The Reluctant Rancher. Leigh Riker
HE HURT BAD, BLOSS’M?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. I hope your daddy will.”
They were on their knees in the barn aisle beside the tortoiseshell kitten, the one she’d seen with Logan that first day. Now as he entered with Grey, Nick clapped both hands over his ears to shut out the cat’s cries of distress.
Blossom had put the kitten in an old bushel basket—the kind used to haul peaches or apples—with a scrap of horse blanket she’d found in the tack room, but she hadn’t assessed the kitten’s injuries.
“Okay, what happened?” Logan asked.
Nick hung over the basket. “It fell.”
If she didn’t miss her guess, he was more than halfway to crying. Blossom was surprised he’d held out this long. Now if only his father didn’t make things worse...
Bending down, Logan flicked the blanket aside. The chubby kitten gazed up at him as if in mute appeal, golden eyes blinking a clear message, Please help me.
Logan sat back on his heels. “Nicky, maybe you should wait in the house.”
“I wanna stay here. And make ’im better.”
Blossom gave in to a weak smile. Logan’s son had his strong will.
Logan looked up at Grey. “Get me some warm water and a clean rag,” he said, “please,” then watched Grey go into the tack room.
“Did this kitty break its leg?” Nick asked. “Like Grandpa?”
Blossom said, “The kitten was limp when we found her, unconscious.”
“I think she had the wind knocked out of her. That ever happen to you, Nicky?” Logan asked the question without looking at his son. “Happened to me just yesterday.”
“But you’re okay now?”
“Sure.” He laid the cat in his palm and examined her thoroughly from her head to her four tiny paws. They had pink pads and looked as tender as a newborn baby’s feet would be. “Nothing broken so far.” He glanced at Blossom. “You weren’t here when it happened?”
Nick answered. “No, me and Bloss’m were in the garden. We picked flowers but there weren’t very many. Then she saw clovers coming up in the yard and we picked them, too. I wanted to give ’em to my horses. Here,” he added, “not at Uncle Grey’s. But when we got to the barn...” He swiped at his first tears.
Logan touched the cat’s rear leg, and the kitten yowled then bit him. Logan jerked back. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He must have thought better of uttering an oath in front of his son. But when he held up his injured finger, Nick recoiled.
“Blood! Yuck.”
Blossom drew him against her side, hiding his face against the slight swell of her stomach that would soon become impossible to disguise no matter how loose her clothes were.
Logan straightened. “She has a nasty gash on her rear leg, but we’ll fix that right up. Don’t worry, Nicky.”
Blossom supposed the sight of blood was nothing new to a rancher—even a reluctant one—who delivered calves and such, but to Nick it seemed a major catastrophe. He was turning whiter by the second.
Grey reappeared with the pan of water. “Crisis under control?”
Logan indicated the kitten. “I have some patching up to do. Nicky may be better off with you.”
“Come on, then, little cowboy,” Grey said, his eyes soft. “Let’s check on your grandpa before I take you home to see what your mama’s up to.”
“But I wanna see the kitten get better!”
Blossom saw a strange expression cross Logan’s face.
He cleared his throat. “You go ahead, buddy. Do as I tell you.”
Nick’s face was tear streaked, dirt smeared, and her heart turned over. How could Logan bear to be separated from this child? She knew she could never be apart from her baby the way Logan was.
She met Nick’s gaze. “I’ll help your daddy with the kitten. All right?”
He thought a moment. “Will you call me at my uncle Grey’s house when she’s better? It’s the Wilson Cattle Company,” he added solemnly, as if Blossom wouldn’t know where to find him.
“Of course I will.”
Nick flung both arms around her neck and buried his face against Blossom’s throat. Then as quickly as he’d hugged her, he turned and ran down the aisle to his uncle.
“Grey.” Logan’s voice echoed through the barn.
“I’ll take good care of him for you.”
Logan nodded but that was all. Seeming unaware of Blossom, he watched the two walk toward the house, a look on his face that she could only term anguished.
Logan’s relationship with Nick puzzled her. Right now she could see the rigid set of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw as if he were gritting his teeth.
Logan had finally stopped staring after Nick and Grey. “Let’s take her into the tack room,” he said.
The small area was lined with saddle racks and bridle hooks. In one corner a pile of patterned blankets smelled faintly of damp wool.
Blossom might know little about homemaking or caregiving, but she knew nothing about ranch life. Yesterday she’d startled the bison calf into knocking Logan off his feet. Interested today in the neglected garden behind the house, she’d forgotten to collect the eggs with Nick.
While she cuddled the kitten to her chest, Logan gathered supplies.
“This cat just used up one of her nine lives.” He set the pan of water down on a tack trunk. A small bottle poked from his rear jeans pocket.
“I’ve never owned a pet. My father didn’t like animals, probably because he couldn’t always control them. I thought cats landed on their feet.”
“Their instincts are good, and their reflexes, but they can get hurt bad—killed—if they fall a shorter distance. They don’t have time or enough space on the way down to twist their bodies and land upright. Like a gymnast. Don’t know where she fell from, but she must have bounced off those hay bales in the aisle. They cushioned her landing or she wouldn’t be talking to us now. The impact or something she hit on the way down must have split her leg open.”
Blossom sat on the trunk and held the kitten even closer as if to protect her the way she had Nick. And would her own child.
“Where’s her mother? She seems young to be on her own.”
“Gone.”
Her heart lurched. “She’s an orphan?”
“No, her mama drifted off a few weeks ago, probably looking for love again.” He half smiled. “Barn cats are fickle.” Logan squatted in front of Blossom. “Turn her around so I can see what I’m doing.”
He dipped a clean cloth in water and dabbed at her rear leg. The cat howled but Blossom held her steady. His midnight-blue gaze intent on the task, Logan made a second pass at the wound then prized the bottle from his rear pocket.
Blossom watched him work. “These past few days have been something. You should have DVM after your name.” Doctor of veterinary medicine.
“Running a ranch demands all kinds of skills. Mine are a bit rusty.”
Blossom didn’t have talents. He hadn’t liked the Greek gyro she’d made yesterday for lunch. And she’d never asked him about the menu.
After pouring disinfectant on the wound, he glanced up.
“What do you think?”
“Looks good.”