“She’ll not harm him,” Michael assured John. “They’ve been friends for months now.”
Libby walked over and opened the door for Robbie. “Good-bye, Mary,” she said, reaching out and lightly running her finger over the owl’s folded wing. “Thank you for the gift,” she added softly enough that Michael couldn’t hear. “And come back and visit me again.”
Robbie, pleased that Libby was talking to his pet, walked off the porch and into the night with Mary, all the time keeping up a whispered conversation of his own with the bird.
Libby turned to find Michael hunched down in front of the now very noisy box. Robbie must have brought her a pair of kittens. She pushed Michael out of the way, knelt down, and lifted open the flaps.
Three sets of eyes blinked up at her.
Libby caught one of the kittens when it made a leap for her. She picked it up and held it in front of her face. “Well, hello there,” she said, smiling at the huge green eyes staring back at her.
The kitten let out an impatient mew and wiggled to be set down. Libby set it on the floor and pulled out the other two kittens, holding them up to get a good look at them. They were such small, squirming things that she laughed out loud and put them down beside the other one.
The first kitten immediately began exploring its new home, another one sat down by the box and watched, and the last little ball of fluff hid under the flap and trembled.
Michael swept the frightened kitten up and cradled it against his chest.
Libby smileed at him. “What am I going to do with three kittens?” she asked.
“That’s the entire litter,” he told her, caressing his noisily purring bundle. “Robbie didn’
t have the heart to separate them. Any way he figured it, one would be left alone. So you
’re stuck with all three.”
“He knows which one is the female,” John said, coming over and picking up the quiet, watching kitten. “And he’s got a list of names a mile long but said you should choose, since they’re yours now.”
Libby plucked up the brave one trying to climb Robbie’s jacket and cuddled it against her chest. Three. She was the proud parent of three gorgeous kittens.
Robbie burst through the door, rubbing his hands together against the chill of the night.
“What do ya think, Libby?” he asked, smiling like a proud father. “Ya gotta take all of them, ’cause ya shouldn’t separate a family.”
“I’ll take all three,” she assured him, rubbing her chin against the kitten’s soft fur.
“Which one’s the girl?”
“That one,” he said, pointing at Michael. “Uncle Ian says she’s the runt of the litter and needs special attention ’cause she’s scared of everything.”
“Why don’t ya get the supplies from the back of the truck,” Michael suggested to Robbie, “and set them up in the downstairs bathroom for Libby?”
“What supplies?” Libby asked. “I’m not going to feed them in the bathroom.”
“The litter box,” Michael explained, handing her the female kitten and going to the counter. He picked up the apple pie and carried it to the table.
The man was still hungry after the supper he’d just eaten? John handed her his kitten and joined Michael. Libby turned the box on end and pushed all three kittens inside.
The brave one immediately shot back out, but the female and the other one started licking each other.
Careful not to step on the exploring kitten, Libby cleared the table of empty plates and reset it with clean ones. She took the ice cream out of the freezer and brought it to the sink before she opened the sticky bag. The ice cream was a bit soft but still edible. She slid it into a bowl and brought it to the table, along with clean forks and spoons.
Robbie came in carrying two bags and a large bin. He disappeared into the bathroom, and Libby sat down at the table.
John rubbed his hands together. “Oh, boy. You topped it with brown sugar crumble and cheddar cheese,” he said, eyeing the pie. “And you didn’t skimp on the apples.”
More interested in eating it than in admiring it, Michael cut the pie into four pieces and started dishing it out. Libby’s eyes nearly crossed when he set one of the plates in front of her. He expected her to eat a quarter of a pie? She watched as nearly a pint of ice cream landed on top of her piece. She wasn’t going to gain five pounds this winter, she was going to grow wider than she was tall.
The brave kitten started climbing up her pants leg, and Libby reached down, dug his claws out of her knee, and held him on her lap. Robbie came to the table, wiping his newly washed hands on his shirt, and sat down and grinned at the kitten peering over the top of the table.
“What are ya going to name them?” he asked.
“This one will be Trouble,” she told him.
“Nay. He won’t be any trouble,” he said worriedly. “Ya just have to keep an eye on him, is all.”
“I don’t mean I don’t want him,” Libby quickly assured him. “I’m naming him Trouble.
And I’m calling the female Timid.”
Robbie was surprisingly quick to catch onto her theme and smiled with relief. “Then I think ya should call the other one Guardian, ’cause he’s always looking after his brother and sister. And he’s really the smartest of the three. Trouble doesn’t always pay attention to what’s happening around him. Uncle Ian and I had to move a whole row of hay just to get him unstuck, after Guardian alerted us to the problem. And he always stays close to his sister, no matter how much he wants to explore.”
Libby noticed that Michael had stopped, his fork halfway to his mouth, to listen to Robbie’s story. His features had tightened, and he had gone deathly still.
“Guardian, huh?” she said to Robbie, keeping her attention on Michael. “Then that’s what I’ll name him,” she agreed, setting Trouble down on the floor and pushing him toward his siblings. “How’s the pie, Michael?” she asked.
“Too tart?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s perfect,” he said, finally lifting his fork to his mouth.
Libby looked down at her own plate. She couldn’t possibly eat another bite. She pushed the dish away and stood up to clear the table of everything but the men’s dessert.
Michael snatched her own plate closer so she wouldn’t take it away.
“If you’re not going to eat it,” he said, “then I can’t see letting it go to waste. Robbie, where did ya come up with the nameGuardian?” he asked, turning his attention to his son. “Why notAngel orWarrior or something like that?”
“Ya can’t call a boy cat Angel, Papa,” Robbie said, rolling his eyes. “AndGuardian andWarrior are different. A warrior has a duty to protect, but a guardian has a higher calling. And the kitten knows this, and so that makes him a guardian.”
Libby stared in fascination. The boy sounded more like a philosopher than his daddy did.
She kept an eye on Michael as she walked to the fridge with the butter. His eyes were gleaming, but his fist was clenched tightly, his complexion was pale, and he was eerily still again.
“What higher calling?” he softly asked.
Libby saw Robbie shrug as he ate a mouthful of pie. He swallowed and said, “I don’t know, Papa. It’s just something I understand but can’t explain.” The boy shot his father a worried look. “But being a warrior is good, too. And very noble.”
“Aye,” Michael agreed. “Very noble,” he softly repeated.
“How about we call him Noble?” Libby suggested.
“That’s a nice name.”
“Nay,” Michael whispered, turning his attention from Robbie to her. “Call him what he is. Guardian.”
Libby had never witnessed such an odd conversation. It was as if Robbie and Michael were the only ones who knew what they were talking about. John, apparently having witnessed many discussions like this over the years, was happily eating his pie and ice cream.
Libby turned from Michael’s intense stare and started running hot water into the sink of dirty dishes. She added soap, listened to the silence broken only by the clink of forks touching plates, and contemplated the imagination of an eight-year-old boy. She thought about Michael’s reaction, both to the stick Mary had brought her and to Robbie’s choice of a name for a tiny kitten.