Tennessee Rescue

Call of the wild

Game ranger Seth Logan’s peaceful life is thrown into chaos the second Emma French bangs on his door. The fiery blonde clearly doesn’t know the first thing about country living...or its dangers. She’s illegally fostering baby skunks—and worse, she has Seth aiding and abetting her!

Never one to turn his back on a woman or an animal, Seth agrees to break the rules to help Emma—but only until the skunks are old enough to return to the wild and Emma goes back to her life in Memphis. Yet as they care for the babies, Seth finds himself breaking another rule, one that he knows will only lead to heartbreak: never fall for a woman who doesn’t want to stay.

RITA® Award nominee and Maggie Award winner CAROLYN McSPARREN has lived in Germany, France, Italy and “too many cities in the US to count.” She’s sailed boats, raised horses, rides dressage and drives a carriage with her Shire-cross mare. She teaches writing seminars to romance and mystery writers, and writes mystery and women’s fiction as well as romance books. Carolyn lives in the country outside Memphis, Tennessee, in an old house with three cats, three horses and one husband.

Also By Carolyn McSparren

The Wrong Wife

Safe at Home

The Money Man

The Payback Man

House of Strangers

Listen to the Child

Over His Head

His Only Defense

Bachelor Cop

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Tennessee Rescue

Carolyn McSparren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08466-6

TENNESSEE RESCUE

© 2018 Carolyn McSparren

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“Aren’t you going to get in trouble over my skunks?”

“You shouldn’t think of them as your skunks, Emma, or you’ll hate letting them go even more. Yes, I can get into trouble, but I can ask forgiveness.”

“As opposed to permission?”

He rinsed out the sink and hung the dish towel on its hook. And yawned. “Sorry.”

“Go home. Go to bed.”

She followed him to the front door.

He turned, took one step, swung back and reached for her.

It might have started out as a meet-the-new-neighbor kiss, but it got out of hand—fast. She wasn’t used to being lifted off her feet. When he wrapped his arms around her, she felt as if she was being hugged by that bear in the honey tree.

He set her down, let her go, wheeled around and almost ran across the street.

Dear Reader,

City girl Emma French gets fired from her job and dumps her unfaithful fiancé the same day. She moves to the country to recover, but instead, she finds herself rearing three orphaned baby skunks. Although it is illegal in Tennessee to foster skunks, she persuades her neighbor, Seth Logan—a tough, by-the-book game warden—to help her.

Emma knows nothing about animals, and she doesn’t plan to stay in Tennessee—and certainly not with a game warden, even one as sexy as Seth. Although she rocks his world the first time he meets her, Seth realizes she absolutely cannot fit into his life.

They’ve both suffered pain and loss, but with the help of three cuddly baby skunks, they may find their way to one another and to the love that is waiting for them.

I hope you enjoy Emma and Seth’s story and will look for the next book in the series. This is a work of fiction. I hope I got things right, but if I made mistakes, they are my fault.

Carolyn

This book is dedicated to that remarkable group of volunteers called animal rehabilitators who spend a lot of time and money looking after wounded, abandoned and displaced animals. There is even a specially trained group that works with wounded raptors—eagles, owls and hawks.

Each state has its own licensing requirements, but all require that these hardworking folks know what they are doing. The animal doesn’t have to be cute. Turkey buzzard or baby bunny—if it’s in trouble, they help.

Good for them!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

“I HAVE SKUNKS in my pantry,” Emma French said.

The man who opened his front door to her wore the green uniform of a Tennessee Wildlife officer. At least according to the emblem on his mailbox down by the road. Skunks were wildlife, so he should be able to deal with the three in her pantry. She had no intention of touching them. He, on the other hand, looked as though he wrestled moose on weekends—not that there were moose in Tennessee. Skunks should be only a small distraction.

She had obviously interrupted him in the middle of his dinner. He still held a napkin. But this was an emergency, drat it. She expected him to grab a cage or gloves or a net and follow her out into the downpour at once. Instead, he lifted one eyebrow and said, “Interesting. And you are?”

“I’m Emma French, the one who inherited Martha’s house across the street. I just moved in this afternoon and found them.”

