CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

Cait knew there were some people out there in the world who considered the ground comfortable, and who enjoyed sleeping on it without any kind of blankets. But those people were clearly nincompoops who’d never experienced the joys of a pillow-top mattress.

As for her, she adored her cozy bed at home with her nine pillows all to herself. And while she could appreciate the serenity of waking up out in nature—the birds, the fresh air, the smell of pine—usually her camping experiences didn’t happen on the ground, under a stick-and-moss-and-mud-and-dead-leaves shelter she’d made herself.

And she was freezing. Well, she tended to be cold most mornings anyhow, but it got cold at night on the mountain, and if she’d been up here alone she would’ve made a mummy-shelter and packed it even fuller with leaves, to stay warm. Sometime during the night—because whatever she’d been doing last night, it hadn’t been getting a good night’s sleep—she’d rolled over to face Archie, and now she was burrowed against him, both her arms around his middle, her nose pressed against his chest and her head tucked under his chin.

She was stealing all of his heat, and the feel of his hand splayed across her back was the most comforting thing she’d ever felt.

So here she was, trapped under a stupid shelter, lying on the hard, cold ground, her stomach empty and growling…and she hadn’t felt this nice in a long time.

They stayed like that for who knows how long. Long enough for the sun to fully rise, and start warming the outside of their little shelter. Long enough for the temperatures to rise enough under their pile of sticks for Cait to be sure she could move out of his arms and not immediately freeze to death.

As if she ever wanted to leave his arms.

Finally, she figured they couldn’t avoid the rest of the day any longer. She sighed deeply, sorry that she’d have to pull away from him soon.

“Oh, thank goodness.” He exhaled all at once. “I wasn’t sure if you were still asleep.” As if to punctuate Archie’s words, his stomach growled, long and loud.

The sound made Cait smile against his t-shirt. “I have to pee,” she mumbled.

“And I have to stretch. I’m rather afraid I’ll knock over our shelter.”

She had no idea if they’d be staying in it again tonight, or if they’d make their way further down the mountain. They weren’t due back to the ranch until tomorrow—Tuesday—morning, but no use destroying something which might be useful later.

Without speaking, Cait wriggled her way out of their shelter, and Archie followed a moment later. They went their separate ways into the woods, then met at the stream for a long drink of water.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stretched. “How you doing this morning?”

Archie was eyeing her from his spot on a boulder. “I’m sore and hungry—really hungry. But I really enjoyed holding y—I mean, I had an okay night.”

The way he shrugged told Cait there was something he wasn’t saying, but she brushed it off. “Okay, so what should be first on our order of business?”

“Did I mention how hungry I was?”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl too, but Cait just blinked innocently. “Hungry? Like, for food?”

As she watched, his brows dropped, his shoulders seemed to widen, and he placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward, almost menacingly. “Woman,” he growled, his voice lower than normal, “I need food. Show me what I need to know to find some.”

There’d been a few times yesterday when she’d seen him slip into his Clay Jeneske character, as he assimilated what he already knew with what he was learning. It had been fun to watch, even if he hadn’t been aware he was doing it. The fact that he could just switch who he was made Cait all tingly with excitement.

Life with Archie would never be boring.

The thought—and the sexy way Archie was glaring at her—made her smile hugely. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead, just as he began to rumble under his breath again.

“Food, woman,” he commanded.

She laughed out loud, and grabbed his hand to pull him to his feet. “I think I like it when you’re Jeneske. He can make an appearance any time he wants!”

This time the noise he made was definitely a growl, as he pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arm around her waist. Her breath whooshed out of her in the most wonderful way right before his lips slammed into hers.

Oh, yeah.

Clay Jeneske was different from Archie, but she loved this mountain man side of him. She’d loved him when he’d shown her Vincent VanHoosen, the slight pianist with crippling social confusion. She’d loved Wyatt Tipton, the crusty old rancher. She’d loved every man he’d ever been, and every man he’d ever be.

She loved him.

Minutes—a lifetime of them—went by before they stepped apart, and Cait couldn’t help the grin which was permanently plastered to her face. He met her eyes, and winked—the blue one—at her. A giggle burst from her lips, but she tightened her hold on his hand, and pulled him along.

As they walked, she picked huckleberries, and passed them to him. She used the time to discuss strategy.

“Any ideas on how to acquire some protein?”

