River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(2)

Lucky was a tabby cat, and Becca guessed she was about five years old. She didn’t know for sure since Lucky had been a stray. Matt had inadvertently struck the cat with his car. He’d been driving to work, crossing an intersection, when the cat had darted into the street. Becca had been in her last year of veterinary school, the job in Columbia, New Jersey, already offered to her upon graduation, when Matt had rushed through the doors with the kitten.



He was panicked, his blue eyes glassy. He cradled the small tabby in the crook of his arm where his bicep bulged underneath his white oxford shirt.

“I think I hit her with my car,” he said to Becca, who happened to be at the front desk filling out a chart.

“Okay, bring her in here.” She led Matt and the kitten into one of the examination rooms.

He carefully laid the kitten on top of the examination table, and Becca was struck by his tenderness with the small creature. She listened to the kitten’s heartbeat. It was faint, but it was there. There were no visible injuries.

“Is she yours?” she asked and looked at the kitten’s eyes with a penlight to make sure the pupils were dilating properly.

Matt shook his head. He was too choked up to talk. After a few seconds he said, “She ran into the street. I was pretty sure I missed her. But when I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw her lying on the side of the road.” He put his hands on his head, looked at the ceiling. “God, what if I hit some poor kid’s pet?”

“I think she’s a stray.” The cat wasn’t wearing a collar, and she was bone thin. Her fur had a stray look about it—not necessarily dirty but not necessarily clean either. There were hundreds of strays in Columbia. Becca guessed this one was only a few months old. As a public service, the clinic spayed and neutered what strays they could to manage the population, but they couldn’t catch them all, and besides, when you were dealing with nature and procreation, well, nature always found a way.

“I’m going to take her to x-ray,” she said after feeling around the kitten’s head and neck, pressing her fingers to its abdomen. “Thanks for bringing her in.”

She dismissed him, letting him off the hook. He was a guy who had hit a cat with his car, and he’d felt guilty about it. But judging from her experience, and the fact that this guy was gorgeous and impeccably groomed down to his manicured fingernails and polished shoes, his actions only meant he had a conscience. What he really wanted was for someone to release him of his burden. She didn’t believe a guy like him—good looks, that body, those strong arms and broad shoulders (she noticed them too)—could be the whole package: gorgeous, smart, and kind. Maybe he was stupid. In fact, she thought as she made her way to x-ray, she was surprised he’d even stopped for the kitten at all, figuring someone like him would’ve driven away without a second thought to what lay on the side of the road.

An hour later when she returned to the front desk, the kitten bruised but with no life-threatening injuries, she was surprised to find the guy in the waiting room.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She’s going to be fine,” Becca said, unable to stop her brow from furrowing as she tried to figure out his true motive.

“Oh, thank God,” he said and reached for her hand. “Thank you.” He searched her white lab coat for her name.

“Becca Kingsley,” she said—a bit snootily, she thought later that evening when she was settling down to study for exams.

“Can I take her home?” he asked.

“You want to take her home?”

He smiled. “Is that a problem? I mean, you said she was a stray.”

“No, it’s not a problem. I guess. Wait here.” She went behind the counter and grabbed the paperwork he would need to fill out if he was claiming the kitten as his. She handed him the clipboard. “We’ll keep her overnight for observation.”

“Good. Great. I’ll pay for whatever she needs.”

When he handed the clipboard back with the paperwork completed, she couldn’t help but glance at his name, Matt Goode.

“Thank you, Becca,” he said and left.

“Who was that?” Vicky, one of the surgical techs, whistled after Matt had walked out the door.

“That was the owner of one very lucky kitten,” she said.

Matt returned the next day for the kitten, later naming her Lucky, and asked Becca to dinner.

She turned him down, claimed she wasn’t hungry, not trusting his sincerity. She couldn’t imagine what they had in common anyway. But he showed up at the clinic again two days later, and again he asked her out, this time for coffee, to discuss her thoughts on catnip. She laughed, couldn’t think of an excuse to say no.



Becca put Lucky down on the floor. The shower stopped, and she made her way to the master bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed. Romy jumped up next to her. Becca began checking the dog for ticks, busying herself while she waited. Whenever she spent any time in the woods or near the river, she checked herself and the dog for pests. There was a large deer population that carried the parasite. Although Romy was given flea and tick treatments regularly, one could never be too careful.

Matt stepped out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. She concentrated hard on not looking at him. Romy kept her head in Becca’s lap. The dog knew something was up.