drove a few miles, and during that time Frankie waited, hoping he would initiate more conversation, but he didn’t. He simply sat beside her. The shaking eased a bit; nevertheless, it didn’t stop entirely.
“I’d turn on the heater for you, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the air conditioner. Petunia has a few miles on her.” She patted the truck’s worn dashboard with affection.
Her companion merely peered into the dark night, as if trying to recognize something of his surroundings.
In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe herself, too—she offered, “My name is Frankie.”
That got his attention. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”
“Blame it on my mother.” Frankie made a face. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being an actress. Not only didn’t that happen, she ended up marrying my father and inherited the last name of Jones. What a curse for poor Mom. All during her pregnancy with me, she went through book after book of baby names, until she came up with Francesca.”
“Francesca… pretty.”
Ugh, He would say something like that. “It’s not bad,” she said with hard-won grace, “but not for someone like me. Before I was five, I had everyone calling me Frankie.”
Her passenger went back to studying his surroundings. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “I don’t know if I like my name.”
Boy, she’d all but stuck her whole leg in it that time. Frankie shot him an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. No doubt all you need is a good night’s rest.” Belatedly, however, she remembered having read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to let a concussion victim drift into too deep a sleep. She decided she would let the experts warn him about that when she finally got him to the hospital.
It took only another few minutes to reach her home. The Silver Duck was parked on the southwest boundary of Mr. Miller’s farm. Mr. Miller was a widower who owned several hundred acres bordering a creek that fed into the Trinity River. That creek also filled the stock pond where Frankie had parked her trailer. Her agreement with the oldtimer was that she watched over his southernmost boundary—he’d often been the victim of poachers and cattle rustlers—and in exchange, he let her tie into the utility box that he’d set up for a former ranch hand, who hadn’t stayed on.
No sooner did she park beside the hail-damaged and timeworn trailer than they found themselves surrounded by a small herd of animals. Amid the barking, meowing and general ruckus, Frankie noted her passenger’s wide-eyed stare at the three-legged cat that stared back at him through the windshield.
She grinned. “Don’t worry. This only looks and sounds like Little Big Horn. I assure you, they’re all fairly friendly. Hello, babies,” she cooed, as she eased open her door. The animals swarmed around her to nuzzle, lick, and playfully nip at her jeans and T-shirt.
When Frankie made it to the passenger side and opened the door to help out her newest houseguest, he hesitated. “I thought you said dogs and cats?”
“No, you did.”
And there was a dog and cat. Maury, named after a TV talk-show host, was a long-haired German shepherd, blinded in one eye from a carelessly aimed BB gun. The cat was Callie, short for Calico, who often acted as mother to the group, despite her handicap, the result of a near-fatal car accident.
There was also Samson, the potbellied pig, who used his girth to push his way into anywhere he wanted to go. George, a rather distinguished muskovy duck. Her beloved Lambchop, the clubfooted donkey, who brought up the rear of every family parade. And perhaps her most irascible member of the family, Rasputin, a goat with eyebrows as bushy as his long beard.
Once the stranger emerged from the truck, Maury and Rasputin initiated an instant tug-of-war with the blanket. Frankie sighed; she should have known they wouldn’t cut the new guy any slack.
“Guys, guys… not now!”
She gave her crew gentle nudges with her knees and elbows, whatever worked as she assisted her guest up the two steps to the deck she’d built herself last fall. For the most part, though, her efforts to keep her brood away from her guest were wasted. By the time she had the trailer door open, she had a feeling her company was wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off risking a night out under the stars beating off mosquitoes and God knew what else. She didn’t know how to warn him that he was in for round two, except to simply push open the door.
“I’m home!” she called into the darkness.
Even before she found the light switch, she was greeted with a scream. “Erk... save me! Save me!”
From across the room she heard a flutter of wings, and then felt claws grip her shoulder with flawless precision. “Ouch—watch it!” Frankie muttered, flicking on the wall switch.
As the room flooded with light, illuminating the crimson-and-azure parrot on her shoulder, the bird gave her a peck on the cheek. “Erk. Hello, Blondie.”
“You know you’re not supposed to let yourself out until I tell you it’s safe.”
“Erk. Gimmee a kiss.”
Although she complied, Frankie didn’t spare the bird a necessary scolding. “What I should do is let Dr. J. have you for dinner, you juvenile delinquent.”
That was too many words for the creature, and yet Honey seemed to get the message. She glided back across the room and into her cage, quickly tugging the door shut behind her. Just in time, too. Right on her tail came Dr. J., the Manx cat who’d recently come close to successfully slam-dunking the parrot into his food bowl.
“I really do work at keeping these two separated,” she told her guest, who stood mesmerized by the show. “But Dr. J.’s learned how to escape from the back bedroom, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that yet.”
“Are there any more?” the stranger asked, glancing around warily.
“Two. But you won’t meet them until they’re ready. They’re very shy.” She took his arm again. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? We can talk more after. The bathroom’s the first door,” she said, pointing down the hall. “As for clothes… I’m afraid you’ll have to cope with the blanket, or a towel. I do have some sleep shirts, but somehow I don’t think even they’d be large enough.”
The stranger paused, and although he needed the support of the wall to stay on his feet, his gaze was direct—and grateful. “I may be confused, but… I know I’m asking for a great deal from you.”
Mercy, she could spend all night and more gazing into those eyes. “That’s okay.”
“Too much trust.”
“That’s okay,” she repeated, not caring if she did sound like a just-hatched chick.
He didn’t quite sigh, but he might as well have. “Thank you.”
The longer he watched her, the more active her imagination grew, until she began feeling her insides turn to taffy, her cheeks grow feverish. She gestured into the bathroom, while backing toward the kitchen. “I, um, have to feed the gang. Don’t drown in there, okay?”
“Miss…
