There. Number seventy-five, a black mailbox marking the nearly hidden driveway. I turned so hard and fast the car fishtailed, causing Bowie to yip and scrabble to keep his footing on the car seat.

Thank God! There were lights on. He was home.

I hurtled out of the car, popped open the trunk, grabbed the tarp edges and swung the package out, then ran awkwardly up the steps, cringing as my shins bumped the turkey.

Ian was already opening the door. “Callie? What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I killed it,” I blurted, my tears flowing anew. Pushing past him, I staggered through the great room and slung the tarp onto the table. “I killed a turkey.”

“Callie, I eat there,” he said, eyeing the bundle. “And have you ever heard of avian flu?”

“That was just a scare tactic used by the Bush admin—Ian, can you just check it? In case it’s maybe still alive? Or not quite dead? Please?” I took a shuddering breath, then ran to the sink to wash my hands. The bird might not have avian flu, and I didn’t actually touch it, but Ian had a point.

“Sure,” he said, following me into the kitchen.

“If it needs to…you know. To be put down, do you have the stuff here?” I said raggedly, wiping my hands.

“Yes.” Opening a drawer, he took out a pair of latex gloves, then passed me a box of tissues. “If you hit it, Callie, it probably is dead,” he said gently, pulling on the gloves. “They don’t have much chance against a car.”

I nodded, tears still leaking out of my eyes. I had no great love for turkeys, but I didn’t hate them, either. I certainly didn’t want to kill any. Even at Thanksgiving, I always felt a pang…sure, I ate heartily—I loved turkey—but…there’d always been that pang.

Ian went over to the table and lifted the tarp-wrapped bird down onto the floor. He knelt beside it and pulled back the plastic. “Wow, this is a big one,” he murmured. I approached, standing just behind Ian, and without thinking, I reached out and gripped his shoulder, biting my lip hard. The bird’s eyes were open and unblinking, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Is it dead?” I whispered, tears dropping onto Ian’s shirt.

He looked up at me. “It seems to be.”

My face scrunched. “Oh, dammit,” I squeaked. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

“Now, Callie, come on,” Ian said, rising. He took off his gloves and dropped them on the floor, then took my shoulders. “You couldn’t help it.” His eyes were kind. “It happens all the time.”

“I never hit an animal before,” I whispered, fighting off sobs, though my breath still hitched in and out.

“I’ll bury it,” he offered.

“Oh, thank you, Ian,” I said.

Suddenly, there was a great flutter and a scrabbling. Instinctively, I ducked, and Ian whirled around.

The turkey wasn’t dead. No, it was quite alive. It flapped and heaved, then managed to get onto its huge taloned feet. It gave a weird sort of throaty growl…Goooorrr… Gooorrrr, and tilted its head suspiciously.

“You said it was dead!” I hissed.

“It must’ve been in shock,” he answered. “Don’t just stand there. Open the door so it can get out.”

I backed away so as not to startle it, then opened the door through which I’d just come. Ian slowly approached the bird.

“Easy, turkey,” Ian murmured. “Out you go.” He circled behind it, and the bird took a few steps toward the front…and me… “Good turkey,” Ian said soothingly. “Out the door with—”

Suddenly the bird burst into another great flutter of wings and sprinted right at me. I screamed, the bird veered to the left, dodged around a chair, knocked into an end table, tipping it. There was a crash, and the bird went airborne. “Gloogloogloogloo!” it screeched. “Gloogloogloo!”

From the den came a blur of red. Angie. “No, Angie!” Ian yelled, but Angie, after all, was an Irish setter, bred for just this thing, and she sped after the bird, which landed awkwardly on the kitchen table. Angie leaped, the bird flew, hitting the chandelier and causing it to sway crazily. The turkey tried to land on the bookcase, but there wasn’t enough room, and flapped toward me. “No! Get away!” I yelled, collapsing to my knees and covering my head. “Kill it, Ian! Kill it!”

“Callie, stop scaring it away from the door!” Ian barked. “And I’m not going to kill it! Weren’t you just bawling over this thing?”

