Page 23 of Broken Trails
I will not be shedding a tear for him. Not for this. I drag in a slow breath. Then another.
In. Out. In. Out.
When my hands finally stop trembling enough to move, I shift into drive. The second I pull onto the road, a shrill beep cuts through the air. A warning light blinks on the dash, one I don’t even recognise, and the car jolts beneath me.
“Perfect,” I mutter, just as the engine sputters. My frustration spikes, and I smack the steering wheel with my palm. Just my fucking luck, right?
Because, of course, this means I’ll have to get it looked at. Again.
And there’s only one place in town for that.
One damn auto shop.
My stomach knots, heat creeping up my neck before I force it down. No. Absolutely not. I’m not dealing with him. Not now. Just picturing walking into that shop and seeing that smug, knowing look on his face is enough to make my blood simmer.
So I ignore the blinking light, ignore the occasional cough of the engine, and keep driving. Halfway to my rental, something on the road catches my eye.
Something small. Unmoving.
A cat? Maybe a dog?
I barely give it a second glance, but as I drive past, something about it lingers in the back of my mind. It was tiny, too still, and though logic tells me it probably has an owner, my fingers twitch against the wheel. Just keep driving, Zoe.
I exhale sharply, pressing my lips together. I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to have time for this. Yet, muttering a string of curses, I yank the wheel hard and throw a U-turn, the tyres screeching in protest. I pull up beside it before getting out of the car. I walk over cautiously, to not startle whatever it is, and lean over, scanning the dark patch in the dirt.
Well, it’s definitely not a dog. Or a cat.
It’s a bloody kitten.
I stare down at the soaked little mess curled in the dirt, every muscle in my body screaming to get back in the car and drive. Just walk away. But it lets out a weak, strangled meow—barely even a sound—and something sharp twists in my chest.
“Shit,” I breathe, dragging a hand down my face.
Another soft mewl and I huff out a breath, squatting low enough to get a better look. The thing’s a wreck. Orange, though it’s hard to tell under all the dirt and whatever else it’s soaked in. Tiny. Frail. Curled in on itself like it’s trying to disappear. Eyes squeezed shut. Shivering.
“You’re not even trying to sell it, are you?” I mutter. “Could at least meow like you mean it.” It doesn’t move, just shudders again. I pause, fingers twitching at my sides. My throat’s tight, and I hate it. This isn’t who I am. I don’t do the soft thing. I don’t do rescue missions. But then my nan’s face flashes in my mind—how she always smelled like peppermint and lavender, how she’d scold me for being ‘all bark and no bloody bite,’ and how she had this ridiculous way of scooping up every stray she came across.
“What would Nan do?” I mutter, already knowing the answer. She’d pick it up. No hesitation. She’d wrap it in one of her hideous floral tea towels, coo like it was a baby, and tell it everything was going to be alright. And then she’d probably smack me upside the head for standing around like a fool. Muttering a string of curses under my breath, I pull out my phone and type fast, searching for the nearest vet.
Wattle Creek Animal Hospital.
Which, according to my maps, is not far. I swing open the boot, rifling through the mess until my fingers land on an old gym towel—stiff, fraying at the edges, and smelling faintly of sweat and detergent. I grimace but thank whatever force ofthe universe decided to cut me a break today. It’s better than nothing. Carefully, I bundle the kitten up, the towel swallowing its tiny shivering body. I place it gingerly on the passenger seat, where it lets out the smallest, saddest little meow.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real heartbreaker,” I mutter, shutting the door.
The fluorescent lights of Wattle Creek Animal Hospital are too bright as I push through the front door, the towel clutched tight against my chest. At the front desk, three women are in the middle of a heated, whisper-hissing debate.
“I’m telling you,” the older woman insists, hands waving dramatically, “guinea pigs can wear sweaters—there are Pinterest boards dedicated to it.”
“They overheat, Katie!” a young girl holding a small grey rabbit fires back. “It’s cruel.”
The older woman, whose greying hair is twisted into a messy bun, sighs loudly. “Lord above, how did we go from talking about appropriate adoption forms to arguing about guinea pig fashion shows?”
None of them notice me standing there, frail kitten and all in my arms. I clear my throat loudly, and all three heads snap toward me at once.
“Oh gosh. Sorry, dear!” the older woman exclaims, hastily straightening her shirt. “I’m Katie. How can we help you?” I lift the bundled towel slightly, feeling the kitten stir against my chest.
“I, uh, found this kitten on the side of the road. It’s… breathing . Figured it could use a professional instead of me.”
