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  I reached for the screen door, but it was closed. And latched. Only then did I realize I hadn’t heard its infernal banging for several minutes. Not since I’d seen the stranger illuminated in the lightning’s glare. I tasted salty sweat on my upper lip as my gaze flickered from one end of the porch to the other. Beneath my bare feet, the floor felt cold and slick. As I retreated, my toes touched a patch of wet, gritty sand. I looked down. Large footprints led onto the porch. Not off, only on. A whimper buzzed in my throat as I raced for the safety of the open door.

  “Mew.”

  The plaintive cry froze me in my tracks. Had one of my cats followed me out? It wouldn’t have been Jasmine. The Ragdoll hated thunder and probably couldn’t be coaxed out from under the bureau until morning. But her brothers? The tabby terrors were always up for some kind of mischief, and I could imagine one, if not both, venturing out onto the wet porch behind me.

  When the cry came again, I realized it wasn’t one of my brood, but a strange cat—frightened and in pain. I followed the sound to the loveseat and found a disheveled mound of fur. As I approached, the cat raised its head, and I saw the familiar wedge-shaped white blaze and two-tone ears.

  “Bob?”

  His mouth moved in answer, but no sound came out. Damp sand caked his paws, and the white fur of his flank was matted and dark with blood. I snatched my comforting hand back as my professional training took over. The most docile of cats could lash out with teeth and claws when in pain.

  Old Mrs. Hanson’s poodle had chased the tiny scrap of fur into my yard that long ago summer and cornered him under the gardenia bush by the back porch. Despite being out-classed, the kitten had held his own against his larger assailant earning him the nickname of Bodacious Bob. Now, sixteen years later, he seemed to remember the kindness I’d shown him and returned to me when he once again needed help. That wasn’t inconceivable. There was more in heaven and earth and the minds of animals than most people were willing to believe.

  “Wait right there.” I dashed back into the house, corralled my cats in the bedroom, and gathered an armload of clean towels from the laundry room. With my box of first aid supplies on a chair nearby, the kitchen table would serve as an examination area. In case I needed to rush Bob to the emergency clinic, I set up a carrier with the top open.

  I carefully bundled the cat in a towel, but my caution wouldn’t have been necessary. He didn’t struggle, but instead nestled against me. That behavior was worrisome; he was too lethargic. He might be in shock from blood loss. I’d take a quick look at his wounds and rush him to the clinic. My friend, Richie Akiyama, was on duty tonight, and if it wasn’t busy, he’d let me use an exam room to treat the cat.

  Bob watched me with an intelligence I found almost unnerving as I carried him into the kitchen and laid him on the table. He didn’t protest when I pried open his mouth and checked his gums. They were pink and surprisingly healthy looking, considering the circumstances, so he probably wasn’t in shock from blood loss. His breathing and heart rate actually appeared normal. I flushed the wounded area with a saline solution to get a better look at the damage.

  There were two long, razor-thin gashes on Bob’s flank, about four inches apart. What could have caused that? I’d have expected a raccoon’s or another cat’s claw marks to have been much closer together and, while a large dog’s paws would be wide enough to leave a wound like that, their claws were blunt, tearing more than slicing. Also, almost all dog attack wounds were bites. This looked like the cat had tangled with a bobcat or even a Florida panther, but that didn’t seem likely in the middle of downtown Naples.

  I trimmed the thick fur around the slashes to get a better look and drew back blinking. These wounds weren’t fresh. They appeared to have been made several days ago. While still a little red and slightly raised, they were scabbed over and healing up nicely. What I’d taken for fresh blood must have been dried clots dissolving from the drenching he’d gotten in the rainstorm.

  I got out my clippers and shaved the area around the scratches. I wouldn’t put any antibiotic creams on it, as he’d only lick that off, and cats were notorious for removing any dressings, so the best option was to leave it alone and let his tongue take care of it. He seemed to have done a rather good job of it so far.

