Page 36 of The Clifftop Cottage

Rain pounded against her back and seeped into her slippers. She had no choice. Wincing, she reached out and carefully grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck, bracing for claws.

None came.

It was too weak to fight her.

Holding the drenched little creature close, Erica rushed inside, kicking the door shut behind her. The cottage embraced her instantly, the fire’s glow flickering against the wooden floor.

The kitten was pitiful. Tiny. Its blue eyes, crusted at the edges, blinked drowsily up at her. It shivered uncontrollably in her hands.

She needed to warm it up.

She hurried to the Rayburn, setting a small bowl down and filling it with milk. The kitten just slumped on the ground, barely reacting.

“Come on, little one,” she coaxed, nudging the bowl closer. Nothing.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest. She ran to the microwave, warming the milk just slightly, then dipped her finger in and pressed it gently to the kitten’s mouth.

At first, nothing.

Then, slowly, a tiny, weak suck.

Relief flooded her. She kept going, patient, dipping her finger again and again, letting it take just enough to keep going.

She had no idea what she was doing.

The pitiful creature was barely holding on, its tiny body limp in her hands. She found herself willing it to live, whispering encouragement into the dimly lit kitchen, as if that might be enough.

Outside, the storm raged, wind battering the windows, rain hammering against the roof. The cottage groaned under the force of it, but inside, by the warmth of the Rayburn, there was only stillness. Only the soft rise and fall of the kitten’s breath – too shallow, too slow.

Erica pulled the thickest towel she could find from the drying rack, wrapping the little thing carefully, tucking it close against her. She barely noticed the chill clinging to her own skin, the damp weight of her dressing gown. It didn’t matter.

She wouldn’t sleep. Not yet.

Instead, she curled up on the armchair by the fire, the flickering light casting long shadows across the room. The kitten’s body was impossibly small against her chest.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

Outside, the storm howled on.

13

Leah finished her shift, exhaling slowly as she stepped out of the delivery room. It was rare for a baby to arrive so neatly on schedule, just before the end of her shift. Ten hours of encouragement, of steady breathing and quiet reassurance, and at last, with a deep, triumphant cry, a baby boy – bigger than most – entered the world.

Even after ten years of midwifery, it never failed to move her, the sheer miracle of it.

Now, he lay against his mother’s chest, his tiny fingers curling instinctively, his cries already softening as she murmured an old Scottish lullaby. Leah had seen this moment countless times, but it always hit her the same way. Something raw, something achingly beautiful.

She stayed just long enough to make sure all was well, to share a final reassuring nod with the exhausted mother, before slipping away.

Her hours had been cut back lately. With Dylan away on the rigs, and Maisie needing her more, it made sense. Tiffany, Maisie’s babysitter, was a lifesaver, always willing to help. But she had her own kids, her own grandkids. Leah could see it in her eyes, the way she longed to spend more time with them.

And if she was honest, she had hoped that Erica might want to step in more.

Not that Erica had ever promised to. Not that Leah had ever asked.

She signed out at the front desk, saluting the receptionist before heading into the car park. Slipping into the driver’s seat, she pulled out her phone, checking for urgent messages. The time flashed on the screen. She could make it to Maisie’s school if traffic wasn’t too bad.

Or maybe Erica could pick Maisie up instead?