with its soft-looking spread and mounds of pillows. At the moment, it looked like heaven on earth. And something told him, after meeting Ms. Inn Proprietor, who seemed attentive to detail, at least where his person had been concerned, she hadn’t been any less so in her accommodations.
And he was right.
A long groan of abject appreciation rolled out of him without a conscious effort as soon as his weight sank into the heavenly perfection that was his new bed. He might not climb back out of it ever again.
He tugged a pillow under his head, tucked another one under his arm, his eyes already drooping before he could even contemplate getting under the covers instead of laying stark naked on top of them…but that was the last thought he had.
Until she screamed.
He shoved up on his elbows and blinked the cobwebs away. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and for a moment thought maybe he’d just been dreaming. Then there came a loud clatter from somewhere outside the back of the house, which had him instinctively moving off the bed and ducking to look out the window in his room before he really put thought to deed.
There, almost directly down below, was Kirby Farrell, Proprietor, hanging from a rather high limb of a huge oak tree. If it hadn’t been for the season and total lack of foliage, he wouldn’t have seen her at all. Her feet and legs were wiggling as she tried to get a better grip on the branch, but it was clearly much bigger around than her slender hands.
He shoved the window open and stuck his head out. “Hang on, I’ll be right down.”
She angled her head to look up, then her eyes rounded and she struggled even more furiously as the movement seemed to loosen her already precarious grip.
Brett turned and headed for his bedroom door; then he belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He hopped into his jeans and snagged his shirt off the floor before running down the winding staircase, pulling the black tee over his head as he went. He had no idea where there might be a back door to the place, so just headed out the front and ran to the back. There he found a long ladder laying on the ground and the innkeeper still hanging on for dear life, far too high above him to drop safely to the ground, or for him to attempt to catch her. He didn’t see where he could climb the tree and get her down without risking shaking her off, so he grabbed the ladder and lifted it off the ground and tried to position it as close to her as he could.
“I’ll hold it steady,” he called up. “Just let me get it against the branch, then swing your leg over so you get your footing. Then you can let go with one hand and grab the side.”
To her credit, she wasn’t squealing or obviously freaking out. She didn’t yell back down to him, either, so he just worked to get the thing as stable as possible. “Okay, just swing your left leg over.”
He could see the grit and determination on her face and found himself still marveling a little over the dichotomy that was Ms. Farrell. She of the cool elegance and cultured features who would look perfectly at home in tutu and toe shoes…was presently swinging from a tree in baggy khakis, a hoodie, and a pair of well-worn hiking boots. He assumed she’d been wearing the very same thing earlier, but he honestly hadn’t noticed. All he remembered really were her soft gray eyes and prim-looking mouth, and the incongruous directness of her personality.
He heard her grunt, then lost about ten years off his life when one hand slipped off the limb just as her other leg caught the side of the ladder. “Grab the ladder! I’ve got you.”
He planted his bare feet in the scruff of winter grass and braced the ladder as best he could. Fortunately, while the width of the limb had made it hard for her to grab on to, it made for steady support for the ladder.
A few seconds later, she was safely on the top rungs and he let out a deep sigh of relief. “I’ll hold it while you come down,” he called up to her.
As yet, other than grunting to get on the ladder, she hadn’t said a single word. And, at the moment, she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to climb down, either. Maybe she was just taking a moment to collect herself now that she was safe. But seconds ticked by and she still wasn’t moving.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said, the word muffled by the sleeve of her hoodie as she was ducking her head between her arms, which were clutching the rungs above.
Her back was to him-well, mostly it was her butt above him-but he couldn’t see her face. “You thinking you might want to come down sometime soon?”
There was a pause, then, “I’m thinking that I need to get this damn kitten to get its claws out of me first.”
What? “What kitten?”
“The world’s stupidest one, who thought that climbing a big tree would be a great adventure, until it got stuck and then figured that climbing all the way out to the end of the limb would be a better bet than just climbing down the damn tree.”
“Ah,” he said, suddenly fighting a smile. “That kitten.”
“Exactly. It’s inside the front of my sweatshirt. Trying to climb me. I just need to-” She shifted a little, and the ladder wobbled, which made Brett jump back into action and brace it again, but that didn’t keep his smile from growing when a rather superlative string of swear words erupted from his heretofore-thought-of-as-elegant innkeeper.
“Maybe your best bet is just to get you both down on the terra firma and then get untangled before either of you does more damage.”
“Oh, I’m going to do some damage all right,” he heard her mutter over his head, as she slowly began to descend, one careful rung at a time. And which he didn’t believe for a second. People who dragged massive ladders out from God-knows-where in order to climb into a centuries-old oak tree to save a terrified kitten were doubtfully the abusive types.
As soon as she was on the ground, he let go of the ladder and took her arms, turning her to face him. “Here, let me get him.”
“Her,” she grunted, “which, I am well aware makes two stupid females stuck in a tree. Just let me pry this one claw out of my-ouch! Dammit, cat!”
Brett carefully unzipped the hoodie to find the most innocent looking, teeniest of tiny baby kittens…presently doing actual bloody damage to the front of its rescuer’s torso.
“Damn,” he muttered as he tried to pry the claws out of both fabric and skin, which brought a few more swear words, but given the situation, her restraint, otherwise, was impressive.
As Kirby was clearly past the point, Brett softened his own voice and did his best to calm the still-terrified kitty and de-prong the thing from the front of Kirby’s body. But every time he got one claw out, the kitty would redouble its efforts elsewhere, as if it were past comprehending that letting go no longer meant a plunge to its death.
Finally Brett ripped his own T-shirt over his head and wrapped it around the kitten’s body, so that when it swiped its feet, it got tangled up in his T-shirt instead. It took a few more very painful maneuvers, but a minute later, he had the little hellion wrapped up.
He crooned nonsense to the fluffball, then winced and swore himself as she got a few of his fingers through the shirt. “Blood-thirsty little thing, aren’t you?” He started to squat down to let her go.
“No! She’ll just go right back up the tree.”
Brett stood but tried to keep the now-squalling, squirming ball of kitten and T-shirt away from his body. “What did you have in mind then? Kitten soup?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She turned toward the back door, which he saw now led to a screened-in porch outside and what looked like the kitchen beyond the door leading inside the house.
“Let’s take her inside,” she said, “see if we can get her calmed down, then I’ll call Pete to come get her.”
“Would Pete be the owner? Maybe he should have been the one climbing the tree,” Brett said as he followed her up onto the porch, still holding the kitten bundle aloft.
“He’s with animal control. Actually, he is animal control.
Only usually he deals with wild animals who get themselves in trouble. I think this one qualifies. These scratches sting like-”
Brett paused at the bottom of the porch steps.