  He must have been injured when I’d seen him this afternoon, but he’d showed no signs of his wounds then. His coat had been glossy, and he’d stretched and moved freely. As I played the incident back in my mind, though, I realized he’d never turned his damaged left side toward me.

  I checked my handiwork one more time, and the world seemed to drop away beneath my feet. The wounds were flat with no trace of redness and the scabs appeared ready to slough off. That wasn’t possible. I’d just seen the half-healed wounds, the swelling and redness. Just seen…I was no longer sure what I’d seen. Was I losing my mind or—worse yet—losing my powers of observation?

  It had been one of those Twilight Zone kinds of nights, what with the intruder and…I groaned, my gaze flickering around. In my rush to help the cat, I’d forgotten about the intruder.

  Bob regarded me with wide green eyes, gave the slow blink of a cat smile to reassure me, and purred like an expensive, Italian sports car. The soothing sound reached deep into the coiled knot of tension in my chest and unwound it. He stretched out a paw to touch my arm, and my anxiety melted away.

  I cleaned the sand from the proffered foot with a baby wipe, talking to him in soothing tones as much for my benefit as his.

  “I searched the neighborhood after you disappeared, plastered silly little handwritten signs on all the telephone poles and trees pleading for your return. You made me realize how important it was to help other animals, so I gave away my fantasy books, forgot about wizards and unicorns, and began studying to become a veterinarian.”

  The cat’s soft meow sounded remorseful, and his sandpaper tongue caressed my fingers.

  I laughed. “Apology accepted. Tomorrow, uh, I guess that’s actually later today, I’ll try to locate your owner. We need to find out if you’re up to date on all the vaccinations, especially rabies. If not, well, we’re going to have to keep an eye on you for a while.”

  Rabies wasn’t common in this area but continued to crop up in the raccoon population often enough to make it a worry, particularly because of the dire consequences to all involved.

  “You don’t have on a collar, but I wonder if you have a microchip?” I didn’t have a scanner, but I could usually feel the tiny chip in the loose skin between the shoulder blades. Not this time.

  “If you do have people, I can’t say as though I’m pleased with the way they take care of you. Letting you run around the neighborhood with no identification and staying out all night to get in catfights at your age. And then there’s that whole thing about not having you altered.”

  Bob fixed me with a stern stare and flicked his ears back.

  “If no one owns you, or if they don’t want you, what would you think about coming to live with me again? I’m sure my cats would get their noses out of joint for a while, particularly Jasmine, but they’d get over it.

  “And I would have to get you fixed.”

  Bob surged to his feet with an indignant hiss. His back end twitched as his muscles tried to lash his abbreviated tail.

  “Whoa,” I said, backing up. “I guess you know that word.” That notion didn’t seem at all bizarre in an evening of strange happenings.

  “I think it’s time both of us got some sleep.” I bundled the cat up in a clean towel, purposely not looking at his side for fear the wounds would have vanished, along with the remaining shreds of my sanity.

  I ensconced him in a nest of towels on the porch loveseat, and provided him with all the kitty necessities—food, water, and a clean box. The storm had rained itself out and left the sound of frogs peeping in its passing, punctuated by the noise of the town waking up. I went back inside to tidy up the kitchen, disinfected all the surfaces, and threw the soiled towels and clothes i
nto the washing machine. By the time I put on a clean pair of pajamas and fell into bed, dawn tinted the sky.

  Chapter Three

  I opened one eye to the view of a cat’s nose. Castor or Pollux? From this perspective, it was hard to tell them apart. The angle of the sun streaming through my bedroom window announced it was hours past my normal wake up time. Confusion muddled my mind for a second, as I tried to remember what day it was and if I would be late for an appointment. Then I recalled the surreal events of last night.

  Bob.

  I padded into the bathroom to perform my morning ablutions, finishing up by tying my hair back in a ponytail with a fuzzy green scrunchie. The cats followed me into the kitchen, weaving in and out between my legs. To get them out from underfoot, I dished up their breakfast before I brewed my morning dose of caffeine. With the coffee maker gurgling, I scooped out a cup of kibble for Bob and carried it to the porch.

