It Happened One Night by Sharon Sala

barbecued ribs at a local restaurant. Harley had been overwhelmed by their boisterous manner and more than a little intimidated by the monumental platters of ribs and the amount of beer that flowed with them.
    One of Sam’s brothers had passed her a freshly topped mug of the brew, which she quickly refused.
    â€œHey, Sam,” his brother said. “What did you go and do—marry a little Southern teetotaler?”
    Harley had turned instantly, giving Sam an “I’ll kill you if you tell” look, which made him grin.
    To her relief, Sam’s answer was less than revealing.
    â€œYou just worry about your own wife and leave Harley to me,” he drawled, then to her surprise, he leaned over and planted a hard kiss right on the middle of her slightly parted lips.
    He’d tasted of barbecue sauce and beer. The swift shaft of want that she’d felt at that moment had pierced clear through to her gut.
    He’d seen her expression and whispered in her ear.
    â€œHold the thought.”
    She’d held on for dear life. That night after everyone had gone home, he’d made the thought well worth her while.
    There were still the occasional days when she wascertain she’d made a big mistake in coming with Sam to Oklahoma, but they were becoming few and far between. Most of the time she was going through the motions until he wheeled into the driveway and then came striding through the front door yelling, “Hey, Junie, I’m home.”
    Life was good. Sex was great. And just when she was getting the hang of being married, she tried to pull a hero routine that would have been better left to Sam.
    * * *
    There was a cat up the tree in their front yard.
    Harley had heard it meowing when she’d gone outside to get the morning paper. Thinking little of it at the time, she’d gone back inside. Later, when she’d gone out again to drop some letters in the mailbox, she’d heard it again and took the time to stop under the tree.
    She looked up into the foliage and, at first, didn’t see it. But then it spied Harley and the meow turned into a loud, plaintive squall.
    â€œPoor kitty,” Harley muttered, and shifted her stance just enough that she could see a fuzzy orange cat face peering down at her through the branches and leaves.
    The cat meowed again, this time adding a warble to the squall.
    â€œI’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you, baby? If you come down from there now I’ll get you a big dish of milk. Come on...here kitty, kitty. Come on, kitty. Come on. Come on.”
    â€œWaarrrooowww.”
    Harley dashed back into the house, returning moments later with a piece of bread, thinking that the scent of food might coax the cat down. All she got for her troubles was another squalling wail.
    Five minutes and a bowl of milk on the ground later, the cat was still up the tree and Harley’s empathy for the situation had gotten completely out of hand. Instead of going back into the house and leaving the cat to come down after the food on its own time, she was convinced that it couldn’t come down. Of course the logic that it had gotten up by itself was now completely lost on Harley June. She wanted to help poor kitty out of the tree, at which point, she had another idea—equally as bad as her first one.
    There was a ladder in the garage. It hung on the wall above an old bicycle and a pair of Sam’s boots that had seen better days. As she dragged the ladder down from the wall, she kept telling herself she could do this. All she had to do was go up the ladder, brace herself carefully as she climbed up through the branches, get poor kitty and then down they’d come.
    The first part was simple. The tree was large. The ladder was tall. She went up the steps carefully, and by the time she was halfway up, could already reach the lowest branches of the tree. It didn’t occur to her to be worried that the moment the cat had seen her coming up,