Wife On His Doorstep

Now it was time to address the groom, one Robert Winslow, who was still fidgeting because of the cat. As John asked him to repeat his vows, Foggy Dew finally gave up and settled down into a lumpy mass of fur at the guy’s feet, so it was hard to figure why instead of just saying “I do” and moving away, Winslow chose that second to act. With a sneer and a grunt, the man kicked the cat.

John watched in stunned silence as a gray blur of fur, two wild yellow eyes, and twenty extended claws hurled toward him, and though he quickly knelt to intercept her, he was too late. She flew between the railing and the deck and landed with a splash in the river twenty feet below.

Almost immediately, the bride was at the rail, her bouquet of roses and lilies dropped in haste. John, at the rail seconds before her, was marking the animal’s location by lining her up with an outcrop of rock on the shoreline when Megan Morison grabbed his arm. “What can I do?”

The hush that had at first descended was suddenly filled with shocked voices, including Mrs. Colpepper’s, who was demanding the ceremony continue.

John took Megan’s hand and pulled her away from the rail. “Come with me.”

“Now wait just a second—” Winslow began, but by then John was racing toward the stairs leading down, Megan’s hand still in his. On the lower deck, which was decorated to the hilt but devoid of passengers except for the band and the ship’s caterers who were setting up for the reception, he released Megan and pulled a life ring with an attached line from a bulkhead.

As he slid aside the door, which opened close to the water, Megan rushed past him. He grabbed her arm, sure for a second she was going to trip on her long dress and take a dive. She glanced up at him. “I’m okay,” she said.

“Passengers in the water give my insurance adjuster hives. Do you see the cat?”

Together, they scanned the choppy surface of the river. Thankfully they were anchored in a small, calm bight with little or no current but though John easily found the rocks on the shoreline, the cat, similar in color to the gray water, had disappeared. For one long moment, he thought she’d drowned.

Megan was standing so close to him that he felt her body tense as she threw out an arm. “There she is, over there!”

John followed her pointing finger until he made out Foggy Dew’s small head and paws, which were slashing frantically at the water.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he said.

“Just hurry.”

John threw the life ring beyond the cat. As he steadily pulled it toward the frightened animal, he was aware of voices and then of people crowding the lower deck. He tuned them out, directing all his concentration toward reaching the cat in time.

When the life ring loomed by Foggy Dew’s side, she gave it two looks. The first seemed to say, “What in the world is that thing?” The second one was just as clear. “Whatever it is, it’s better than the water.” With determination, she hooked a few claws into the ring and attempted to climb to dry land.

John very gently tugged the ring toward the boat. Over his shoulder, he recognized Winslow’s voice as he snarled, “That damn cat got exactly what it deserved.” The life ring was very close now and John looked over his shoulder to find Megan. He wanted her to hold on to the line as he retrieved the cat.

As he turned, the groom flew past him. With a splash, the idiot landed in the river, his wake pushing the life ring away. Megan, who was staring down at her soon-to-be husband, was white with fury or concern—it was hard to tell which. Mrs. Colpepper screamed, a few of the wedding guests gasped, and John was relieved to see Foggy Dew had held on.

Now he had two passengers overboard, but it never entered his mind to rescue the man before the cat. The fool had jumped in, let him paddle around out there for a second or two—it wouldn’t kill him. Foggy Dew was bursting with unborn kittens.

Mrs. Colpepper appeared at his side. “I demand you pull Mr. Winslow out of the water at once!” she sputtered.

Ignoring her, John found Megan’s hand. “Hold this,” he said as he pushed the line into her hand. He then dropped to the deck, flattened himself out on his stomach and, reaching down, snagged Foggy Dew by the scruff of her neck, lifting her aboard as he stood.

Without hesitation, Megan reached out and took the wild-eyed, sopping-wet cat, who responded to a stranger with a yowl and a manic attempt to escape. Several long red slashes popped out on Megan’s arm as she subdued the animal and folded it within the lacy bulk of her pristine wedding gown.

