Page 4 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

Misty Mountain. That was the name on the sign I saw on the Interstate. “It’s a real place?”

“Of course, it is.” He speaks slowly, as if he thinks I’m an idiot. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

I could explain, but—honestly—I’m too drained at this point. “That’s a great question.”

He turns, giving me a good view of his well-formed backside. Not to be a complete pervert, but the way the wet denim is clinging to his ass should be illegal. “So are you guys coming to the shelter or what?”

“I guess we’re going.” I pull my head back to look at Whiskey, who is staring at our hero or murderer with fascination. “If this is the end, know I’ve never loved anyone the way I’ve loved you.”

The man turns and stares at me over his shoulder. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I take a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

I’m about to be rescued or murdered. Either way, at least I’ll have a good view of this man’s nice ass along the way.

TWO

GAGE

The rain-drenched woman follows me on the mulched trail.

Along the way, she mutters under her breath. Every so often a word or phrase becomes decipherable. I’m pretty sure I hear “Ted Bundy” and “never go to a second location” mixed in there.

I don’t say anything.

People always expect to fill silences. Not me. I’ve always been comfortable with long silences. It’s a good thing to. Most of the animals who live here at the rescue prefer it that way.

Behind me, there’s a scuffle. I cast a glance over my shoulder in time to see the woman catch herself, planting her foot in the mud with a “plop” after tripping over her own feet.

Instinctively, I pause to reach out and help hold her steady. But I stop myself short of offering help. She wouldn’t take it.

Considering how hard it was to get her to follow me, so she could get out of the rain, she probably would’ve screamed bloody murder.

Her gaze flashes up to mine. The amber flecks in her hazel eyes flash wildly. Defiantly. I can almost read her thoughts. They say, “Try to hurt me, and I’ll sic my cat on you.”

The cat who is still watching me closely, curiously, with sage green eyes. I’ve spent enough time around animals to know this is an animal who could quickly become my greatest friend or foe.

He’s just waiting me out.

“You okay?” I ask.

Her wild eyes narrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I roll my eyes and turn back around to resume the hike back to my cabin. As we continue our trek, a vision of how she looked when I first saw her comes to mind. She’d been soaked through. Long strands of reddish brown hair stuck to her cheeks. Her pink lips pressed together in a scowl.

A cat tucked in her sweatshirt, his gray head sticking out next to hers.

I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my face. They’d looked like some kind of two-headed mythical creature.

They’d also both looked ready to attack if I made the wrong move.

Luckily, I know a thing or two about handling wounded creatures. As the primary caretaker here at the wildlife rescue, that’s what I do.

And despite the defiance in her expression—the determination to stand strong—that’s what this woman had been. A wounded creature who has seen better days.

But she hasn’t lost an ounce of her fight. I don’t know if that makes her stubborn or determined. Either way, you have to respect, and even admire, her for it.

Just like you have to admire how well she looked, completely soaked through. Her cheeks flushed. The sweatshirt clinging to her shapely body.

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