Page 23 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
It just stares at me like it might bolt.
I lunge. My hands close around warm fur and fragile bones.
“Gotcha!” I smirk. “And joke’s on you. I lied about the ‘no snuggles’ thing. I give them in abundance.”
The kitten immediately transforms into a spitting, clawing ball of fury, needle claws finding every gap in my defense and some I didn’t know existed.
“Okay, okay, you’re very fierce,” I gasp, trying to contain the tiny tornado without actually hurting it. “But you’re also literally two pounds, so maybe save the murder mittens for something your own size? Like a grasshopper?”
I tuck the kitten to my chest, using my shirt as a shield against its claws. Gradually, miraculously, it settles. A tiny motor starts up.
“See? This is much better than being a midnight snack for?—”
A sound cuts through the night air from behind me. Low, rumbling, emanating from the direction of the trees. Not quite a growl but something that makes every primitive instinct in my body screamDanger!The hair on my arms stands up, and my throat goes dry.
This is it. This is how they’ll find me tomorrow, city girl turned cat lady, killed by local wildlife. My fatherwill be mortified.She died doing what?I can hear him now.Chasing cats? In flip-flops?
I turn slowly, each degree of rotation feeling like an eternity. My eyes strain to make sense of shapes in the darkness. There, by a cluster of trees, is something large. Bulky. It’s hunched oddly, as if leaning against a tree stump, and it’s holding a small shape that I can’t make out…
A bear, my brain supplies. Has to be a bear. Bears can use tools now, right? I saw a documentary once. Or was that about crows? Either way, this bear has clearly figured out tools and is about to use them on me.
“You should be careful offering snuggles so freely here.”
A male voice rolls through the darkness. Deep, masculine, with an edge that makes my stomach do complicated things that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with other four-letter words.
“Never know what might turn up on your doorstep.”
My brain finally processes what I’m seeing. Not a bear. A man. Sitting on a huge tree stump, glass catching moonlight in his hand.
Ridge.
“Holy sh—” I catch myself, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. “You scared me! I thought you were a bear!”
His laugh is low, rough, like he doesn’t do it often and his throat needs practice. “If you see a beardrinking whiskey from crystal, we’ve got bigger problems than a midnight kitten rescue.”
He stands in one fluid motion, sets his glass down on the stump, and strolls toward me. I notice the slight favor to his right leg. “You okay?”
The moonlight finds him as he steps from the shadows, and my mouth dries. Black jeans fit him like they were tailored by someone who understood that cowboys are basically walking advertisements for Wrangler. His leather belt sports a buckle that, now that I can see it clearly, depicts a bronco rider frozen in silver, hat flying, one arm up for balance, the other gripping for dear life. It’s intricately detailed, the kind of thing you win, not buy.
Blue button-up shirt open at the throat—three buttons, not that I’m counting—revealing a triangle of tanned skin and the hint of a chain disappearing beneath the fabric. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing strong, powerful forearms. No wonder romance-novel readers are obsessed with cowboys.
His auburn hair, earlier hidden under that black hat, falls loose to his shoulders. The breeze plays with it, sending strands across his face that he doesn’t bother to push away. Without the hat shadowing his features, I see him more clearly, the sharp angle of his jaw with light stubble, the way his mouth naturally turns down at the corners, giving him a perpetual serious expression even when he’s almost smiling.
“Barn cats get out sometimes,” he states when he’sclose enough that the night breeze carries his scent to me. Cedar, cinnamon, and whiskey. “Orange mama and her babies. They’re escape artists with a capitalE. Been sneaking out for weeks now.”
“Maybe they prefer actual houses?” I aim for light, teasing, trying to ignore how my body wants to sway toward him like he’s magnetic north and I’m a very confused compass. “You know, with walls and heating and a distinct lack of things with sharp teeth and appetites?” I scratch the kitten’s ears in my arm, and she just purrs back.
Ridge doesn’t respond immediately, simply watches me with green eyes like mine but darker, like forest shadows. There’s a weariness there, carefully hidden but visible if you know where to look. He’s studying me too.
“Careful out here,” he drawls finally. “Wild country. Wild animals.”
“Is that why you’re out here?” I adjust the kitten against my chest, needing something to do with my hands that isn’t reaching out to touch him. “Playing security guard for wayward city girls and escaped cats?”
“I can’t sleep sometimes.” The words come out clipped, final, like a door closing on further questions. But there’s something underneath, pain maybe, or memories that have teeth.
“So you drink whiskey on tree stumps in the middle of the night?”
“Better than staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster.” He pauses. “Or watching shadows that aren’t there.”
