Page 135 of Hot Knot Summer
The bull snorted and pawed the ground.
That’s when I made my huge mistake: I honked the horn.
The bull’s head shot up, and for one terrifying moment, we stared at each other through the windshield. Then he lowered his massive head and charged.
“Oh shit!” I floored the gas pedal, hoping to speed past him, but the rental car’s tires hit the loose dirt and immediately lost traction. The wheel spun in my hands as the car fishtailed wildly acrossthe road.
I was going too fast on ground that was basically powdered dust. The car skidded sideways, completely out of control, and I had just enough time to think, “This is how I die,” before the passenger side slammed into a massive oak tree.
The impact threw me against the driver’s side door, and the engine died with a pathetic wheeze.
“No, no, no!” I turned the key frantically, but all I got was a horrible clicking sound. Through the rear window, I could see the bull had found my car’s new location and was expressing his displeasure by ramming his horns into my trunk.
The entire car shook with each impact. BANG. The rear window spider-webbed. BANG. Something that sounded expensive fell off the undercarriage. Shit!
I had two choices—stay and become the filling in a car-bull sandwich or make a run for it.
Glancing around the area, I spotted an enormous, fancy ranch house which looked exactly like the one in the photo that I'd been searching for. That had to be my destination. It sat about fifty yards away, a sprawling wooden structure that screamed salvation. I grabbed my purse, said a quick prayer to whatever deity protected idiotic city girls, and bolted from the car.
The bull noticed immediately.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I sprinted across the dirt yard, my designer flats slipping on loose gravel. Behind me, I could hear hoofbeats gaining ground.
I hit the wooden steps at full speed, taking them two at a time, and threw myself against the front door. It swungopen, and I tumbled inside, slamming it shut behind me just as something heavy crashed against it from the outside.
The door shuddered.
“Um, excuse me?” a woman asked behind me.
I turned around, still breathing hard, and found myself staring at the most confusing scene of my entire life.
Three men were positioned around a rustic living room, each one holding a tiny, fluffy kitten and wearing no shirts. Not just holding—posing. One man sat in a leather armchair with an orange tabby kitten perched on his broad shoulder. Another leaned against the fireplace mantel, cradling a black and white kitten like it was made of spun glass. The third knelt on the floor with a gray kitten tucked against his chest, his expression serious as death.
A woman with purple hair and enough camera equipment to shoot a movie stood in the center of it all, looking like I’d just ruined her masterpiece.
“Who are you, and why are you interrupting my shoot?” she demanded.
The door shuddered again behind me, and I pressed my back against it. “There’s a bull outside trying to murder me, and your models are holding kittens.”
“They’re not models,” the woman said with exaggerated patience. “They’re cowboys. And this is a calendar shoot for the local animal shelter. ‘Cowboys and Kittens—Adopt Love’.”
The cowboy with the gray kitten, who had dark hair and shoulders that belonged in a lumberjack competition, stood up slowly. “Ma’am? Are you hurt?”
“Only my dignity,” I managed. “And possibly my rental car. Brutus wasn’t interested in negotiations.”
“Brutus?” The man by the fireplace had sandy brown hair and laugh lines that suggested he found most of life amusing.
The third cowboy, still seated with his orange kitten, had the kind of steady presence that made you think he could handle anything. “We should probably go wrangle him before he decides to redecorate the truck.”
“But we’re not finished!” the photographer protested. “I need at least twelve more shots for the calendar, and the lighting is perfect right now!”
The door behind me gave another ominous thud.
“I think Brutus might have other plans,” I said weakly.
The three men looked at each other, then at their kittens, then at me.
“Then,” said the one with the gray kitten, gently transferring the tiny ball of fluff to my arms, “looks like you’re our emergency kitten-sitter.”