He stuck out a hand. “I’m Seth Logan. Moved in here after Miss Martha had to go into assisted living, so I never knew her, but I’ve heard good things about her. Since the last renters left six months ago, everyone in the neighborhood figured the property was up for sale.”

“My rental agent hasn’t located any new renters for me way out here. Can you come get the skunks? Isn’t that your job?”

“Not precisely, no. How big are the skunks? How old?”

“I have no idea how old they are.” She held her thumb and middle fingers apart. “They’re about this size, I guess. Little bitty.”

“Excellent. At that age, they can’t ‘skunk’ you. Their scent glands don’t function.”

“Great. Then you’ll be safe when you pick them up.”

He didn’t move or even ask her in out of the rain. Good grief! The last thing she needed was a useless muscle-bound stud in a snappy uniform living across the road. Judging by that lifted eyebrow and the quirk at the corner of his mouth, she’d bet he had to beat women off with a stick. Assuming he wanted to.

The man was laughing at her! “Sir, I am formally requesting your assistance in getting the wildlife—” she pointed to the insignia on his khaki shirt “—out of my house and back into the wild. Thank you in advance for your assistance.”

Then he really did laugh. Well, more of a snort, but he obviously considered her amusing. She was not amusing. She was a serious executive—okay, a currently unemployed executive—moving into the shambles of a house she’d inherited in the middle of nowhere. She’d expected grime and peeling paint. She hadn’t expected live creatures inside. Definitely not skunks.

As long as they were in residence, she didn’t plan to be. Either they’d have to go or she would. But where? She couldn’t afford to live in a motel for very long, even the rent-by-the-hour place close to the interstate. She had to shepherd her savings and severance pay, in case she didn’t get a new job right away. She’d rather die than ask her father and stepmother for money to tide her over, although they’d gladly help her out if she was desperate. She didn’t plan to ask them unless or until she was desperate.

She’d expected that after three years of renters and six months standing empty, Aunt Martha’s house—her house now—would have problems, but skunks? Ridiculous.

It might take months to find another job as good as the one she’d just been fired from. Until then, she needed to live as frugally as possible. It made no sense to live in a motel while she owned a three-bedroom house on five acres; she’d inherited the place from her aunt Martha with taxes paid and no mortgage. It was empty and urgently needed renovation, but it had a roof and working plumbing. Good enough. She was a stranger here. She wouldn’t have to deal with personal questions.

Aunt Martha’s inheritance was the only thing that did belong to her free and clear at the moment. She still owed money on her SUV, and her little town house in Memphis still carried a hefty mortgage. She didn’t want to sell it. She’d told her agent to try to rent it furnished on a short-term lease.

Okay, so she was escaping. She simply had to get away from all the damned sympathy! Who loses both a job and a fiancé in twenty-four hours?

Living in the boondocks near the Tennessee River was strictly a stopgap. She was a city girl. Period. She’d loved her childhood summers up here with her aunt, but Martha was gone and Emma wasn’t a child anymore. In those long-ago summers she’d come here to a place and a person she loved, someone who’d cared about her, too. Now she wanted sanctuary. She was lucky she had this sanctuary.

“Does your pantry have a door?” Mr. Wildlife asked. Finally, he stood aside to let her in.

She stayed under the porch overhang. No sense in dripping all over his living room floor. “Yes, why?”

“Shut the door on the skunks and forget them. Either they have a way out and will leave on their own, or you can let them out tomorrow morning in the daylight.”

“With all this rain? They’ll freeze.”

“Probably not.”

“Then they’ll starve! Will they find their mother?”

He sighed. “Wish I could say yes, but skunk mothers don’t abandon kits. I suspect she’s roadkill.”

“Oh, no! Then I’ll have to look after them!”

He shook his head. “Not in Tennessee you don’t. It’s illegal to foster abandoned skunks.”

“Why on earth?”

“In east Tennessee they can be rabid. Here in west Tennessee we haven’t had a rabid skunk in a hundred and fifty years.”

“But the law still applies throughout the whole state? So you’re just going to let them starve or get eaten by coyotes? No way!” She turned on her heel. “Thank you, Mr. Officer, sir. Go enjoy your dinner. I’ve got this.”