The bird landed on the couch, then fluttered down and ran into the den. Angie lunged and Ian tackled her, managing to grab her collar. “No, girl! Stay! Callie, open the sliders, for God’s sake!”

I power-crawled across the floor and opened the sliders that led to the deck. Angie was whining, trying to get away from Ian, who was half lying across her. From in the den came some more crashing and turkey growls.

“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” I called. Laughter wriggled dangerously in my stomach.

Goooorr…gooorrr… “Go in there and flush it out,” Ian said.

“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “I’m not going in there. You go.” Goooorr…

“I’m holding the dog.”

“Well, I’ll hold the dog, then,” I said, crawling over to Ian and Angie. “I’m not going in there. It’s a man job. Testosterone required. Besides, it might peck me.”

“It should peck you. You’re the one who hit it,” Ian muttered, but once I had the dog by her collar, he stood up. “Don’t let go of Angie,” he warned.

“Yes, Doctor,” I said. “Now good luck in there. I’ll take a drumstick.” A wheezing laugh burst out of me.

“Great,” Ian muttered, giving me a look. He went in, and Angie wagged her tail, wishing her master luck. I waited, burying my face in Angie’s silky fur. One…two…three…

“Gloogloogloogloo!”

“Watch out, here it comes!” Ian yelled.

The bird came sprinting out, wings flapping, and Angie lunged again, barking for all she was worth. I caught a glimpse of hideous bird legs, felt the wind from its wings and couldn’t help but shrieking. “Ian! Get it out of here!”

“Easy for you to say!” he called, scrambling after the bird.

Then the bird must have finally smelled freedom, because it turned its ugly head, spotted the great outdoors and sprinted through the front door, down the porch steps. I heard Bowie’s explosion of barking. “Is it safe?” I called after a minute.

“Yes,” Ian answered, so I let his dog go. She immediately began sniffing all the good turkey smells. I hoisted myself onto my feet.

Ian stood in the great room, breathing hard. I went over and stood next to him.

“I don’t think it’s dead after all,” I said. Ian cut his gaze to me, and I doubled over with laughter, clutching the doorframe.

“Very funny,” he said drily. “Why don’t you let Bowie out of the car? He can go in the backyard with Angie. It’s fenced in.” He turned and went into the kitchen.

I obeyed, still laughing. “I’m sorry you missed all the fun, Bowie,” I giggled, unclipping my dog. “But now you can play in the back with Angie, how’s that?” I followed my dog inside, and the smile slid off my face.

Ian’s house, his perfectly ordered, beautifully furnished house, was a wreck. Two tables were overturned, a vase or wineglass or something had broken, and shards of glass lay in a puddle. Feathers littered the floor here and there. A few books and a picture or two had fallen from the bookcase. The kitchen table was askew, and one of the chairs had tipped. A glimpse into the den showed similar damage.

Angie was already in the backyard, so I ushered my dog through the slider, then closed it behind me. “I’ll clean up, Ian,” I said, biting my lip as I surveyed the wreckage. Several envelopes were scattered about, and I picked them up. Interspersed with the expected phone bill and such were a few other addresses… Heifer International, Doctors Without Borders, Hole in the Wall Gang. “Pledge week?” I asked, setting them down.

“Guilt,” he answered. He was rolling up his sleeve. His bloody sleeve.

“Ian, you’re cut!” I exclaimed, leaping over to him.

“Yes,” he said.

“What happened? Was it the turkey?”

“No,” he answered, glancing at me. “I caught it on the edge of the bookcase.”

I took his wrist and turned it so I could see. It wasn’t too bad, a long scratch, but it was bleeding a fair amount.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” I asked.

“I can do it,” he said.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was standing close enough to him to feel his warmth. That he was wearing jeans and a white oxford. That his lashes were long and straight and somehow tender. That he was looking at me steadily, and that even though he could probably clean up this cut in a New York minute, I really, really wanted to take care of him.

“I insist,” I said, my voice a little husky.

Ian reached for a paper towel and held it against his forearm. “In there, then,” he said, nodding to a cabinet.

