Chapter 7

7

L ogan stared suspiciously at his laptop screen. He'd been quite confident when he told Tabby the day before that there was no such thing as a day care for shifters , but instinct (and his ass of a stallion) had insisted that he look anyway.

A search for ‘day care for shifters near Nickel City, Montana' unexpectedly brought up a barebones webpage that had as many photos of animals as it did children. And not just puppies and kittens, but…was that a bear cub and a giraffe ?

The site was vague enough that it might have only been using stock images to pad out its gallery and lean into the cute and kitschy aesthetic all day cares seemed to have, but Logan was doubtful.

It did not actually have the word shifters anywhere on the page, despite the search results, but the underlying message was clear: it was a day care for special children, highly selective about their clientele, and they didn't specify what their criteria was. If it was for neurodivergent or disabled children, Logan guessed they would have been a lot more specific, and there were a lot of curiously-worded sentences that meant a lot more if you knew that people could change into animals.

"Would you like to go to Tiny Paws and play with other kids?" he asked Franzi.

Franzi was lying on the stained carpet, kicking her feet in the air. "I riding a BI-cycle!" she declared.

The facility accepted babies through kindergarten, and boasted a "very private play yard" and a "diverse, educational curriculum."

We provide loving instruction in all the childhood basics, including potty training, dressing, taking clothing, eating, reading, language, and social skills.

Taking clothing?

That could be a reference to shifting with clothing on. Some kids picked that up really easily, and Franzi seemed to have the knack for it, but Logan remembered his brother Steven's stubborn refusal to take his clothing with him. Their grandmother had often lamented about how expensive it was to keep him dressed because he split his seams when he shifted.

You're the one who should be doing this, Steven , Logan thought achingly. If he had been closer with his brother, maybe Franzi wouldn't have been alone for so long. Maybe, if he'd been in the right place at the right time, his brother and his wife wouldn't even have died. He still didn't know what had happened to them and vowed to find out.

I screwed everything up , he lamented.

Can we be done with this pity party? his stallion huffed impatiently. We have our herd now, take care of it!

Take care of it.

Logan picked up his phone and dialed the number from the webpage.

"Tiny Paws! This is Addison! "

The problem with phones is that there was no tingle of instinct to tell him if he was talking to a shifter.

"I'm interested in a day care for my… special daughter."

"What's your daughter's birthdate?"

Logan realized two things at once: he'd called Franzi his daughter by accident, and he had no idea when her birthday was. "Hang on," he said, frantically rifling through the paperwork the agency had given him. It had to be in here somewhere. "November 13. She's four. She's actually my niece."

If Addison found it suspicious that he'd had to look it up, she was polite enough not to mention it. "Does your niece have a favorite animal ?"

It was an innocuous, if very odd question, but Logan knew exactly what she meant.

"Horsey. Ah, her favorite animal is a horse." It was a safe answer.

"We do have an opening for a child of that age," Addison said very carefully. "Perhaps we should meet and see if she would be a good fit ."

That tracked for a day care for shifters. She would want to see Franzi in person to verify that she was a shifter.

"I'm over in Billings, is there a good time or day?"

"We're closed over the weekend, could you make it by on Monday between ten and noon?"

"Yes," Logan said. "Yes, that would be fine. Thank you." He gave Addison his name—his real name, which felt odd—and some brief details about Franzi, thanked her again, and hung up.

Franzi had stopped pedaling and was gazing at him with big curious eyes. "Not SUPOZE to be a horsey," she reminded him.

"Maybe you can," Logan said hopefully. It would be nice to have a place to grow up where it was safe to shift. He thought wistfully of Tabby's forest-hemmed ranch. A few extra horses would never be noticed.

He made a second call, to confirm that there was a union shop in Nickel City that offered apprenticeships, and what the terms were. He agreed to bring in his resume on Monday morning and hung up feeling hopeful.

There was just one more phone call he needed to make, and it filled him with more nervousness than either of the prior ones.

Before he called Tabby, he made Franzi a grilled cheese sandwich, cut sideways, and piled her plate full of pickles.

While Franzi was fastidiously making stacks of the pickle chips and keeping their juice from her sandwich, Logan stepped out into the hallway. There was an empty beer can tossed casually down opposite from his door, and a few candy wrappers. The carpet was so stained that Logan couldn't have guessed what color it was originally supposed to be, and there were places where chewed up gum had been ground into it. Franzi deserved a better place to grow up.

"Swiftwater Ranch," Tabby answered after a few moments. She sounded breathless.

"If your offer is still on the table, I'll take it," Logan blurted.

She was silent for so long that Logan hesitantly added, "This is Logan Kennedy," in case she had more than one offer on the table.

"My horse," Tabby snorted. "I know."

Logan was sure that being called her horse shouldn't feel as good as it did. He told himself that he was just relieved that they weren't starting from scratch with her.

"If you'd prefer alternate service terms, I'm still amenable to that arrangement," Logan added archly.

Tabby gave a shout of laughter. "Keep dreaming, stud," she told him. "Strictly platonic horse services and general labor are all I need." She sobered. "I've got ground rules."

"I'm listening."

"No parties, no overnight visitors without prior permission. I'll provide and fix appliances, you don't trash the place or flush anything weird down the septic system. No drugs, whether it's decriminalized or not, and no heavy drinking. I'm not your babysitter and I'm not your mother. I expect you to maintain a professional demeanor on my property at all times. No joyriding while I'm on your back; you're my demo horse, and I expect you to set the bar. Other duties will be as needed. There are some rentals I've been wanting to finish and I've got a garden that needs water and weeding. We can agree on exact hours and I'll have a contract for you to sign. With your real name."

Logan felt a rush of relief. Tabby still wanted him.

He was pretty sure that it was only because of pity for Franzi, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like he was coming home.

"I solemnly swear to respect your person and your property, and…I'm very grateful for this opportunity," Logan said humbly. "I can be there on Sunday. On Monday, I'm applying for a spot for Franzi at a day care in Nickel City and I'm putting my resume in at a union shop for an express technician position that can flex into an apprenticeship. It sounds like they are pretty desperate, so I have a good chance."

"That sounds great," Tabby said, her voice unexpectedly warm and encouraging. "You've gotten a lot done!"

"I took your resume advice," Logan chuckled. "I'm sure they'll be blown away by the Experienced Household Management part."

"And the day care?" Tabby asked carefully .

"A very special day care. I'll know more on Monday for sure, but instinct suggests that it will work out."

"Must be nice having a magical power to tell you the right thing to do," Tabby said wistfully.

"It only works when I'm actually listening to it," Logan said, and then he stiffened because he realized that underneath the humming excitement of talking to Tabby was another layer of anxiety. "Sorry, gotta go!" he cried, just as there was a tremendous crash from inside the apartment.

"Good lu—" Tabby said as Logan hung up and jammed his phone into his pocket to burst back into the apartment and find Franzi standing on a chair by the kitchen counter looking down at the toolbox she'd managed to push off onto the floor.

"Sorry!" she cried tearfully. "I wanted more pickles!"

"It's okay," Logan said, kneeling to collect his tools. There were some new scratches in the linoleum. "It's okay, Franzi. I wasn't going to get my deposit back, anyway. Don't sweat it."

"Done swept it," Franzie agreed, climbing down from the chair.