She could feel his eyes on her back as she stalked down his front path, across the road and through her front door. She didn’t exactly slam it behind her, but she gave it a hard shove. She’d left all the lights on, so she could see her way among the boxes she’d brought with her. She brushed the rain off her short hair, tiptoed through the kitchen and stuck her head in the pantry.

Toss them out to die? Not in this lifetime! The heck with the laws of Tennessee. She’d find a vet to give them rabies shots, then she’d hide them from Mr. Big Lawman if she had to. But what on earth did baby skunks eat?

Inside the pantry, she found the three babies cuddled on the fluffy towel she’d folded up for them and stuffed in a corner. For a second they were so still she was terrified they’d died. Then she saw three furry little tummies rise and fall gently and blew out a breath in relief.

She got a shallow bowl from a kitchen cupboard, half filled it with water and set it carefully beside the towel. One tiny paw waggled at her, almost like a greeting. She had to admit they were about the cutest babies she’d ever seen. Skunks. Who knew?

How long had they been without their mother? Was she dead or trying desperately to get into the house to to reach them? How had they gotten inside in the first place? And, more important, as their foster parent, how was she going to keep them alive and teach them to live in the wild?

She had no intention of living with three skunks with functioning scent glands, but they seemed to have no scent yet. When she finally turned them loose, she wanted to release three skunks proficient in survival skills. Not pets. She’d never owned a pet, and she wasn’t about to start with skunks.

* * *

SETH LOGAN STOOD by his front door and watched his new neighbor march from his house back to hers, then disappear inside. The last thing he needed was a crazy city neighbor with a do-gooder mentality and the practical knowledge of a newt.

At least she wasn’t beautiful. Shoot. On reflection, he decided that when she dried off she might well be beautiful. Not many women reached his six-foot-four-inch height, but she didn’t miss six feet by much, and he suspected she spent hours of city time in a fancy gym to keep what, even in jeans, he could tell was a sleek body.

She might find some yoga classes at one of the churches in the neighborhood, but the closest gym was twenty miles away.

She’d probably brought a treadmill or a stair-climber in the back of that big SUV. Clare had filled his guest room with expensive exercise equipment, but she’d taken it all with her when she walked out on him. He certainly didn’t need it. He got plenty of exercise chasing down poachers and rescuing lost hikers.

He had a sudden vision of his new neighbor in bicycle shorts and a tank top. He felt his face flush and an immediate reaction from other parts of his body that had been underutilized lately.

It had been too long. Much too long. He’d worried last week that Wanda Joe at the DQ was starting to look good to him, even though he and Earl had gone to high school with her children.

What had possessed him to be borderline rude to his new neighbor? She was right to be annoyed. She had no way of knowing that her skunk problem had capped a god-awful day that began at three in the morning with a couple of idiots jacklighting deer on posted property. He’d caught one of them after the guy put a couple of slugs into the stuffed decoy deer, but he’d lost the second one.

Not the woman’s fault, and yet he’d still taken it out on her.

She had no way of knowing what a can of worms she’d stepped into with the skunks. He didn’t want to toss the orphaned kits into the wide world any more than she did. He could stretch the rules for a bit, but rules were made for a reason and he obeyed them. Rules saved lives.

“Heck,” he said, sliding his dishes into the dishwasher. He changed into old jeans and an even older sweatshirt, filled a clean jelly jar with milk, found a couple of cans of dog food left over from before Rambler died, and headed across the road to do what he should’ve done in the first place. Help the woman. He’d worry about a practical solution to her skunk problem tomorrow.

He felt instinctively that having her as a neighbor meant his peaceful life was sliding back down into chaos. Shoot, he was just getting used to peace.

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA JUMPED A foot when she heard the knock. She turned on her front porch light and peered through the antique oval glass set in the door. Ah, Mr. Wildlife himself. He swept off his wide-brimmed hat and shook streams of water off it. So she’d recognize him? Not necessary. She didn’t know anyone else within a hundred miles in any direction, much less a giant in a dripping poncho.

Had he come to arrest her for harboring her three orphans? Just let him try. She opened the door and said, “Yes?” in her coolest executive-of-the-month voice.