There it was, a blue plastic case, neatly labeled First Aid. I took it out and looked at the patient. He was leaning against the counter, still holding the paper towel against his arm. Watching me. Intently.

My knees started to tingle. Face felt warm. Girl parts on the alert.

I opened the first-aid kit, which contained a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, some ointment, Band-Aids, the usual. “So,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Um, let’s wash it off, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

I took his hand—it was such a good hand, big and strong and capable, just like you’d want a vet’s hand to be. And holding his hand meant I was close to him, which was definitely having an effect on me. My heart thudded harder as I turned on the water and held his arm under it, our sides pressed together. He felt awfully wonderful, all warm and big and… Focus, Callie. First aid, remember?

Yes. Well. The bleeding had stopped…it really was just a scratch, but you know what? I was going to take good care of that scratch.

Ian didn’t talk as I poured some hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, patted the scratch, then blotted his arm dry. It was disconcerting, being so close to him that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His forearm was perfect, muscled and tan, sprinkled with blond hair, the tendons moving under his smooth skin as he moved his hand.

“I’ll just…um…just put on a little of this…gooey stuff…how’s that?” I asked, reaching for the…gooey stuff.

“Sounds good,” he said.

I sneaked a peek at his face. There was a hint of a smile in those blue eyes, and I looked down quickly, feeling my cheeks prickle with a telltale blush.

Still holding his hand, I smeared some bacitracin (that was the name!) on his cut, running my forefinger from just above his wrist to his elbow. The skin was perfect, the muscles solid beneath. Lovely. The inside of his elbow was soft and tender by comparison, and I ran my finger across the skin there.

Realizing my first-aid application had morphed into vet-fondling, I yanked back my hand and groped for the roll of gauze. It was either use the gauze or use about nine Band-Aids, because the scratch was pretty long. But my hands were clumsy, and it was harder than it should’ve been. I wrapped his arm up firmly, then began tying the gauze ends in a knot.

“That’s a little tight,” Ian said. I looked up. His mouth pulled up in the corner, and he held out his hand, which was turning quite red, the veins in his wrist starting to bulge.

“Sorry!” I said, hastily untying the knot and unwrapping the bandage. “Okay. Ian’s boo-boo, take two.”

This time, the gauze was too loose and kept slipping down. Plus, it was a little soggy from overapplication of the gooey stuff, so I grabbed a Band-Aid, tore it open and used it to hold the gauze in place. Added another one. This bandaging job was starting to look like Josephine—or Bowie—had done it. Not to mention that those Band-Aids were going to take some arm hair with them when Ian took this thing off. And still it was droopy! I adjusted the gauze wrap a bit, but it slid right back down, so I just patted his arm instead.

“How’s that?” I asked, looking up at him.

He was smiling. Not a lot, just a little, and more than enough. “Perfect,” he murmured.

Without another thought, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed the living daylights out of him.

His arms, injured and otherwise, went around me, pulling me against him. One hand slid through my hair, and he kissed me back fiercely. He was solid and, oh, just wonderful, his arms strong, his body hard, and he smelled like soap and rain. I leaned into him, my hands going through his soft, short hair, and deepened the kiss, getting a most satisfactory groan in return. My God, he felt so good, so…reassuring, somehow, so real and warm and safe, and his mouth was soft and hard at the same time, and he kissed me with such heat and intensity that I could barely stand. In the turkey struggles, my shirt had come untucked, and Ian’s hand slid under it, hot against my skin. My leg, my ruttish leg, was wrapped around his, and in another minute, I’d be pulling a Bowie. His mouth lowered to my neck, his hand moved to cover my breast, and my knees buckled and my head fell back, and for a second, I thought I might just slide to the floor in a boneless heap, pulling him on top of me.

Then his mouth found mine again, and oh, that kiss, that life-changing kiss, because really, that’s how it felt, a kiss that meant something, promised something, made you want all sorts of things. It took me a minute to realize he was looking at me. My breath came in short little gasps, and underneath my hand, I could feel Ian’s heart thudding fast and hard.