(Amber Regan)
“So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you.”
—JACK LONDON, THE CALL OF THE WILD
Braden Montgomery is a beast.
A huge, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed beast who can eat up a trail with a ten percent grade in the same way normal people take a midday stroll in a city park. While we’ve been in Colorado long enough that my body has acclimated to the altitude and my VO2 max is nothing to scoff at, Braden evidently operates on another level.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve heard the man take a single unsteady breath this entire time, let alone huff or wheeze as if he was feeling anything but easy-peasy about scaling this trail. But my endorsement deals with performance gear companies, muscle recovery supplements, and protein powders did not come by way of the sort of luck Braden claims not to believe in. Those companies came calling because I’m in damn good shape.
Braden though, is built like a power lifter while performing like a triathlete—showing off an enviable combo of brawny strength and nimble agility with every step he takes. Even when he should stomp about from his sheer size alone, he doesn’t. And, after much visual examination, I’ve determined his glutes do most of the work to drag that beast of a body around.
In my defense, I had no choice but to notice. You try spending an hour and a half hiking behind that behind while it flexes away, right in front of you. Good luck trying to keep from noticing—or appreciating—it.
Unfortunately, he’s also a complete pain in my ass.
The moment we crest the top of the ridge, he pauses for all of ten seconds, enough time to glance back and verify I’m still alive. And seeing that I am, I’m not sure he views it as a success. He starts to loosen the waist belt on his pack, motioning toward the east.
“I’m going to set up over on that rock outcropping. You do what you want. Try not to fall off the mesa or anything.”
Fall? Off of what? This top is huge. Compared to the damn ice-covered scree fields I picked my way over while hunting stone sheep in British Columbia and the razor-edged ridgeline I tiptoed over while chasing ibex in Kyrgyzstan, this mesa is the equivalent of an empty football field.
I go to work on my own pack, pulling it off and setting it on the ground to retrieve my water bottle, taking a slug before replying.
“Like I said before we started up this trail, don’t you worry your pretty head about me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”
He strides off. “I’ve seen you try to put on your socks.”
Re-capping the water bottle, I slam it to the dirt and resist the urge to lob it at his head. But he and those glutes of his are already a good twenty yards away, deftly scaling the rocks to sit atop the tallest boulder.
In the last ten days I have been introduced to no fewer than twenty different Colorado Parks and Wildlife staff members. Twenty. And Braden is the only one who didn’t act like I was interesting, important, or exciting—or some combination of the three.
While being fawned over can sometimes be overwhelming, for the most part, it’s pretty damn gratifying. The fact that anyone recognizes me at all is a triumph over the tomboy I once was, trying to find my way in a tiny Texas dust town. That little girl couldn’t have dreamed of this life, the one where I have my own television show and enough social media followers that companies pay me to endorse their products. Not to mention they keep me in all the right swag. I haven’t purchased a single piece of hunting equipment, outdoor clothing, optics, or a freaking energy bar, in years. Back in the day, I was turning in aluminum cans at the recycler for six months just to earn enough to buy my first fishing pole. These days I take a selfie with an aluminum beer can and a couple thousand people will comment on it.
So running into the brick wall that is Braden Montgomery is unexpected—and it’s also throwing me off my game.
First, I almost fell into him, or very nearly onto him. But I was bent over, perched on one foot, hair in my face, and trying to extend the courtesy of looking him in the eye, and when I did, the sight was more than I’d planned on. I expected another game warden like those I’d already met: middle-aged, a little doughy, and not my type. Instead, I looked up to find six foot five and two hundred plus pounds of brawn. Along with a pair of terribly pretty green eyes, messy dark brown hair, and a scruffy beard with just a tinge of salt fleck to it. He was glowering and somehow eating me up with those eyes, and nothing about his intense gaze was off-putting. Braden was looking without leering, and I liked it so much I lost my balance.
But I didn’t want him to know how much he was throwing me, so I bucked up and went into control mode. Braden responded with the same, along with an extra large side serving of surly.