  “And how’s my patient this morning… Hey!”

  My voice climbed to a shout, and I dropped the cat food. Tiny balls of kibble bounced and scattered across the floor. Instead of the cat I’d expected to find on the loveseat, I saw a man, legs pulled to his chest as he tried to fit into the small space. My exclamation startled him awake, his arms wind-milling as he attempted to unfold himself. Overbalanced, he tipped off the loveseat and fell to the floor on his hands and knees.

  I recognized the lavender polo shirt. It was the hiker I’d met yesterday.

  “Who are you? What are you doing on my front porch? Did you follow me?” I peppered him with questions as he sheepishly climbed to his feet.

  He might have tried to answer them one by one, but I kept them coming so quickly, one piled upon another, that he wisely closed his mouth and waited for my anger to wind down.

  “And what did you do with my cat?”

  “Your cat, milady? Would that be the cat you were searching for yesterday?”

  “Yes, that cat. And cut the milady crap.” What had sounded quaint and endearing yesterday seemed condescending this morning. “I’m not your lady.”

  “No, mi…ma’am.” He quickly corrected himself.

  “My cat?”

  “Oh aye, that cat.” He heaved a great sigh. “He has gone.”

  I noticed the screen door was still locked from the inside, but the stranger could have let the cat escape and then secured the door behind him.

  “Gone? He was injured, and you just let him walk out of here to get in another fight with who knows what? After I spent half the night patching him up?”

  “I know that you did, and a great kindness it was…”

  I interrupted him. “What do you mean, you know? Where you spying on me?” Goose flesh prickled my arms. Had he been hiding on the porch all night, watching me like some perverted peeping tom? “I really ought to call the cops and have them haul you off to the slammer. I think you’d better leave.”

  “Yes, milady. Ma’am.” As he turned to lift his backpack, I noticed two long slits on the side of his polo shirt, crusted with a dark stain.

  “Wait. That looks like blood on your shirt. Are you hurt?”

  “Nay, ma’am. I but tripped and fell. ’Tis only mud.” He hung his pack over that shoulder so I couldn’t study his side more closely. He gathered up his staff and moved to the door. “I know your hospitality was not freely given, but it was appreciated nonetheless. I shall be about my business, and I promise that I shall not bother you again.” He gave me another bow and started out the door.

  My anger evaporated. The expression on his face made me feel as if I’d just thrown a puppy out into a Category-5 hurricane.

  “Wait. Would you like a cup of coffee?” I could put it in a paper take-out cup and get him out the door. Then I’d get dressed and search the neighborhood for Bob.

  “Aye, that would be right kind of you.” His pale green eyes shifted, as if he was waiting for the next shoe to drop.

  I returned to the kitchen and searched through the cabinets as I tried to remember where I’d stashed the cups the last time I used them. When I turned to check the pantry, I realized the stranger had followed me. For a big man with chunky hiking boots and burdened by a large backpack, he moved quietly. I hadn’t heard a single creak or footstep on the old pine floors of the living room and hallway.

  He swung his burden down and stacked it, along with his staff, by the door, as naturally as if he did it every day. A small smile curved his lips as he gazed around the room.

  “It has changed nary a bit.”

  I cocked my head. “I beg your pardon?”

  He seemed to come back from whatever reverie his mind was caught in and said, “Your cottage. You have not changed it from the way it was built all those years ago. ’Tis comfortable, and it suits you. Not like those soulless manors the gentry are so fond of building these days.” He waved his hands to indicate the two larger structures on either side of me.

  My neighbors might not agree with his description of their million dollar edifices. I gave up looking for the paper cups and got down two large mugs.

  “We’ve changed some things. Dad had air conditioning put in when I was a kid. You don’t do summers in the South without AC. And after Mom nagged him for years, he finally got around to changing out all those icky, avocado green, seventies-era appliances a couple of years ago.” I sucked in a breath. I’d blundered into an area where the pain was still too sharp and fresh. “Less than a year later they were killed.”

