Cat Telling Tales by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

assuring that if the brakes failed, the vehicle would careen backward down the hill clear to the bottom or until it crashed into a house or car. Five Hispanic men got out. They were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, but something about them was off, they didn’t look like garden workers, they were too focused on the house, too quick yet wary in their movements. Quietly she picked up the cat food, closed the cage door, and headed away. This stray wouldn’t come around now anyway, until these men had left. It was only a few days since the department had raided a meth house just two blocks over, and maybe she was extra wary. Or not, she thought. The meth raid had been a nasty shock to every one of the few families still living in the small neighborhood. She was wondering if she should set the trap up the street, wondering how far this cat roamed, when her phone vibrated. Picking up, she spoke quietly.
    Joe’s voice came loud and clear, shouting with a mewling panic, “Fire! Fire below the ranch, below the north pasture. Fire trucks on the way.”
    She grabbed the empty trap and rose, had hardly hung up when the phone vibrated again. “Fire below the ranch,” Max said. “Where are you? Can you help get the horses out?”
    She ran, swung the cage into her SUV, and headed for home, punching in the single digit for Ryan’s cell phone as she barreled down the hill. Ryan was out trapping, too; Charlie had talked with her once and she already had one young stray safe in her truck. Ryan answered in a whisper, “The cat’s approaching, I’m in my truck. Can I call you back?”
    â€œThere’s a fire below the ranch, I’m going to get the horses out. Come when you can.”
    F or an instant, Ryan hesitated. The cat was so close. A black-and-white shorthair, a tuxedo, very thin, his fur all awry. If she scared him off, it might take weeks to lure him back again. But the horses . . . She held her breath as the cat stuck his head in the trap, but then he paused. She’d give him a minute longer. He must be starving. He hesitated, sniffing the smell of freshly opened tuna, then something spooked him, he spun around and took off.
    Half defeated, half relieved, she threw the cage in the backseat of her king cab and took off fast for home, pausing for tourists and for stop signs so the few blocks seemed to take forever. Skidding into the drive, she ran in hauling the one covered cage, and shut it in the guest room. The cat would be all right for an hour or two. Racing back out, she could hear Rock pawing indignantly at the back door. She left him in the yard, she didn’t need an excited Weimaraner racing among the frightened horses. Maybe it was those old shacks below the pastures that were burning, those ancient workers’ cottages from years ago when the river delta was farmed for artichokes. She thought they were rented now, though how much rent could you charge for an old wooden cabin that let the wind whistle through? The three places were tinder, that was sure, dry as a bone. She could see thick gray smoke ahead, rising over the lower hills, hiding the Harpers’ pasture.
    Turning up the hill beyond the village, speeding up the narrow two-lane, she watched the fire licking up below the north pasture. She had to slow to pass a dozen cars that were pulled over to the side, their drivers rubbernecking. Why did people do that, why did they feel compelled to get in the way, slow down the firefighters and police? She was nearly to the Harpers’ turnoff when she heard Joe scramble up from the backseat, felt his paw on her shoulder. “Can’t you drive faster? Those poor horses.”
    â€œI can drive faster and get us both creamed,” she said, glaring at him. At home, when she’d settled the cat cage in the guest room, she’d called out for Joe but there was no answer, and that had been worrisome. Racing out to the truck, she’d prayed he