Part 10 (2/2)

They'd all come to know the volunteers and realize our presence meant food, and we all knew to stay quiet and still while they ate. Like Marcus, I eyed each cat in turn, looking for any signs of injury or illness.

”Where's Lucy?” he whispered.

I looked around. He was right. There was no sign of Lucy, the matriarch of the feral-cat colony. She was usually the first one who appeared to check things out.

I scanned the s.p.a.ce, squinting in the dim light. There was something-I hoped it was feline-over by one of the posts supporting the carriage-house roof.

I leaned forward on the b.a.l.l.s of my feet, grabbing Marcus's arm for balance. He really did smell good, like a fruit salad of orange, lemon and grapefruit. Lucy made her way slowly across the floor. The calico cat was carrying something in her mouth. Or, to be more accurate, she was half dragging something.

She paused. Her ears twitched. I didn't hear anything, but something caught her attention. She looked back the way she'd come for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned back around.

And looked directly at us.

I froze, not even breathing for a moment, because I didn't want to scare her.

The cat put a paw on whatever it was she'd captured so she could get a better grip on it with her teeth. Then she started toward us. Should we move, or would that startle her and the other cats? They were all eating, not even giving her as much as a glance as she pa.s.sed them.

Lucy made her way closer. She still had a very small limp left over from last summer when she'd injured her leg. And whatever it was she was carrying was heavy, close to half her size.

It wasn't a bird; I couldn't see any feathers. I could see a long tail and . . . fur? I tightened my grip on Marcus's arm.

Lucy continued to make her way across the floor. About six feet or so away from us she stopped, dropped her . . . catch on the wooden floor and looked at us. Then she gave the dead animal-I was pretty sure it was dead-a push with a paw.

It dawned on me that she was bringing us a gift. Owen and Hercules brought me things on occasion-a dragonfly, a dead bird, a very hairy caterpillar. Owen had once gifted Rebecca with a dead bat that was bigger than he was.

”Thank you, puss,” I said softly.

She tipped her head to one side and studied me for a second. Then she bent and nudged the gift a bit closer with her nose. With a flick of her tail she made her way over to the feeding station.

We stayed where we were, silent while Lucy ate. My legs were cramping from being crouched in the cold for so long. I kept one eye on the dead thing, just in case it wasn't so dead after all.

One by one the cats finished eating and wandered away until only Lucy was at the feeding station. Like Owen, she liked to sniff and scrutinize every bit of food before she ate it. Finally she stretched, took a couple of steps away from the food and started was.h.i.+ng her face.

I dug my knuckles into the knot in my right thigh. If I hadn't been holding on to Marcus, I would have fallen over. I couldn't help thinking that Lucy was doing this on purpose, knowing we'd have to wait, huddled on the floor by the door until she was finished. From time to time she'd look our way.

Finally she gave one last swipe of her face with her paw. She stretched again and slowly made her way across the floor of the carriage house, back to the shelters. She had the same graceful stride as a lion on a dusty African savannah, and a touch of the same menace.

We could finally get to our feet. I s.h.i.+fted my weight from one leg to the other to stretch out the kinks. Marcus walked over to Lucy's gift. He peered at it and gave the dead thing a push with his toe.

”I think it's just a field mouse,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. Had he thought I was going to go all girly on him and scream?

”My parents did a lot of summer theater and every theater had more than just actors in it,” I said.

”How nice.” He moved around the dead mouse to get the second water jug.

”One summer they did Shakespeare in the park, just at dusk. My mother thought she was sharing a changing area-a tent-with my father.” I started to laugh at the memory. ”Turns out it was a racc.o.o.n, after the ingenue's secret stash of peanut b.u.t.ter cups.”

”Oh, come on. You're kidding.”

”No.” I couldn't keep the laughter from bubbling over. ”I don't know who was more surprised, my mother or the poor racc.o.o.n. There was a prop sword someone had left behind in the tent. She went after the racc.o.o.n with it. He wasn't going to leave those peanut b.u.t.ter cups without a fight.”

Marcus was laughing now, arms crossed over his chest. It was easy to like him when he was just being himself. ”She chased him, at sword-point, out of the tent and across the gra.s.s, right in front of the staging area. And keep in mind she was wearing a lace-up corset and petticoats.” I was laughing so hard that I was shaking.

”So what happened?”

”She got the best review of the entire two-week festival. No one knew it wasn't part of the play.”

We worked quickly to clean up the feeding station. I gathered the dishes and picked up a couple of pieces of dropped food. Marcus put out more fresh water. I looked around the carriage house one last time. Everything else seemed okay.

”Ready to head back?” Marcus asked.

I nodded and picked up the bag with the food and the dirty dishes. ”What about that?” I asked when we came level with the dead rodent.

Marcus made a face. ”I don't think we should leave it here. I don't want to attract any other animals.” He pulled his hat back on. ”I have a shovel in the car. I can at least put it outside, away from the building.”

”Good idea,” I said.

We walked to the car. The sun was stretching up over the trees. I put the bag in the back. Marcus opened the front pa.s.senger's door for me and took a small shovel from the rear.

”Be right back,” he said.

I got in the car and peeled off my hat and mittens. In the cup holder between the seats was a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. I used it to clean my hands. It left them smelling faintly of lemons.

Something was digging into my hip. I felt in my pocket. It was Roma's roll of duct tape. I had to remember to give that back to her.

I unscrewed the thermos top. There was a second cup inside the top, like a nested Russian doll. I kept it out for Marcus.

After a few minutes he was back. He set the shovel in the back and closed the hatch. Then he got in the front seat. ”Done,” he said, reaching for the hand cleaner. He looked at my cup. ”Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

”Sorry,” I said. ”Hot cocoa. Would you like some?”

”Almost as good. I'd love some, please.”

I poured him a cup and handed it carefully over to him.

He took a sip. ”Mmmm, that's good,” he said, his eyes half closed in pleasure at the warmth and taste. ”Old family recipe?”

I laughed. ”No.”

He gave me two eyebrows raised in surprise.

”My mother knows how to make only three things: lemonade, baking-powder biscuits and toast. All my dad can make is a martini.”

”Seriously?”

”Seriously. And the toast thing is iffy.”

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