Page 122 of Cruelest Contract
“Louisa?” I don’t know why I’m calling her name. She never comes when I call. I drop Getty’s used shirt on top of the table and look in every direction. “Louisa?”
The only sounds are distant echoes from the kitchen and the ticking of the giant wall clock.
Louisa has never been an escape artist. She’s a cautious homebody that darts between pieces of furniture and doesn’t even like windows. She wouldn’t have run outside.Would she?
The way my belly flips over has nothing to do with early pregnancy. Louisa could be anywhere in the mansion’s labyrinth of rooms. Or she could be out in a torrential downpour, lost and confused.
When I dash back to the porch, I immediately shut the door behind me. If Louisa hasn’t already run away, now she can’t.
The more I scan the widening puddles and muddy surroundings, the more sure I am that Louisa couldn’t possibly have decided to go on a soggy field trip. She’s somewhere else, somewhere warm and dry. Probably the kitchen where Enzo feeds her so many scraps and cans of tuna fish that she’s starting to get a little round.
Rubbing my arms, I’m about to return indoors when I spot three inches of a grey tail peeking around the corner of the wraparound porch. Careful not to make any loud sounds or sudden movements, I slowly tiptoe over there.
“Louisa,” I say softly.
She’s huddled beside an empty clay flower pot and she turns her head to stare at me.
Dropping to a crouch, I hold my hand out. In the same second, a mighty gust of wind blows a sheet of cold rain over the porch.
A startled Louisa leaps to the ground and takes off at full speed in the direction of the stables. She doesn’t look back whenI shout her name right before she disappears around the far side of the long building where Luna lives.
This would be a good time for Sonny and his Mafia thugs to show up and save the day by chasing my cat down. Alas, they have vanished. Maybe water ruins their guns.
But I don’t want to risk losing track of Louisa. She might get so frightened that she races to the woods.
I’m careful where I step as I leave the porch. At least I’m wearing my boots. Navigating mud and puddles would be even more unpleasant in sandals.
A sudden deafening crash coincides with a flash of light. It sounds as if the sky has just broken in two. An instinctive piece of my mind recognizes a lightning strike and I drop to the ground. My hands are protecting my belly but my bad knee smashes into a hard object. Pain explodes and I curl into a ball.
Terror has a sour taste. My heart pounds so loudly that my eardrums vibrate. The scenery briefly fades and I’m jolted back to the moment when I heard the sound of gunfire annihilating my parents. With all my might, I bury the flashback and breathe through the panic.
When I finally raise my head, the first thing I see is a ribbon of smoke coming from the tree line where the lightning struck. Surely the rain will put it out. But I can’t stay here out in the open.
Trying to scramble to my feet is easier said than done. My skirt is a mess of water and mud. With relief, I discover I can bend my knee, painful as it is, and there’s no blood. The object I landed on turns out to be a horseshoe. I’ve seen the cowboys make a game out of pitching them across the yard.
Isn’t there some lore about horseshoes and good luck? Seems to have passed me by. Tripping on a horseshoe strikes me as a bad sign.
Limping to the nearby stable for shelter is the most sensible option. My knee hurts but it can bear weight and I stagger through the door before the next roar of thunder. I’ll wait out the worst of the storm here before trying to get back to the house. I really wish I had my phone but due to Cass’s strict ban on electronics at meals, I left it in my office.
Luna, excited to see me, hangs her head over the stall door and awaits a treat. A tower of folded horse blankets is a welcome sight and I grab a couple. I don’t care if they are covered in horse hair, as long as they’re dry.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Luna and sink down onto a cushion of blankets directly in front of her stall. “I don’t have a treat today, pretty girl.”
She bends her head and sniffs my hair in sympathy. I pull the wet fabric of my skirt up to examine my knee. It’s already starting to swell.
A soft mewling noise makes me freeze. Louisa is crouched in the corner beside an abandoned pitchfork. Her fur is wet and bedraggled. There’s fear in her wide eyes.
Moving slowly, I hold my hand out. “Louisa.”
She lifts her head and her nose twitches. One cautious paw slides forward. I hold my breath. She takes another step and I remain still. If she runs off again I’m in no condition to chase her.
Gradually, she creeps closer until she’s a few feet away and then she abruptly springs into my lap.
“It’s okay,” I murmur and hold her with one arm while pulling a dry blanket around us.
She nestles against my belly and to my astonishment, begins purring. I might be soaked and mud-covered and my left knee feels like it was bludgeoned by a sledgehammer, but my cat is purring in my arms. That makes up for a whole lot.
“Guess what?” I rub the fur behind her ears. “I’m going to be a mother.”