After unzipping my pack, I drag out my binoculars and scan the area to see where I’ll have the best view of the basin below. Time scouting in the field is what will make or break this hunt for me, because I won’t have the benefit of an outfitter like I usually do. It’s been a while since I’ve done my own scouting, because unfortunately, having a popular hunting show sometimes means you become a glorified shooter, not a hunter.
By this last season, my fourth one on the air, every episode we filmed was a luxury hunt on a high-fence ranch, where we spent more time doing my makeup than we did outdoors. While it looked good on camera, it was also boring. For me and the viewers, it seems, because it showed in our ratings—enough that next season is in limbo.
And that is why I’m here. To get back to the roots of how I was raised to hunt: no outfitter and no luxury digs, just me and my bow on the lookout for a nice bull elk in Colorado. My livelihood depends on making it happen, because I don’t have a fallback anything. I’ve got no college degree, no skills beyond what I’m already doing, and my body can’t be a meal ticket forever. Before I was Amber Regan of Record Racks, I was Amber Regan of the local Dollar General. Not exactly a life I want to go back to.
So if Braden Montgomery wants to make my life difficult, fine. But I’m not just going to scuttle off somewhere. Despite being a glowering pain in the ass, Braden clearly knows what he’s doing, which means if he’s over there you can be damn sure that’s the best place to be.
I grab my water bottle in one hand and pull on the harness for my binoculars. When I start toward the rock outcropping, Braden’s head casts in my direction, and I swear I can hear him sigh all the way over here. God, he shouldn’t strain himself like that. All those overwrought noises can’t be good for a person.
Up close, the boulders are taller than I expected. Watching Braden mount them with so little effort was deceptive, likely because his height and leg length give him the advantage. The rocks are also relatively smooth, and there are few places where my short legs might find their first foothold. I circle around to see if there’s a better access point on the other side but find nothing other than a rock face that goes straight up.
Braden appears above me, face as stony as the rocks. “Come back around. I’ll give you a hand.”
I set my hands on my hips and take another look at the rocks, mentally willing an obvious handhold to reveal itself so I can do this on my own.
“I don’t need your help. It’s just that not all of us are built like the Jolly Green Giant.”
“Well, Jolly Green Giants aren’t exactly built to outrun mountain sprites. But that didn’t stop you from basically running me over trying to get up this trail. You didn’t hear me complaining about you breathing down my neck the whole way, did you? So let my overgrown ass give you a hand up here.”
I train my eyes up to where he’s standing in the glare of the noonday sun, casting a shadow with the breadth of his body. In the distance, voices and laughter carry our way, growing louder. Braden turns and points his binoculars toward the trail.
“Teagan and Colin. About fifteen minutes away.” His head tips forward a few inches, as if he’s squinting their way. “Maybe more, because unless my ’nocs are screwed up, I think Colin is carrying her. Jesus. That kid’s an animal, isn’t he?”
I roll my eyes. Colin is an animal, freakishly strong for a guy his size and build, with the endurance of a Wyoming antelope—so there’s no question that with one peep of discomfort from Teagan, the Prince Charming of Pig Farmers probably gathered her up before she could protest. It might also explain how they ended up twenty minutes behind us. Either that or they kept pace just fine but found themselves off trail with certain parts of their clothing strategically unbuttoned. It wouldn’t be the first time their weird-ass mating rituals delayed their arrival somewhere. What’s wild is that the second we cross the state line into Texas, they’ll act like strangers. But when we’re on the road? They can’t keep away from each other. I love them both like family, but why two people who are that into each other work so hard to keep from being together is beyond me.
After making my way around the rock cropping, I stick my arm straight up and wait for Braden to extend his. Almost before I can get my footing, he’s pulling me toward him. I let out a surprised yelp and scramble to find my balance, nearly toppling into him—again. His hands are suddenly at my waist, spanning the width with his grip, his body pressed to mine, and my face buried in his chest. Without thinking, I draw in a long, steadying breath, and . . . well, shit.
