She hadn’t been panicked by theirsimple hug last night in the barn, and that’s what must have given her the courage to kiss him. That Robbie had taken over the kiss didn’t surprise her, but that he had ended it so nobly did. The guy appeared too good to be true.
She had finally worked up the nerve to tap him on the nose this morning, and been rewarded with a look of such surprise, that Catherine had been tempted to do it again.
And she probably would have, if she hadn’t caught sight of Michael MacBain bearing down on them like a mountain. He’d brushed past his son and right up to her, taken her hand in both of his large paws, and given her a smile that had curled her insides even tighter.
Robbie was the spitting image of his father; though only a few inches shorter than his son, Michael MacBain had the exact same compelling gray eyes, the same cheekbones and jaw, and the same powerful energy that blasted into a person when he looked at them.
Catherine finished brushing out her hair and pulled it into a tail at the nape of her neck.
Just two weeks ago, she would have run from Robbie’s father as fast as her legs would carry her, she realized, smiling at herself in the mirror.
And that, Catherine decided, was the true definition of magic. In less than two weeks, she’d somehow gone from a mouse to a mountain cat.
She loved that Robbie called her Cat. She loved that she actually felt like one, so much so that she had kissed a towering giant last night without even thinking about where it might lead.
And she had also smacked him with the stick this morning, though she hadn’t really meant to. But at least now she understood why Robbie kept getting beat up. Being big and brave and strong were worthless qualities if the guy couldn’t even stay focused on what he was doing for more than two minutes. Maybe while he was teaching her to use the stick, she could teach him how to pay attention. Maybe a few more smacks on the knee would sharpen his focus.
“Cat,” Robbie called, stomping through the kitchen door. “Cat? I need your help.”
Catherine rushed out of the bathroom but came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the large snowy owl perched on Robbie’s arm, silently staring at her.
“What have you got there?” she whispered, slowly inching closer so she wouldn’t startle the bird. She stopped a few paces away and looked up at Robbie and smiled. “A snowy?
Where did she come from?”
He walked over to the rocking chair by the clock and eased the bird onto the back of the chair before turning to her. “She’s my pet,” he said, shedding his jacket and tossing it on the table. “And she’s hurt.” He walked to the owl and brushed a finger down her wing.
“She’s bleeding and needs to be sewn up.”
Catherine moved over beside Robbie and peered down at the snowy’s belly, seeing the bloodied feathers just above her leg.
“There must be a vet near here,” she said. “Somebody with experience handling wildlife.”
“Nay. I want you to sew her up, just like you did me.”
Catherine frowned at him, then at the bird. “There’s a huge difference between sewing up a small cut on your hand and trying to do the same to an animal without anesthesia.
We can’t explain to her about the pain, and she’ll hurt herself even worse by struggling against it.” She looked back at Robbie. “She needs a vet who has the proper equipment.”
“Nay, she’ll lie still for you. I’ll hold her,” he said, going into the living room and returning with her sewing kit. “Use the pink thread. She’ll like that.”
Catherine was watching the bird, who was dividing her attention between them by turning her head whenever either of them spoke, as if she were following the conversation.
“I can’t just sew her up,” she repeated, the snowy looking at her again. “You remember what it felt like to have a needle run through your flesh. Do you think she’s going to just lie there and let me poke her?”
“Aye,” Robbie said, setting the kit on the table, opening it up, and taking out the pink silk thread, a needle, and her small pointed scissors.
Completely ignoring her argument, he walked over to the cupboard, found a pot, filled it with water, dropped the needle and thread and scissors into it, and set it on the stove to boil.
“She’ll understand you’re trying to help her,” he explained, going over to the owl and holding out his arm.
The snowy stepped from her perch onto his shirt sleeve, folded her wings, and blinked at Catherine as Robbie sat down in a chair at the table. He pulled out another chair to face him and patted it.
“Sit, Cat. Come check out this wound, and tell me if you think it should be stitched.”
Catherine eyed the huge, lethal talons curled into Robbie’s shirt sleeve. “At least put your jacket back on to protect your arm,” she suggested, slowly sitting down beside him, careful not to startle the bird.
But instead of putting on his jacket, Robbie tucked the owl against his chest, cupped her tail feathers with his free hand, and tipped her onto her back, cradling the snowy in the crook of his arm as if she were a baby.
It was Catherine who was blinking now. The owl was lying as still as a statue, looking up at Robbie with complete trust.
“Ah… could you hold her feet for me?” Catherine asked.
She waited until he had both sets of sharp talons firmly grasped in his hand, then leaned over and gently used her fingers to lift the blood-stained feathers on the snowy’s belly.
She leaned closer, using her other hand to part the down just below the small cut. “It’s not very deep,” she said absently, gently feeling the area around it. “And it’s not infected yet. But it would heal better if I set two stitches.”
“Aye. Mary will be just fine,” he said, running his free hand along the owl’s face.
Catherine got up, set a clean towel in the sink, and poured the boiling pot of water over it, letting the towel catch the needle and thread and scissors. She used another towel to pick them up and carried them back to the table. Then she went back to the sink, carefully lifted out the hot towel, waved it a bit to cool it, then wrung it out.
She carried the damp towel back to the table and sat down. “I’m going to clean her up,”
she explained, positioning Robbie’s free hand just below the owl’s head. “Try to keep her still.”
“She’ll not move a muscle,” Robbie said in a croon, smiling down at Mary and tucking his index finger just under her beak.
“She’ll bite you,” Catherine warned. “That beak is as lethal as her talons. Then I’ll have two patients to deal with.”
“But you love tending me,” he whispered, lifting his smile to her.
Catherine rolled her eyes and looked down at the wound, and gently began to clean the blood off Mary’s feathers.
“I would prefer to trim the feathers away, but I don’t want to leave her with a bald spot.”
She glanced up. “I don’t think you want to cage her, do you?”
“Nay. She wouldn’t stand for that.”
“How long have you had a snowy for a pet?” she asked, giving her attention back to the wound.
“Since I was eight.”
Catherine snapped her gaze up to his, then looked at Mary’s face. “Owls don’t live that long in the wild. I’m not even sure they live that long in captivity.”
Robbie shrugged his free shoulder. “I don’t question such things, Cat. I merely accept them for the gifts they are.”
She went back to work on the wound, cleaning the blood off the soft, beautiful feathers.
Finally, she picked up the thread and scissors, cut a length of the silk, and threaded her needle. She poised her hands over the wound and looked at Mary’s face.
The owl’s huge yellow eyes were closed.
Catherine nodded to Robbie. “Hold her firmly,” she said, leaning over and parting the feathers again.
She very carefully pushed the needle through one side of the wound, darted a glance at the owl’s face and saw that her eyes were still closed, and quickly moved the needle across the small tear and through the flesh again, deftly making a snug but not too tight knot. And as fast and as carefully as she could, she repeated the procedure just above the first stitch, using the scissors to snip the thread before she straightened.