Christmas at Fox Ridge

11. Lucas

Chapter eleven

Lucas

I t’s a two person job to bathe the tiny kitten, despite the fact that it can’t weigh more than two pounds. And because I was apparently a total wimp about it biting me earlier, Eira insisted on being the one to hold the cat still while I scrubbed.

“Let me take a turn holding her,” I say, looking at the thin scratches covering her hands, then to the pained expression between her brows.

“It’s fine,” she grits out.

In protest, I set down the bottle of baby shampoo we bought from the grocery store. “Let me. Please . You’re getting all scratched up.”

“Then we’ll both get scratched up, and you’ll whine about it all night because you didn’t want to save her in the first place.”

I’m not a sick and twisted cat killer, despite my lapse in judgement before I spoke earlier. It’s simply that farms have so many barn cats they actually become a pest, especially when they’re feral.

Case in point: the kitten drags a claw across the webbing next to Eira’s thumb. She curses under her breath and, rather than letting her call the shots, I simply step in close and grab the cat from her hands.

“Thank you,” Eira whispers, taking a nip of bourbon.

Then she gets to work bathing while I grit my teeth and focus on the beautiful woman who’s close enough I can feel the sizzle of electricity between our skin. The magnetic pull that’s coursed through my veins since the first time I saw her in the bar.

When her hand brushes over mine, there’s a split second where I kick myself for not listening to my family and selling this place. If I’d already pulled that trigger, nothing would stop me from moving closer to the city. Maybe not downtown, but I could do the suburbs. I could live less than an hour from her so we could meet for dinner a couple times during the week and take turns spending weekends at her place or mine. We could find out whether this chemistry and connection has staying power.

“What made you decide to become a farrier?” she asks, and I look over to find her studying me with the same intensity she had while drawing in the barn earlier.

“Unlike you, I had a great experience with horses as a little kid.” I nudge her side. “My family was firmly in the suburbs, but after high school, I moved to Alberta and hung out with a couple guys who rode bulls. Rodeo—especially roughstock, like bull riding—isn’t for me, but I met a cool old guy there who offered cash work helping him out with his farrier business. Eventually, that turned into an apprenticeship.”

After ensuring the last of the suds rinsed away, she grabs a bath towel and delicately wraps it around the tiny, angry creature. And despite the hissing, Eira places the tiniest kiss right on the kitten’s nose.

“I think we should call her Half-Pint.”

“Not a bad name,” I say, unable to stop smiling at the two of them. I’m not a cat person, but I am an Eira Davies person. And for some godforsaken reason, she loves this vicious, two-pound furball. “How ’bout you go get warm and dry by the fire, and I’ll grab the cat food?”

Rising to her tiptoes, she places a dainty kiss on my cheek before practically skipping away with her feral bundle of joy.

Armed with wet cat food and a first aid kit, I saunter into the living room a minute later. The small bowl clangs against the tile surrounding the wood stove, and Half-Pint loudly hisses from the cozy bed Eira made her next to the fire.

“ Very intimidating. ” I laugh, cautiously setting the bowl down and taking a giant step back. Because, if I’m being honest, I am a little intimidated. I’m not willingly putting my hands near that beast again anytime soon.

“You scared her,” Eira scolds. “She’s a sweet baby… just gonna take time to warm up.”

“I think we should name her Harriet. Or no , the most evil of all— Nancy. That cat of yours might be the same level of psychopath.” Naming her after one of the two most notorious Little House on the Prairie characters would suit her better than something as cute and innocent as Half-Pint.

“Half-Pint and Nancy are both misunderstood,” Eira states, watching me spread first aid supplies across the coffee table.

I pull an antiseptic wipe and start dabbing at the crooked, crimson scratches on Eira’s arm, taking it slow and wincing alongside her every time she inhales sharply through her teeth.

“Nancy locked a girl in the ice house and she almost died. She’s disturbed.” I swipe antibiotic ointment over the deeper cuts first, kicking myself for not grabbing more in town. I suspect this isn’t the last time I’ll be taking care of Eira in this way. She’s already eyeballing the cat like she wants to scoop it up for a snuggle.

“The amount of Walnut Grove lore you know is astounding.” She looks away from the kitten just long enough to raise a brow at me. “Thank you for fixing me up, doc.”

“I’ve got a set of leather gloves out in the truck. Please wear them next time you handle that demon spawn.”

“We’ll be out of your hair soon enough, you old grump.” She smiles wistfully, but the thought of her leaving in a few days makes my hands start to shake while I try to wrap a bandage around her forearm. The cat is welcome to leave anytime, but damn would I love to keep Eira clear through to January. Even beyond that, if she let me.

“Want to know a secret of mine?” Bandage secured, I rub my thumb in slow circles over her wrist with enough pressure I feel her heart start to race.

“All of them,” she whispers back.

“I have every season of Little House on DVD.”

Her hair flits around her face with a full-body laugh. “I knew it!”

Slapping a hand on my thigh, I start to stand. “You get cozy—maybe try to lure that cat into its box before she finds a way to destroy my house—and I’ll go grab ’em.”

Already heading toward the cat, which I know she’s going to scoop up barehanded again, she beams at me. “Bring back the bourbon, too, Charles.”