This in an unfortunate discovery.
He smells good. Really good. Like the strangest combination of nutmeg and sweat. And, because the world isn’t already unfair enough, he feels better than good.
“Got it?” Braden’s voice is a cautious rumble, spoken near the crown of my head.
I pull my hands back from his chest, hovering over the wall of muscle I just groped, my eyes fixed on the space between my fingers.
“Yes. I’ve got it. All of it.”
His fingers grip my waist a touch harder. “You sure?”
I have no idea if he’s goading me or groping me now, but either one is a bad idea. The first would piss me off, and the second might turn me on, so I need to clear some space between us. I wriggle my hips a bit as a prompt.
Bad choice. Bad, bad choice. Because his fingers dig in. He grunts. And my heart starts to thump—in the best way.
Finally, he loosens each of his fingers and steps back, quickly dropping into a crouch on the rock. I steel my nerves, watching as he shimmies out of his coat and tosses it next to him, then points at it.
“You can use that to cushion your mountain-sprite ass.”
I flop down on it without protest, because I’m already tired of the bickering. Plus, I know how much your butt hurts after a few hours sitting on a rock. Braden brings up his binos and aims them off to the east.
“There are a couple of cows in this draw to the east. See the cluster of dead pines? Go straight down from there. They’re bedded in that opening.”
Immediately, I draw my binos up, working to find the dead pines he mentioned. “How many?” I ask.
“Four. Maybe five. There’s something off to the left, but I can’t tell what.”
I find the cow elk, four ladies sunning themselves leisurely and noshing on grasses occasionally. After working my focus to the left, the dark brown clump he can’t identify comes clearly into view for me. Another cow.
“Five. And this last one, she’s big.”
“How can you see that? All I get is a blob.”
He leans back and stares at me. I tug my arms free from the harness strap that holds my binoculars and hand it all his way.
“Swarovskis. From their EL line, new this year. The built-in range finder is top-notch, and you can’t beat the angle adjustment features. Might burn your freaking retinas out if you use them too much, but you can see everything.”
Braden brings them up to his face, adjusts the fit, and then I see his jaw drop.
“Holy shit.”
I tamp down a snort. Welcome to the world of free swag, Braden.
After a few minutes, he reluctantly hands them back and watches as I slip the harness back on, both arms and my chest pushed out like I’m pulling on a vest. With most guys, I’d consider the longing look on his face might be a reflection on the way my boobs are currently thrust forward, but with Braden, I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s all about the optics. Once everything is in place, I cast a look his way and he immediately flicks his eyes up to meet mine.
“I hate hunting shows,” he blurts out.
“No,” I scoff, drawing the word out. “Really? Because you’ve been so warm and welcoming, I just can’t imagine how that’s possible.”
Braden gives up an exasperated sigh and turns away to scan the hillside below.
“But here’s the question: Is it just my show? Is it seeing me and my ovaries out there that pisses you off?”
Braden shakes his head. “I hate all of them. Your gender-specific organs have nothing to do with it. Although I really hate all those hot pink camo outfits with high heels that someone is sticking you in.”
“No one sticks me in anything. I decide if I’m wearing heels, or hot pink, or whatever the hell I want.”
He continues to peer out to the distance. I tilt my head, studying the side of his face.
“So why do you hate them? Not the outfits—I don’t care what you think about that—but the hunting shows. You’re a game warden, so you probably aren’t morally opposed to hunting. I’m guessing you hunt yourself. Archery, right? Probably traditional. You give off that self-righteous vibe.”
He ignores my jab about the superiority complex some archery hunters have and lazily gestures with one hand at the wide expanse ahead of us.
“I hate hunting shows because of that.” His chin juts out to emphasize his point. “Going out there, with the express purpose of taking an animal’s life. That shit is sacred. It’s not entertainment, so you shouldn’t film it, package it, and broadcast it, then sell ads to go along with it. You should respect it.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and Braden jerks his head my way, eyes narrowed into slits that would pin me to the ground if possible.