He grunted behind her, then hummed thoughtfully. “Fish. I don’t have a line or a hook though.”

She nodded approvingly. “Yep, we’re going to go spear-fishing. The berries should hold us over, but hopefully we’ll have some fish for a meal by noon. Or not-too-long after noon. Trapping is always an option out in the wild, and Jeneske might consider that.” She climbed carefully over a downed tree. “The trick is to find a furbearer’s trail, someplace you know it will probably return to, and set the trap there. You have to basically funnel the animal to the trap, to make sure it puts its foot in the correct place to trigger it; you can do that with rocks or debris. But it’s really important to not leave any kind of scent-mark—almost impossible with the equipment we have, or don’t have, now—and trapping can take a few days to land a meal. So we’re going with fish.”

“That’s why we’ve been following the stream.”

It hadn’t been a question, but she nodded anyhow. “We’re headed down the mountain. This stream will probably—hopefully—intersect with something larger. That’s when we’ll have some fun.”

It took an hour before they found the larger stream—still not quite a river, but Cait could see fish darting around the shallows.

“Good, look.” She pointed at the fallen log resting across the bank and the river rocks. “There’s plenty of cover along the bank—both for you and the fish. Let’s go make some spears.”

Archie’s incredulous, “Wait, why do I need cover?” followed her back into the woods, but Cait just smiled. Soon enough they had two long, thin spears, and she was grateful for the knife they’d brought along. Something so simple would’ve taken ages to shape using only sharp rocks.

The next two hours were full of laughter and good-natured groaning, as Archie tried again and again to nail one of the Mountain Whitefish sheltering in the shade of the rocks and logs. Cait had speared a few—thanks to an afternoon class she’d taken years ago with Ricky—and celebrated with Archie when he finally figured out how to aim where the fish would be instead of where it was. The angle of refraction of the water also took some getting used to, but once he speared a fish, three more followed closely.

She called a halt when they had more than enough for a meal, figuring they could eat themselves silly and rest the remainder of the afternoon. Now it was time to prepare the Whitefish.

“I can fillet them,” Archie called with his hand in the air, like in a classroom. “I’ve heard that I’m a really good fish-chef.”

She made a show of bending over to check his pockets. “Did you bring a cast-iron skillet and some butter?”

“No,” he quipped back, “But I’m hungry enough that anything is going to taste like a gourmet meal.”

“Then let’s get cooking.” She took his spear—with the four Whitefish impaled on it—out of his hand, and gestured for him to head towards the small pit she’d dug. “I’ll collect kindling while you see if you remember how to start a fire using that tinder.”

He didn’t groan, but she could see his lips tighten into a straight line under his beard. Making a fire without any kind of starter took a lot of patience, and she knew he still had blisters from his practice last week.

And hunger had made him desperate, just like they’d planned. He’d understand his character’s frustration and desperation a little better now.

She watched as he settled down cross-legged in front of the pile of soft, dry moss and wood pulp, and grabbed the two sticks she’d found for him to use. Out here, without a bow-drill or flint, the best method was to twirl the “drill” stick between his palms, pressing down against the stick which was acting as the fireboard. It was a long process which resulted in dirty, blistered palms, an aching back, and hopefully a tiny spark which could be carefully tipped into the small nest of tinder.

He must’ve really remembered her teachings, because by the time she got back with wood, he was blowing carefully on the tinder cupped in his hands, and she was pleased to see a little tendril of smoke drifting up from it. When he placed it carefully in the pit, she hurried to feed it dry leaves while he continued to blow, until the spark caught and they had a cheerful little flame. Together they babied it, feeding it larger and larger kindling until it was well and truly caught. She showed him how to prop a spear—with the fish still impaled—against a forked stick, and they both settled back to watch lunch—dinner?—cook.

“In a situation like this,” she shared, “Don’t worry about chopping firewood.” She nudged a large limb whose end she’d placed into the fire to burn. “You don’t have the tools or the energy to chop wood, so just leave a spot in the fire-ring” –she pointed to the ring of stones she’d set up to contain the fire— “for the large pieces to stick out. Then, as their ends burn, you feed in a little more. You’ll be sitting right there tending it anyhow, and it’s a good way to keep it burning at a constant rate. Oh!” She thought of another piece of survivalist information. “And the point of the pit isn’t necessarily to contain the fire, but to contain the coals for cooking. You want to concentrate all the heat in one place, for yourself. If we were actually concerned about not freezing to death—if it were winter, say—we would’ve built this fire with a backdrop of some sort, like a large rock, to reflect as much warmth back at us as possible.”

