you know,” I say, holding a hand to my mouth so I can whisper to the kids. “That’s science-speak for food of the gods, ladies. Keep it between us. No big strawberry-loving lunks allowed.”

  “I heard that,” Grady says with a barely concealed chuckle. “Enough with closing arguments. Let’s vote. Everybody convinced by Miss Fancy Schmancy Scientist and her cacao, raise your hands.”

  Mine goes up first.

  Then two more little hands join me.

  Boom.

  It’s three-to-one with a very adorable grump accepting his loss like a gentleman.

  “You ladies have it,” he says. “Chocolate it is. I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna suck down every last drop of this thick strawberry ambrosia, though.”

  A giggle bursts
out of me again, totally noticing how he tries to throw the ambrosia word back in my face.

  Guess I’m not the only one at this table who can dredge up ten-dollar words.

  “Willow, you’ve been to Africa?” Sawyer asks between bites of her fries, still awed by my very presence.

  “I sure have, sweet girl. Lots of times...”

  So begins a new rapid-fire conversation with the girls.

  I tell them about the big parks with their roaring waterfalls, the wild flights on burping planes that always landed hard on rainy airstrips tucked in lush jungle, the unholy swarms of mosquitoes in the interior, and the endless visits with the friendly, big-hearted people we’d meet from Nairobi to Kinshasa to Port Elizabeth.

  Grady’s phone goes off while I’m answering another hundred and one questions.

  The way he frowns and then tucks his phone back into his pocket pretty fast makes me think it might be a message from Faulk, or someone else involved in cleaning up my mess.

  Later, Grady picks up our tab, and as we climb out of the booth, he presses his face so close I can feel his whisper on my neck. “Hold tight. I’ll tell you the latest when we get home.”

  “Faulkner?” I mouth back.

  He gives me a knowing look and barely-there nod.

  My insides tighten, but I try not to panic. The girls make that a little easier on the ride back, hammering me with their bottomless appetite for more adventure stories.

  They want to know about all the different animals I’ve worked with and the places I’ve been.

  Grady asks questions as well, which I don’t mind one bit.

  It’s easy for me to forget how unique my life has been. When you’ve spent half your youth on unpaved roads tracking rhinos with your father and tensing like a stone during rare brushes with poachers, it’s just normal.

  Not to Grady and his girls, though.

  To them, my life is interesting, intense, and admirable.

  In my teen years, I’d travel with Dad all summer, dipping out of Africa for other rhino habitats like India and Indonesia. We’d stay in fancy hotels or soaring castle-like homes generously opened up by wildlife donors. Other times, we had to pitch our own tents and hope we didn’t get eaten by a wild beast in the middle of the night.