The Sergeant's Christmas Mission. Joanna SimsЧитать онлайн книгу.
their mother had never let Rebecca forget it. She had been an A student, always on the honor roll, went straight to college after high school, married a sensible man after she graduated and then started her own business.
“Well.” Rebecca turned the key to start the car. “The boys are in school and I have a ton of stuff to do, Kell. Thanks for checking on me.”
Another pause.
“You’re welcome,” her sister said flatly.
They hung up and Rebecca headed home. As she always seemed to do after a conversation with Kelly, she litigated the conversation all over again, saying the things she could have said if only she had thought about it in the moment. She felt like she never really won a conversation with her sister. Kelly had been one of the major “cons” on the list when she had been contemplating living in her inheritance versus selling it and buying a little farm with some land in Manchester. It was a short drive back to the house that didn’t feel at all like home.
Rebecca walked past her front door and headed to the garage apartment instead. All that was inside of the house was a bunch of unpacked boxes and wayward Cheerios; just thinking about unpacking all of those boxes and cleaning up the kitchen made her feel tired. Better to find a place for the kitten first and get that task off her mind.
Aunt Ginny’s attorney, who had handled her aunt’s estate, had only mentioned the positives of keeping Shane as a tenant—he always paid his rent on time, kept to himself, didn’t have company always coming and going, and he helped out with the yard work and light maintenance of the home. She had never wanted to be a landlord—she didn’t like confrontation, discussing money or dealing with fixing stuff that might go wrong. But the idea of having some extra income to handle monthly expenses made her realize that she didn’t have a choice but to give the whole landlady thing a try.
The attorney did not mention that Shane Brand was a veteran with what appeared to be a shipload of issues. Right off the bat, she was going to have to address the elephant in the room: the garage apartment smelled like a marijuana factory. Why couldn’t Shane Brand have been easy to handle?
With a sigh, Rebecca knocked on her tenant’s door. First she would help the kitten, and then she would deal with the tenant problem. She wished she could make Caleb happy and keep the kitten. She just couldn’t take responsibility for one more life. Not right now. Maybe later.
“Hey.” Shane opened the door. He looked different—he’d taken a shower, and he was wearing clean clothes and shoes. His blue eyes, so much brighter than she remembered, were worried. “There’s something wrong with the kitten.”
She followed Shane to the back of the apartment, her mind naturally registering that Shane had cleaned up the small space quite a bit while she was gone with the boys. At the back of the garage apartment, in a room only big enough to fit a full-size mattress, Recon was on the unmade bed, whining and licking the kitten’s head.
“He hasn’t opened his eyes.” Shane knelt down beside the bed.
She joined him, taking inventory of the kitten’s condition. “How long has he been like this?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was cleaning up. I thought he was sleeping.”
“Have you checked to make sure he’s still breathing?”
She reached out her hand, but Shane stopped her.
“Recon is real protective of this little guy,” the ex-soldier told her. “I checked. The kitten is breathing. Barely. I was just getting ready to take him to the vet.”
“I’ll go with you.”
The kitten was listless but she could see that he was still faintly breathing.
“We’re trying to help him, buddy,” Shane said in a soothing tone to his dog. “You’ve got to let us help him.”
When she first saw Recon, he’d made her nervous. He was a massive dog, all muscle and as black as a moonless night sky. But to see him protecting that tiny, helpless kitten touched her. He wasn’t so scary after all.
Recon growled low and long in his throat when Shane reached for the kitten. For a tense moment, Rebecca actually thought that the German shepherd was going to bite his owner. She let out her breath, unaware that she had been holding it, after Recon let Shane pick up the kitten and wrap the little ball of fur in a towel.
Shane handed the kitten to her. “I’ll drive,” he said.
“Are you sober?” The question flew out of her mouth, which was unusual for her. She’d grown up with a father who tied-one-on every couple of weeks, and she could spot a hangover on someone from a mile away.
Shane opened the door for her and let her walk out first. “Yes.”
“Sorry.” She cradled the kitten in her arms. “I had to ask.”
“I don’t blame you.” Shane pulled the door shut. “But I’m good.”
They rushed out to his refurbished antique candy-apple-red Chevy truck. Recon took his position on the middle part of the bench seat and she climbed into the passenger side.
“What if they can’t take us?” She rubbed the top of the kitten’s head with her thumb, trying to comfort him.
“They will,” he assured her. “I’ve known these folks for a long time.”
It was a tense ride; she prayed all the way to the vet’s office. Shane periodically glanced over at the kitten and repeated the same phrase, “Hang in there, little guy. We’re almost there.”
Ever since he was a kid, Shane couldn’t stand to see an animal suffer. He also hated to see Recon, who was still faithfully watching over the kitten, so worried and upset. They were lucky that Dr. Harlow could get them in after only a few minutes of waiting.
“I tried to give him water. He couldn’t drink anything,” Shane explained to the vet.
Dr. Harlow, a woman in her midfifties with frizzy, short salt-and-pepper hair gently handled the kitten.
“It’s a she,” the vet informed them. “When did you find her?”
“He’s a girl?” Shane asked.
“She’s a girl, yes.” Dr. Harlow sent Shane the smallest of smiles.
“This morning,” Rebecca told her. “Under my front porch. I have no idea how she got there. I didn’t see a momma kitty or siblings anywhere.”
“Unfortunately—” Dr. Harlow manipulated the kitten’s belly “—she could have been dumped. Or her mother and siblings could have been killed.”
“I thought of that.” Rebecca frowned.
“She’s severely dehydrated and malnourished. And she has an eye infection and an upper respiratory infection.”
Shane instinctively put his hand on Recon’s head, as much to comfort himself as the dog.
“Will she survive?” he asked the vet.
Dr. Harlow’s slow response to his question raised his level of anxiety. The kitten’s survival wasn’t guaranteed.
“I’d have to draw some blood to know what’s going on with her liver and her kidneys. We can treat the dehydration and infections,” the vet told them. “Other than that, I need the blood work.”
“Can I ask,” Rebecca asked with a concerned expression in her pretty hazel eyes, “how much would all of that cost? The fluids and antibiotics and the blood work?”
“I’d have to get the front desk to figure out a total for you...it could be as much as four hundred, five hundred dollars.”
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