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Thrushpelt was calling her from the trail
ahead, his sandy-gray pelt blending with the walls of
frost-burnt bracken. “Are you okay?” His eyes were
round with concern.
Bluefur padded on with her head down. “Just going back to camp.”
He didn’t step aside to let her pass, but gently held his tail up to block her way. “Stop,” he ordered.
She looked into his eyes and saw a tenderness that took her by surprise.
“Rosetail has just congratulated me on
becoming a father,” he meowed.
Bluefur felt the world spin around her. “She
couldn’t! She promised!”
“Is she right? Are you having kits?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell her that you were
the father.” Mortified, Bluefur searched for words.
“She just guessed, and it was easier….” She
stopped. She couldn’t give anything away.
“So you are going to have kits?” Thrushpelt pressed.
Bluefur blinked. “Yes, I am.” She waited for him to ask whose they were. Why she’d lied. But he just stood and watched her.
At last he spoke. “I’m not going to ask who the father is,” he meowed. “I’m sure there’s a reason why you’ve kept this secret.”
Bluefur plucked at a fern straying across
the ground. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out differently. I—I would have been happy with you, I know. But now
everything has gone wrong, and I don’t know what to
do.”
Thrushpelt shifted his paws. “You can tell the Clan I’m the father, if you want. I mean, if it makes things easier.”
Bluefur stared at him. “You’d really do that?” Was she the only cat not willing to make a sacrifice for these kits?
Thrushpelt nodded. “You know how I feel about you, Bluefur. I’d do my best to make you happy, I promise. And I’ll love your kits as though they were really my own." style="width:100%;margin:20px 0;"/>