“I was plenty warm last night,” he said as he reached over to check one of the delicious-smelling fish. “Although you were awfully snuggly.”

“That’s because I was freezing,” she teased back. “A big burly man like you should produce more heat.”

“I’ll try harder tonight,” he said seriously. “This small one looks ready.”

He shifted their spit so he could pull off the Whitefish, and she watched him bite into it with relish. Juice dribbled down his beard, but he closed his eyes and sighed in what looked like appreciation.

“Good?” she asked softly.

“Not quite done, but close enough,” he replied just before tearing into the rest of the fish.

An hour later, they were resting on their backs in the soft grass, the fire slowly dying down to embers and the fish filling their bellies. Cait couldn’t remember feeling so full, but then again, her stomach had been pretty darn empty that morning, so she couldn’t complain. That meal would last her the rest of the day, definitely, and tomorrow morning there’d be more berries.

It was along those lines she said drowsily to Archie, “When we get back tomorrow, I’m ordering a big ol’ burger from the Kafé. As meaty as possible. And thick-cut fries.”

He hummed appreciatively. “And a root beer float?”

“Of course!” She was too sated to laugh, but a little Hah! slipped out nonetheless. “And a big, juicy pickle.”

“You’re weird.”

“What, you don’t like pickles?”

He let his head flop over so he was looking at her. “I like you. But no, my favorite burger place doesn’t do pickles and I’m fine with that.” He grinned lazily. “You’ve got a good idea, though. Maybe I’ll have my driver stop by there tomorrow night on my way to my condo.”

She hadn’t slept well the night before, and she was so full she was already half-asleep. Maybe that was why she was having trouble processing his words. There was something he was saying…something which wasn’t quite right. Something which sent a cold seeping dread through her limbs.

Slowly sitting up, she asked, “Tomorrow night?”

He frowned slightly. “My plane leaves tomorrow afternoon from Spokane, so I figured if we got back in time I could grab something to go. And then by the time I’m home I’ll probably just want to collapse in a real bed, so take-out for dinner sounds like the best bet. I don’t have to meet with my director until Wednesday morning.”

Tomorrow afternoon. The nameless dread coalesced into a cold knot in her stomach. Tomorrow afternoon he’ll be gone.

She’d known this. She’d known it all along; Archie St. John was in Idaho to learn what she could teach him, nothing more. He wasn’t staying here anymore than any of the other tourists did. Just because he’d spent all of the last two weeks with her, didn’t mean there was anything special between them.

He was leaving, and she’d been dumb enough to fall in love with him.

“Cait?” he prompted.

She cleared her throat. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I was just confused on the days.”

A flash of white in his mountain-man beard as he grinned. “You promised to have me back safe and sound—and probably leaner and meaner—Tuesday morning. I’ve already arranged transport to Spokane with Wade. I think it should go smoothly, all things considered.

Tomorrow afternoon. He was leaving Idaho—leaving her—tomorrow afternoon, to go back to his adventurous, changeable life.

And she would be left here, remembering the only man she’d ever wanted to be with.

Still, she might’ve been dumb enough to fall in love with a globe-trotting movie star, but she wasn’t dumb enough to let him know. She forced a smile. “Well, then, if we need to have you back at the ranch by noon, we should probably get moving.”

He sat up, resting his forearms on his knees. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She stood, anxious to get rid of all this nervous energy. “We’ll follow this river—stream, whatever—down the mountain, then work around towards the east. If we build another shelter down there, we should be close enough to the road to walk out tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.”

He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say more, but closed it again. Then he took a deep breath—she couldn’t help but admire his shoulders under his t-shirt material—and let it out again.

“Then I suppose we should get moving,” was all he eventually said.

She nodded and helped pull him to his feet. And when he didn’t let go of her hand—even as they kicked the dead coals around and used their boots to cover them with sand and mud—she tried not to feel glad about it.

He was only holding her hand because she was there, and because she was doing a job for him. It probably didn’t mean anything. If it did, he wouldn’t be heading back to LA tomorrow afternoon.

As much as it hurt, she needed to harden her heart now…now, before he left and she broke even further.