“You wanted help.” He held out a small jar full of white stuff that sloshed. “I have an old kitten syringe. You can squirt some milk down their throats. How many, by the way?”

This was more like it. She morphed from uppity to Scarlet O’Hara helpless in one breath, flashed him what she hoped was a killer smile and stood aside so he could come in. “Three. Two girls and a boy.”

“Tell me you haven’t named them.” He hung his dripping poncho and hat on the old hat rack and slipped out of his sodden muckers. He was wearing a khaki sock and a red one.

Big, tough government official couldn’t even match his socks. Probably meant there was no woman living with him. If there was, she didn’t take very good care of him. Trip would no more wear mismatched socks than he’d wear bunny ears to an international conference.

But it was kind of endearing in a goofy way. She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. “I had to call them something to tell them apart.”

He sighed. “Not a good idea. Keep them depersonalized. Makes it easier afterward. So what did you call them?”

“I thought maybe Chanel, Arpege and Brut, but then I decided that might get me in trouble with copyrights,” she joked. “So at this point they’re Rose, Peony and Sycamore.”

He just shut his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, let me see them.”

He handed her the jar of milk and the syringe, followed her to the pantry and dropped onto his haunches beside their makeshift bed. “They’re cold. You got a heating pad?”

“No, I don’t.”

He glanced up at her. “Well, I do. Let’s get them fed and I’ll go get it. Give me the stuff.”

She handed the jar to him carefully. She didn’t want it to slip out of her hands and break on the pantry floor. No worry there. He enveloped the jar with a paw that would make Bigfoot feel inadequate.

For a moment he simply gazed down at the babies. “Cute little buggers,” he said. He went up a good ten points in her estimation.

He took two pairs of rubber gloves from his pocket, handed the second set to her.

“Come here, critter,” he whispered and picked up the nearest baby. There was a comic strip in her local newspaper in which one of the characters was so huge that he could hold his baby in the palm of his hand. This little one was cradled just as effectively.

“Here, fill the syringe with milk,” he said, “then lift the corner of its mouth and slip it in. Do not, I repeat not, jab it in and shoot it down the throat. The milk’ll wind up going into the lungs. They’ve got enough troubles without pneumonia.”

She gulped. Great way to make her feel competent. She lifted the corner of the tiny mouth with her index finger, then with her other hand inserted the syringe and pushed the plunger so that a drop of milk went into the baby’s mouth.

Wonder of wonders, its little throat moved and the milk disappeared. After a dozen further drops, the baby seemed to get the idea.

“Okay, now try the center of the mouth. Easy!” he said. A moment later she actually held a suckling baby—a very hungry baby. The others were stirring, making mewling noises and swimming toward her the way puppies supposedly did when they were just born. They must smell the milk.

“Whoa,” he said and took the syringe. “Don’t you have any brothers or sisters? You can’t let the baby drink down to the last drop. It’ll get a stomach full of air. Besides, it’s had enough.” He set the complaining baby back on the towel and picked up the second. “Okay, this is one of your girls.”

“That’s Rose. She’s the one with the two broad stripes on her head. Peony’s are narrower. Sycamore has two all the way down his back.” This time the nursing went better, and Emma felt she was getting the hang of it. The third baby had problems, but eventually managed a few sips. When she set her down, the towel had begun to smell and felt damp. “I thought they didn’t have any scent yet,” she said.

He grinned up at her. “They don’t. That’s baby poop. In the wild, Momma would take care of it. Since you’ve elected yourself their foster mother, it’s your responsibility. Incidentally, they’ll have to be fed every four hours around the clock and stimulated to go to the bathroom.”

“How do I do that?”

“I’ll show you. Welcome to the world of foster parenthood.” He surged to his feet in one easy motion.

He reached down and offered a hand to pull her up.

She took it and found herself lifted against him as though she’d been shot out of a cannon. He smelled male—no fancy aftershave, just good, basic male.

Oh, boy, talk about pheromones! The hair on her arms stood straight up. She stepped back to get out of his zone, which, at this point, felt as though it might extend all the way to Memphis. “Um,” she said. “Heating pad?”