Read Online 3 Panthers Play for Keeps by Clea Simon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clea Simon
Ads: Link
parking area, my car. I wanted to go home.
“Home .” There! It was so faint, I could have missed it. Thought I did, for a moment, until I sensed Spot looking up at me, as if waiting for a command.
“Home? Spot?” I had to check, but no, the word—that slight echo—had not come from the dog by my side.
“Home.” I said the word out loud now, trying to conjure up all the images the word provoked. Warmth, a soft chair. A fireplace.
“No!” I stepped back, the force of that monosyllable was so strong. Beside me, Spot shuffled backward a bit too, the slightest whimper barely breaking the air.
Was there something about a fireplace—about fire? It was true that wild animals had no reason to love flame. More often than not, fire meant destruction, rather than warmth. But that didn’t have to be: I thought of the coziness of my own living room, especially when the rest of the house was set to an economical chill. I thought of the warmth on my feet. How the logs smelled, and how Wallis would stretch out by the hearth, her paws outstretched at her most cat-like.
“Cat?” There it was again. Strong and…could it be? Curious? For a moment, my stomach clenched in panic. Of course, a house cat like Wallis would be of interest to something big and wild and in the woods. My little tabby might fancy herself worldly, wise, and tough as nails. In reality, she’d be at best a tender morsel to a creature big enough to take down a woman. To a…
“What are you?” It was useless, and I knew it. We humans are cursed with self-awareness. A few of our domestic animals have it. I thought of Growler, who had battled with his person’s interpretation of his gruff nature from Day One. Most animals, though, are blissfully unselfconscious. They eat, they mate. They do what instinct and training urge them to do to continue to exist in a harsh and thankless world. They do not ruminate on their very natures, or on the relative gifts and liberties granted to other species. At least, not often. Growler had made his own kind of rough peace with our kind, with our domination of him and his world. Wallis, on the other hand…
“Cat!” There it was again, only this time I was ready.
“No!” I yelled back. I didn’t care that Wallis was at home, miles away, and theoretically safe inside our old house. I didn’t care that I had provoked this reaction, calling up some primal urge with my own mental image of my soft and warm pet. Maybe it came from being a certain age still childless. Maybe from my uncommon bond with my longtime tabby companion. Maybe it was the simple orneriness of my nature, a trait that has gotten me in trouble many times before and was now compounded by fear, by stiffness, and the growing pressure in my bladder. I’d had enough. “No! No cat.” I yelled, waving my arms as if in a shooing gesture. The thought in my mind went out as loud and as hard as I could send it. “No cat, no. Not for you.”
I got something—a flash, a feeling. A connection. I’d been heard, if not understood. And then suddenly, nothing. I’d been staring at the underbrush for so long, I didn’t trust my eyes, but surely there was a motion, a rustling of the old, dead leaves, a swaying of the overhung branches. I should have been afraid—riling a wild animal is not generally smart policy. Maybe it was my anger that was keeping me afloat, maybe it was instinct. I felt…okay. And then the rustling stopped. The branches settled back into stillness, and I knew, even before Spot leaned his warm presence up against my leg, that whatever had been in there had gone away. Either my outburst had scared it off, or my denial—no cat—had sent the message. We were not prey. Not today. It was gone.
Chapter Eleven
I couldn’t wait to get home. No matter what my rational mind was saying, my animal brain was urging me home, to Wallis, in the most urgent tones. Spot seemed to acquiesce: I had the strangest feeling that he was puzzling things over
“Home .” There! It was so faint, I could have missed it. Thought I did, for a moment, until I sensed Spot looking up at me, as if waiting for a command.
“Home? Spot?” I had to check, but no, the word—that slight echo—had not come from the dog by my side.
“Home.” I said the word out loud now, trying to conjure up all the images the word provoked. Warmth, a soft chair. A fireplace.
“No!” I stepped back, the force of that monosyllable was so strong. Beside me, Spot shuffled backward a bit too, the slightest whimper barely breaking the air.
Was there something about a fireplace—about fire? It was true that wild animals had no reason to love flame. More often than not, fire meant destruction, rather than warmth. But that didn’t have to be: I thought of the coziness of my own living room, especially when the rest of the house was set to an economical chill. I thought of the warmth on my feet. How the logs smelled, and how Wallis would stretch out by the hearth, her paws outstretched at her most cat-like.
“Cat?” There it was again. Strong and…could it be? Curious? For a moment, my stomach clenched in panic. Of course, a house cat like Wallis would be of interest to something big and wild and in the woods. My little tabby might fancy herself worldly, wise, and tough as nails. In reality, she’d be at best a tender morsel to a creature big enough to take down a woman. To a…
“What are you?” It was useless, and I knew it. We humans are cursed with self-awareness. A few of our domestic animals have it. I thought of Growler, who had battled with his person’s interpretation of his gruff nature from Day One. Most animals, though, are blissfully unselfconscious. They eat, they mate. They do what instinct and training urge them to do to continue to exist in a harsh and thankless world. They do not ruminate on their very natures, or on the relative gifts and liberties granted to other species. At least, not often. Growler had made his own kind of rough peace with our kind, with our domination of him and his world. Wallis, on the other hand…
“Cat!” There it was again, only this time I was ready.
“No!” I yelled back. I didn’t care that Wallis was at home, miles away, and theoretically safe inside our old house. I didn’t care that I had provoked this reaction, calling up some primal urge with my own mental image of my soft and warm pet. Maybe it came from being a certain age still childless. Maybe from my uncommon bond with my longtime tabby companion. Maybe it was the simple orneriness of my nature, a trait that has gotten me in trouble many times before and was now compounded by fear, by stiffness, and the growing pressure in my bladder. I’d had enough. “No! No cat.” I yelled, waving my arms as if in a shooing gesture. The thought in my mind went out as loud and as hard as I could send it. “No cat, no. Not for you.”
I got something—a flash, a feeling. A connection. I’d been heard, if not understood. And then suddenly, nothing. I’d been staring at the underbrush for so long, I didn’t trust my eyes, but surely there was a motion, a rustling of the old, dead leaves, a swaying of the overhung branches. I should have been afraid—riling a wild animal is not generally smart policy. Maybe it was my anger that was keeping me afloat, maybe it was instinct. I felt…okay. And then the rustling stopped. The branches settled back into stillness, and I knew, even before Spot leaned his warm presence up against my leg, that whatever had been in there had gone away. Either my outburst had scared it off, or my denial—no cat—had sent the message. We were not prey. Not today. It was gone.
Chapter Eleven
I couldn’t wait to get home. No matter what my rational mind was saying, my animal brain was urging me home, to Wallis, in the most urgent tones. Spot seemed to acquiesce: I had the strangest feeling that he was puzzling things over
Similar Books
