The butter would be stored now, under lock and key, just like everything else. He had gambled with his last card in hopes of distracting her and he had failed utterly. Because she had the phone in her hand and a look of fierce determination on her face.
“My cat is acting bizarre,” she muttered, obviously working up her courage and her conviction.
Bizarre? Excuse me? Who was forgetting to fill the food dishes?
“Conan needs a cat door.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, unaware that Conan had crept back and was watching her.
“Mr. West?” she said. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you? It’s Bridget Daisy here.” She tucked the phone under her ear and scraped the butter into the garbage. She closed the lid with a snap. “We need to talk about the cat door.”
But Conan was sadly aware that whatever transpired between Bridget and Justin Pest next, the cat door was only an excuse.
Still, he had lost the battle—and the butter—but not the war. Surely he was a crafty enough cat that he could get rid of this new threat to his and Miss Daisy’s world? That world was topsy-turvy enough with the whole diet thing, never mind adding the complication of a barbarian.
If he played his cards right, Conan thought there was a possibility he might get his cat door first before dispatching the barbarian.
Who needed butter when the world was full of purple finches?
It had been a bad week. Conan had been starved, he was bald and now he had been unfairly labeled bizarre. Still, all cats had been blessed with a gift that the great philosophers and spiritual leaders of the ages tried, largely unsuccessfully, to emulate.
No one could detach from their difficulties and immerse themselves in the pure joy of the moment quite like a cat. Conan lifted his paw to his face and removed some of the lovely pale yellow substance that clung there. He licked it delicately and sighed with bliss.
Ah, Foothills. His favorite creamery.
Chapter Three
Justin folded his arms behind his head and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. He’d called Bridget Daisy “trouble” right to her face, and she’d still come begging, which probably meant she was double trouble.
Not, he decided, that you could call what had just transpired between them “begging.” No, dear Miss Daisy had told him how it was going to be, right down to the price she was going to pay—two thousand one hundred and fifty dollars for a custom cat door and a new cedar fence, including materials and labor—and when she expected work to commence.
First thing tomorrow morning, as if he didn’t have a house nearly at lockup and three other homeowners breathing down his neck.
A saner man would have just said no. But he already knew every other contractor in town had said just that. Except for Duncan Miller, who’d said he’d do the job for nine grand.
“I bet I’d earn every penny of it, too,” Duncan had told the other contractors who generally gathered for early-morning breakfast at the Roundup Grill and Flap-jack House on Main Street.
Oh, yeah, Miss Bridget Daisy had been the talk of the morning-contractor crowd for a week now. They poked fun at her mercilessly. Several copies of her SOW and COW were in circulation.
Justin didn’t join in the fun. For one thing, he was at a disadvantage. He was the only one who had actually seen her. The rest of her contacts had been by phone or fax or courier. So all those guys poking fun at the eccentric old-maid librarian really didn’t have a clue.
And Justin didn’t enlighten them. He didn’t tell them she wasn’t old and she wasn’t ugly. He didn’t correct them when they guessed that her panty hose bagged around her ankles and that she bought her dresses in extra-large at Wilson Brothers Tent and Awning.
When the guys painted imaginary pictures of her with granny glasses, pinched face and pursed lips, Justin didn’t say one word about eyes a shade of green that haunted him every night before he slept. Or about copper-colored hair that looked as if it needed to be freed from that bun, needed to have a man’s hands hauled through it.
Justin told himself his failure to join in the funfest being provided by the circulating cat-door contract and prospectus was only out of loyalty to Fred. Who wasn’t actually speaking to him and who had not spoken to him since he had mentioned that his meeting with Bridget Daisy had not gone well.
“Yeer tellin’ me,” Fred had said sourly, “that a big fella like you was sceered of her waving a few pieces of paper at yar? Poor girl. She must have been taken advantage of afore to be workin’ so hard at protectin’ herself.”
Justin had not wanted to think about it in that light. But he had anyway. He’d thought of that every time another contractor sat down at the Roundup and entertained anyone who would listen with a tale of her call about her cat door. They made fun of what they called her “snooty New England accent.” The sow and cow jokes were flying hard and heavy, with new ones created all the time. They conjectured about her looks and put warts on her nose. They wondered about the exact nature of her relationship with the cat, figuring she was probably casting spells at midnight.
Justin alone knew that with those eyes she didn’t have to wait until midnight to cast a spell—or need the cat either.
Justin told himself he hadn’t joined in because he had better things to do than poke fun at the town librarian. It bothered him that he saw men he had worked with and joked with and eaten breakfast with and drunk beer with in a new light—as if they were small and mean-spirited and didn’t have nearly enough to keep them busy.
He felt he could probably attribute this high road of thinking to Fred, but he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
The whole truth was he hardly knew the woman and already their acquaintance was forcing him to be a better man. Justin hated them laughing at a woman who was misguided but not mean or vicious. She wasn’t even that strange. She just didn’t know anything about their world and how it worked. Was that a crime?
The whole truth was that Justin wished she wasn’t scared of being vulnerable, and after seeing the lunk-heads having such fun at her expense, he understood perfectly well why she was.
And now, staring at his ceiling, he told himself he was going to do the job because of Fred, but he knew in his heart of hearts that wasn’t the entire truth either.
There was just something about Miss Daisy that was driving him crazy.
In that moment of vulnerability, shaken by sleep as he had been by the husky loveliness of her voice, he admitted what it was.
He wanted to see her again.
Ached for it.
“Trouble,” he said out loud. “Justin West, she means trouble.”
He was the wrong kind of man to deal with a woman like her. He was all rough edges, and she was all polished refinement. He had learned almost everything he knew about life—and he figured that was plenty—from the school of hard knocks. She came from an ivory tower. What she knew about the real world he could probably put into a thimble. And what he knew about her world—of books and culture and all that crap—could fit in the same size container.
“Hey, West,” he told himself sternly. “You’re going to build her a cat door. You’re not proposing marriage.”
Oh, yeah, she’d be that kind of woman. The kind who liked commitment and rings and church bells and everything done just so. He could tell by the way she kept her house and treated her cat. She was just dying to get her hands on something worth caring about.
At least he knew for sure that was not him.
He liked putting his feet on the coffee table and eating supper right from the can. He liked fishing and hunting