Donna Kauffman - Here Comes Trouble

A few seconds later, she was safely on the top rungs and he let out a deep sigh of relief. “I’ll hold it while you come down,” he called up to her.

As yet, other than grunting to get on the ladder, she hadn’t said a single word. And, at the moment, she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to climb down, either. Maybe she was just taking a moment to collect herself now that she was safe. But seconds ticked by and she still wasn’t moving.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said, the word muffled by the sleeve of her hoodie as she was ducking her head between her arms, which were clutching the rungs above.

Her back was to him-well, mostly it was her butt above him-but he couldn’t see her face. “You thinking you might want to come down sometime soon?”

There was a pause, then, “I’m thinking that I need to get this damn kitten to get its claws out of me first.”

What? “What kitten?”

“The world’s stupidest one, who thought that climbing a big tree would be a great adventure, until it got stuck and then figured that climbing all the way out to the end of the limb would be a better bet than just climbing down the damn tree.”

“Ah,” he said, suddenly fighting a smile. “That kitten.”

“Exactly. It’s inside the front of my sweatshirt. Trying to climb me. I just need to-” She shifted a little, and the ladder wobbled, which made Brett jump back into action and brace it again, but that didn’t keep his smile from growing when a rather superlative string of swear words erupted from his heretofore-thought-of-as-elegant innkeeper.

“Maybe your best bet is just to get you both down on the terra firma and then get untangled before either of you does more damage.”

“Oh, I’m going to do some damage all right,” he heard her mutter over his head, as she slowly began to descend, one careful rung at a time. And which he didn’t believe for a second. People who dragged massive ladders out from God-knows-where in order to climb into a centuries-old oak tree to save a terrified kitten were doubtfully the abusive types.

As soon as she was on the ground, he let go of the ladder and took her arms, turning her to face him. “Here, let me get him.”

“Her,” she grunted, “which, I am well aware makes two stupid females stuck in a tree. Just let me pry this one claw out of my-ouch! Dammit, cat!”

Brett carefully unzipped the hoodie to find the most innocent looking, teeniest of tiny baby kittens…presently doing actual bloody damage to the front of its rescuer’s torso.

“Damn,” he muttered as he tried to pry the claws out of both fabric and skin, which brought a few more swear words, but given the situation, her restraint, otherwise, was impressive.

As Kirby was clearly past the point, Brett softened his own voice and did his best to calm the still-terrified kitty and de-prong the thing from the front of Kirby’s body. But every time he got one claw out, the kitty would redouble its efforts elsewhere, as if it were past comprehending that letting go no longer meant a plunge to its death.

Finally Brett ripped his own T-shirt over his head and wrapped it around the kitten’s body, so that when it swiped its feet, it got tangled up in his T-shirt instead. It took a few more very painful maneuvers, but a minute later, he had the little hellion wrapped up.

He crooned nonsense to the fluffball, then winced and swore himself as she got a few of his fingers through the shirt. “Blood-thirsty little thing, aren’t you?” He started to squat down to let her go.

“No! She’ll just go right back up the tree.”

Brett stood but tried to keep the now-squalling, squirming ball of kitten and T-shirt away from his body. “What did you have in mind then? Kitten soup?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She turned toward the back door, which he saw now led to a screened-in porch outside and what looked like the kitchen beyond the door leading inside the house.

“Let’s take her inside,” she said, “see if we can get her calmed down, then I’ll call Pete to come get her.”

“Would Pete be the owner? Maybe he should have been the one climbing the tree,” Brett said as he followed her up onto the porch, still holding the kitten bundle aloft.

“He’s with animal control. Actually, he is animal control.

Only usually he deals with wild animals who get themselves in trouble. I think this one qualifies. These scratches sting like-”

Brett paused at the bottom of the porch steps.

“What?” she asked, turning back when she realized he wasn’t behind her.

“You almost killed yourself getting her down and you’re giving her to the pound?” He thought it was funny how he’d thought her gray eyes so soft before. Storm clouds were soft compared to the color of her eyes at the moment.

“You want to keep her? You’re welcome to. But there’s a surcharge for pets.”

He grinned at that. “Okay. I’ll pay for room and board. And any damages,” he added as the storm clouds darkened.

She looked like he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “You’re really going to keep her?”

“Not permanently, but I’m thinking we might be able to do a better job finding her a home than the dog catcher. Maybe find out where she strayed from in the first place. Maybe somebody’s missing her already.”

Storm clouds parted. Momentarily, anyway. “Fine,” she said at length. “You’re responsible, then. I’m going in to clean up.”

She tromped on into the house, apparently no longer concerned about him or the kitten. So why he was standing on the back stoop, grinning like an idiot-an idiot who’d never owned so much as a pet fish and had just apparently adopted a feral cat in the making-he had no idea. Maybe he was more road weary than he thought. Had to be it.

“Come on, Claw,” he said to the still-squalling bundle. “Let’s see if you stay this ornery in the face of some food and water. Maybe we’ll feed both of us. Then figure out what our next step is.”

He let the screen door slap shut behind him, still careful to keep the wriggling ball of cotton well away from his body. And thought maybe it was fitting, in a way. They were both outcasts, after all. Stuck in a limbo not entirely of their own choosing.

He stepped into the kitchen and discovered Kirby at the sink, her hoodie gone and her long-sleeve shirt hiked up as she carefully dabbed at the bloody welts on her abdomen.

He winced at the damage done to such tender, pale skin…but at the same time found himself thinking that if they had to be stuck, perhaps both he and the cat could have done far worse.

The instant Kirby caught sight of Brett from the corner of her eye, entering the kitchen, she clumsily shut off the water with one hand and tugged her shirt back down with the other, wincing slightly as the cotton fabric rubbed over her raw, scratched flesh.

“Flesh” being the key word flashing through her head. And the fact that Brett Hennessey was sporting quite a lot of it at the moment. Not, perhaps, as much as the eyeful she’d gotten when she’d looked up at his bedroom window. Holy crap. She’d be picturing all that masculine perfection in her dreams-waking and sleeping-for weeks. Who was she kidding? Months. Possibly longer. It wasn’t likely anything else would come along to top it anytime soon. It was a miracle she hadn’t dropped like a stone from the tree the instant she laid eyes on him. So…so much of him.

She averted her gaze and gathered up the clutter of first aid supplies she’d pulled out of the little kit she kept under the sink for kitchen emergencies. It was silly to feel so self-conscious. After all, he was exposing a lot more than she’d been, and she seriously doubted he’d be as moved by the sight of her pale, scratched-up stomach as she’d been by his oh-so-perfectly-golden skin. So, so much skin…