“Captain Vermont, this is absolutely outrageous,” Mrs. Colpepper screeched. “I won’t stand for this. I simply won’t!”

“Robert doesn’t swim,” an older woman cried. She looked enough like the groom to be his mother, and John turned back to the water. Sure enough, Winslow seemed to be having a difficult time. John quickly cast the life ring out to the man, who looped an arm over it and waited to be hauled aboard.

Jeez, would it kill the S.O.B. to paddle some?

“If Robert doesn’t swim,” John said with conviction as he heaved on the line, “why in blazes did he jump in the river? If he was sorry for kicking my cat, a simple apology would have sufficed. He very nearly made matters worse.”

“But he didn’t jump!” Mrs. Colpepper squealed.

“She pushed him!” the mother yelped, pointing an accusing finger at Megan.

While John pulled Robert Winslow toward the boat, he looked down at the woman who cradled his cat. She met his gaze with a defiant look, the intensity of which was hampered only slightly by the bright pink flush that suffused her neck and face and the trembling of her beautiful lips.

“Did you?”

She nodded.

He decided discretion was called for, so he put off thanking her until later. Instead he turned to the river and, along with a couple of the groom’s men, hauled the man back aboard the Ruby Rose.

Some of the cockiness had been washed away by the cold, clean water, but John knew men like this, and he knew recovery would be swift and sure. Standing on the deck surrounded by friends and family, with water running down his face and dripping puddles around his patent-leather shoes, Winslow still managed to look in control, even with his tuxedo plastered against his sturdy body.

“What in the world did you do that for?” Winslow snarled at Megan.

Hugging the wad of the top layer of her skirt—which presumably held Foggy Dew—close to her chest, she met his gaze and replied, “You kicked a defenseless animal into the river!”

He brushed away that comment with a wave of his hand. “You’ve ruined this ceremony, to say nothing of your gown. Do you know how much I had to fork over to get this boat on such short notice? Now we’ll have to reschedule—”

“I don’t think so,” Megan interrupted.

This statement, uncertain as it was, seemed to stun Winslow, who stared at her as though she was mad. “Meg, you don’t mean that—”

“Yes, I do,” she said, this time more forcefully. “And please, don’t call me Meg.”

He took a step toward her. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Yes, I am. Maybe for the first time in a long time—”

He covered her lips with one finger as if to silence her. “No, you’re not. You don’t want to spoil everything.”

She batted at his hand. “I don’t want to many you,” she stated flatly. “I don’t think I could marry a man who did what you did and then gloated about it.”

Mrs. Colpepper looked near to fainting. “Now, now, dear, wedding jitters, that’s all.” Turning her attention to John, she snapped, “How could you rescue the cat before you came to the aid of Robert Winslow?”

“Easy,” he said, looking for a way out of this mess. Besides marrying people, the other thing John Vermont wasn’t all that crazy about was scenes. Emotional outbursts, accusations, yelling—all this drove him nuts. He tried getting his cat away from Megan, thinking to himself that he could herd everyone up the ladder, deposit the cat in his cabin and get the Ruby Rose back to the wharf in time for a stiff drink and a thick steak. But she wasn’t letting go. Foggy Dew had all but disappeared in the increasingly ruined dress and Megan was too busy being mad to think of anything else.

“Is that what this is all about?” Winslow chided as though Megan had informed him there was a speck of lint on his lapel. “For heaven’s sake, it’s just a cat.”

His tone of voice was so condescending that even if John hadn’t already detested him, he would have been moved to react. “Where in the hell do you think you get off kicking a pregnant animal!” he yelled.

This was the voice that shook shellfish loose from their moorings, and for a second, it served to quell all the chatter. But the moment passed.

Mrs. Colpepper recovered first. “Captain Vermont! Really!”

Another voice piped in. “Mr. Winslow? Should I still be taping all of this?”

At that, everyone turned to see who had spoken. It was the gangly young man who was videotaping the ceremony. He was currently standing on a chair to get a better view. The camcorder pressed to his face and the steady red light said he was still trying to do his job.