Page 6 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

“Sit wherever,” I say. “I’ll get towels.”

By the time I come back, she’s stripped off her wet hoodie and shoes and is standing in the middle of the living room in leggings and a clingy T-shirt, rubbing her arms for warmth.

Her hair’s a mess. Her shirt sticks to her curves. She’s got freckles on her nose and a heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder.

I look away fast.

“Here.” I hold out the towels.

As she reaches for them, our hands brush. Just for a second. Calloused and warm, my fingers graze hers. Her skin is soft. Her hand is small in mine.

I pull my hand back fast, as if I’ve been burned. Neither of us says anything about it.

She just takes the towels and nods. “Thanks. Do you have somewhere I could freshen up?”

“There’s a bathroom. Down the hall, second on the left.”

She disappears, and Whiskey jumps up onto the couch and flips over onto his back

I stare at him. He stares back. Then starts kneading the air, as if he’s inviting me to come pet his belly.

Yeah, right. I work with enough animals to know when I’m being set up. The second I touch his stomach, he’ll attack.

When she comes back, she’s towel-dried her hair and tied it into a messy bun. Her cheeks are flushed from the warmth and her eyes look more hazel than brown in the firelight.

“So,” she says, eyeing the room. “What is this place exactly? You said it’s animal rescue?”

I nod. “Mostly wildlife. Rehab and release when we can. Sometimes people bring me their sick goats or injured barn cats. We don’t say no if we can help it.”

She wanders to the window. “And you live here alone?”

“Most of the time.”

“Does it ever get lonely?”

“The animals are good company.” I shrug. “It’s better than being crowded.”

Her expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”

Something about the way she says it makes me pause. There’s weight behind it. Loneliness disguised as humor. I know the type. I used to be the type.

Still am, most days.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

Her stomach growls, settling that question.

I head to the kitchen. Pull out the stew I made earlier. I’m not much of a cook, but I can do basics—meat, potatoes, fire. They all combine to make a decent stew. She follows, her nose in the air sniffing. Her stomach growls before she even sits down at the table.

Whiskey trots in behind us and jumps into one of the empty chairs.

I fill two bowls and hand one to her.

She takes a bite and makes a soft moan. My jaw tightens at the sound.

“Holy crap,” she says. “This is delicious. If you ever decide to give up being a serial killer, you should consider running a B&B.”

After opening a can of cat food—just one of the many varieties of pet food I keep in stock for my companions—and setting it out for Whiskey, I take the seat across from her.

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