Page 10 of Animal Tamer
“He likes you,” Rowe says confidently.
I snort. “He doesn't know me.”
“He knows enough.”
I look up at him, and he's already watching me. That gaze. It's not predatory like the one the knife thrower threw at me on the steps. It's different… Heavier. Like he's not sure what to think of me.
My throat starts tickling, and I clear it.
“Half-blind?” I ask, because I need something to look at that isn't him.
“Left eye.” Rowe rests his forearm on the rail. “Came out of a tourist outfit in Florida. They had him hauling kids for photos in the parking lot of a strip mall.”
My eyes start to prickle as he speaks. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. He's fifty-two now. He's earned his retirement, but he likes the routine, and he'd be miserable without us.”
I watch Rome lift a hunk of melon out of the tarp puzzle with the tip of his trunk. His tail swishes contentedly. After a moment, we move on.
The zebra is in a paddock with a brown-and-white pinto pony for company. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder under a shade canopy, tails flicking in lazy synchrony.
“Cleopatra gets lonely,” Rowe says. “Pony's name is Domino. Another rescue.”
“You collect strays,” I remark.
“Something like that.”
Cleopatra ambles over when she sees him, and Domino follows. Rowe reaches into a side pouch on his belt and produces two carrot pieces, one for each, and the zebra takes hers from his palm with a gentleness that doesn't match her teeth.
He holds the second piece out to me, eyes on mine. “Flat palm. Fingerstogether.”
“I know how to feed horses,” I mutter crankily. “I'm a veterinarian, Mr.—Rowe.”
When he purses his lips like he's holding back a smile, I quickly take the carrot.
Domino's whiskers tickle, but his muzzle is velvety. He huffs a warm breath across my wrist, and the carrot disappears, and I feel a stupidly wide grin split my face.
When I look up, Rowe is still watching me. Not the animals. Me.
I duck my head and pretend to fuss with my kit strap.
The lion's enclosure is the one I've been bracing for. I've prepared the speech a dozen times in my head since we left Peanut. The one about whipping, about declawing, about dental damage that circus lions usually carry. I have arguments ready for every excuse he could give me.
I don't need any of them.
The lion is enormous. He's lying on his side in deep, clean straw, his tail curled lazily over one massive paw, watching us approach like a housecat watching the can opener.
He has all his claws. The pads of his paws are intact, his canines unworn, his coat full and glossy.
Rowe steps to the wire, and the animal's head comes up. The lion lets out a soft conversational chuff, and his amber eyes lock onto Rowe with what I can only describe as affection. Not the wary tolerance of a captive animal, more like… the easy regard of an old friend.
“Hey, Caesar,” Rowe says softly. He doesn't reach through the wire but stands close enough for Caesar to push his head against the mesh where Rowe's palm rests on the other side.
The lion's eyes close. So does my throat.
“He chose you,” I say hoarsely.
“What?”
