his breath, Carl tested the ever-thinning branches as he made his way up to the top of the tree. “You sure Mr. Whiskers isn’t part mountain goat?”
He was rewarded with giggles. Giggles he wished he was on the ground to enjoy.
Melinda realized she was holding her breath as she watched Carl’s slow progress. The next second she caught herself gasping as Carl almost missed his step. “Carl, be careful.”
“I’m trying, Melinda, I surely am trying,” he said, his eyes never leaving the cat.
“Mr. Whiskers, Mr. Whiskers,” Mollie cried, pointing urgently skyward. In less than a beat, she was joined by Matt and Maggie, chanting the cat’s name.
Melinda said nothing, only crossing her fingers. If they ever got that cat down again, she was going to tether it to the kitchen table.
“C’mon, cat,” Carl said in a low, soothing voice as he inched toward the feline. “You don’t want to stay up in this tree for the rest of your nine lives. Let’s get down before you make a wrong move and use them all up,” he coaxed.
Mr. Whiskers responded by daintily moving to a lower branch just as Carl was about to catch him. Carl swallowed a ripe curse he wouldn’t have voiced in front of the children for the world. Drawing back, he missed his footing and nearly fell out of the tree. He grabbed a branch just in time. His heart pounded in his ears, blocking out all other sounds.
Melinda screamed, causing the triplets to freeze, not knowing whether or not this was part of the game or if something was very wrong.
“Mommy?” Maggie said uncertainly.
She hugged the little girl hard, then opened her arms as the other two snuggled in. All the while she never stopped watching Carl. “Carl, you come down here,” she called, her voice throbbing. “Never mind about the cat. I’ll call the fire department.”
He didn’t like not finishing something he’d started. It was the stubborn streak in him, that much more surprising because as a rule, he was very easygoing. But he believed in keeping his word, no matter what. That included retrieving cats out of trees.
“It’s a cat, not a fire.” It was a matter of honor now. He made eye contact with Mr. Whiskers and willed him to be still as he worked his way down to the branch where the cat had ceased his odyssey. “They’ve got better things to do.”
“And you don’t?”
“Apparently not.” Carl reached the branch where the cat was. Barely moving, he gained ground at a painfully slow rate. “Okay, Whiskers, just you and me,” he told the cat in a low, guttural voice. “Make you a deal. You let me get you and I promise not to skin you for all the trouble you’ve put me through. How about it?”
The animal stared at him, giving every impression that he’d been almost hypnotized by the soft cadence of Carl’s voice.
In one quick motion, Carl secured the animal. But not without consequences. As the triplets let out a lusty cheer, Mr. Whiskers let out a loud cry. The cat’s claws fanned out in four directions as he tried to scramble for freedom.
Carl sucked in his breath as he felt the cat’s nails make contact with his skin. He saw blood immediately fill in the lines where the Angora’s claws had cut him.
“Calm down, cat,” he warned, “or that skinning offer is off the table.”
Mr. Whiskers kept on complaining. Carl did his best to hold the animal against his chest, trying to remember when his last rabies shot had been.
The journey down took forever, but he finally made it. Carl released the cat when he was five feet off the ground. The disgruntled feline flew from the tree and the odious experience as fast as he could. The triplets came to life, chasing after the cat.
Feeling like a pincushion, Carl jumped down to the ground himself.
“Get him into the house,” Melinda called after her children. She turned around to thank Carl and her words melted on her tongue. There were at least four foot-long scratches on Carl’s arm. “My God, he did a number on you.”
Not as bad as you did, Carl thought as he shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
Examining the wounds, Melinda felt terrible. “I’m so sorry. Mr. Whiskers doesn’t like being messed with.”
“Now you tell me,” he deadpanned. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing my foot.” The next thing he knew, she was taking hold of his other hand and drawing him toward the house. “Let me take a closer look at that.”
He did what he could to resist having her fuss over him, though he had to admit that the scratches stung like crazy. “It’s just a scratch.”
“It’s just several scratches,” she corrected. “And there isn’t any ‘just’ about them. Those look like they could get infected if you don’t treat them and knowing you, you won’t do anything but let them dry. Don’t argue with me, just come inside.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, then thought better of it. She was right, he wouldn’t do anything except dab at them to keep the rest of his uniform from getting blood on it.
With a shrug, he allowed himself to be ushered into her house.
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