  “I am so sorry to hear of your loss. You have my deepest sympathies, Laura.” His voice returned to the velvet purr I’d noticed yesterday.

  “Yeah, it was a drunk driver, out on the Interstate.” I stared into the empty coffee cups, but then turned to him, an eyebrow cocked. “How do you know my name?”

  A flash of confusion crossed his features before he picked up a piece of mail from the stack on the counter. He pointed to the address. “Doctor Laura Chambers. ’Tis you, is it not?”

  I lifted the carafe to fill the cups. “That would be me. What’s your name?”

  “Bob.”

  My hand twitched, spilling coffee on the counter. I grabbed a towel to mop it up. “Bob?” I asked, the odd coincidence making my voice shaky.

  “Aye, but ’tis actually Robert. Robert of Starhollow.” His brogue ran the preposition into the second name, pronouncing it as one word. It sounded vaguely Scottish. “But you may call me Robby, if you wish.”

  “Well, Robby, do you take anything in your coffee? Milk, sugar?”

  “Aye, both.”

  As I turned to put the cup on the table, I noticed he no longer stood in the doorway, but squatted on the floor, my cats gathered around him. Castor and Pollux bracketed him, each getting a thorough ear scratching. Jasmine—shy Jasmine—stood on her hind legs, front paws on his knees, face to face with him. They appeared to be smelling noses.

  “You should feel honored. She doesn’t take to strangers,” I said.

  Even close friends who visited often complained they’d never seen her. The boys, on the other hand, would welcome anyone, even a burglar, as long as he brought catnip.

  “She recognizes a kindred spirit.” He gave each head a final fur ruffling and rose to sit at the table.

  He scooped three heaping spoonsful of sugar into his cup, tasted it, and added another.

  “All that refined sugar isn’t good for you,” I said. “It’s probably the leading cause of the obesity epidemic in this country.”

  Not that there was an ounce on extra weight on that chiseled chest or flat stomach, nor any other place that I could see right now. That thought sent a glow surging up my face, and I hastily took a gulp of my coffee to hide my blush behind the mug.

  “Going to fat will never be a problem for me. ’Tis more that I have trouble eating enough to keep my body fueled to provide the energy I need.”

  Noticing the tracery of white scars across his bronzed hands and forearms, I asked, “Are you in construction?”

  “Nay. Not t
hat I have not laid a few courses of stone in my life or raised a barn or two, but by training, I am a guardian.”

  “Guardian? Is that like a security guard?”

  “Aye, somewhat.”

  I tried to picture him as a mall rent-a-cop hassling teenagers, or an armored car guard with a pistol strapped on his hip, but it just didn’t fit. No, with that sun kissed physique, lifeguard was more likely. Suddenly a trip to the beach sounded intriguing.

  “I was just going to start some breakfast. Why don’t you join me?” The logical, left side of my brain pointed out the inadvisability of inviting a total stranger—a stranger who’d broken into my house last night—to sit down to breakfast like an old friend. My emotional half invited my logical side to butt out.

  “Nay, milady. You have been most kind, but I have caused you more than enough headaches this night. I shall just finish my coffee and be on my way.”

  The milady was back, but this time I didn’t resent it.

  “It’s no problem. I was going to fix an omelet. It’s easy to throw in another egg or two.” Or three or four, I thought, remembering his remark about his appetite.

  “If you are sure I would not be putting you out, I would like that. I would like that very much.” The smile that bloomed on his face made my heart turn little somersaults. My medical training said they were only heart palpitations, no doubt a side effect of all the night’s stress.

  I rummaged through the refrigerator, located onions, peppers, eggs, and cheese, and dumped them on the counter.

  “Where are you from, Robby?” I began washing and slicing the vegetables.

  “Mycon.”

  “I’m not familiar with Mycon. Is that somewhere in the British Isles?” I’d been good with geography in grade school, but the world had changed since then—a lot.

  “Mycon is a quiet little place that no one could point to on a map.” The affection for his homeland came through in the wistful tone of his voice. “’Tis a land of rolling green hills and old forests.”