“That’s funny? Fucking unbelievable. I take it back. I hate all hunting shows, but yours is at the top of my list.”
I let my laugh taper. “You sound exactly like my uncle Cal. Practically word for word. Only he usually ended his speech with some quote from Aldo Leopold.”
A grunt from beside me. “Your uncle Cal and I would get along.”
My uncle Cal has been gone for three years now. Aggressive lung cancer took him swiftly, but his odd hillbilly-meets-conservationist teachings are still with me. He was one of the few people in this world—although I wouldn’t be surprised if Braden might be counted among them—who believed a little moonshine and a little Muir made for a perfect night.
“You probably would have.”
Braden’s eyes soften, curious suddenly. When I note there’s no judgment in his expression, I let out a tired sigh.
“Cal raised me after my parents died. Once he figured out I had a knack for staying quiet in the field and a good eye for targets, he had me out behind the house shooting arrows until I could land a group damn near with my eyes closed. And that’s when I wasn’t wading in the crick that ran through his property, working out how to cast a line just right. All of this before I had boobs.”
Credit to Braden, his eyes don’t drop below mine. He keeps his face neutral and his tone flat. “And after?”
I give up a quiet chuckle. “Same plan, different objective. He figured if I was in a tree stand, it made it a hell of a lot harder for the boys to find me. Only worked so well. Turns out lots of guys like girls in camo.”
Braden looks perplexed. I shrug a shoulder and crack a half grin, wordlessly owning up to the obviousness of my brand. I know why the camo works, why advertisers want me showing skin. And my body is mine to do with what I choose, even if that means I’m sometimes the target of many a hateful shaming comment on my Twitter and Instagram. Add in the fact that I’m a hunter and it’s open season on me. Pun intended. Lots of folks believe in girl power, sure. But some of them also believe that feminism should look and sound only the way they want it to—meaning it doesn’t wear short shorts or carry a shotgun.
When Braden’s brow crinkles just a bit, I consider how much I might be screwing with all his preconceived notions about me. That no, I’m not some dress-up doll or a mindless bimbo who is being pushed around or exploited by some moustache-twirling puppeteer who keeps me in line by making me feel worthless. Instead, I was raised by a true conservationist, I’ve been in the field since I was eight, and I wear the pink camo and the heels because I want to.
“Why?” Braden suddenly asks.
My brow wrinkles. “Why? Why what?”
“Why do guys like girls in camo?”
I tilt my head and think. I’ve never tried to put the concept into words; I simply know it works. But when I consider his question for a bit, I find my answer.
“Because I’m not supposed to be wearing it.”
Braden looks more confused than ever. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh and turn toward the hillside, drawing my binoculars up to scan the bottom as I try to explain.
“You know how some guys love the image of a woman prancing around in a men’s white dress shirt? Her hair’s all tousled, so she looks easy and hot? Same concept, just a different demo. To these guys, it’s like I snuck into their closet and slipped on their favorite Realtree T-shirt. Now their manly shirt smells like me and that taps into the whole weird caveman you’re mine thing.”
“ ‘You’re mine’? Like you’re a possession? All because of a stupid pattern that was designed for function, not fashion? That’s asinine.”
Hiding a grin, I continue to work my optics over the shady draw at the bottom of the basin, eventually landing on a yearling cow bedded down behind a clump of pinons. “So you’re a white-button-down guy, then. Got it.”
Braden lets out a choked-off sound, part growl and part cough. “I didn’t say that. I’m not a white-button-down guy.”
“A trench-coat-with-nothing-on-underneath guy?”
Another growl. “No.”
“A pencil-skirt, hair-in-a-bun, naughty-librarian guy?”
“Jesus. No.”
“Really? I thought I might have nailed it with that one. Come on, everyone has a thing, Braden. Women and men. The fantasy they’re into. The look that gets them going.”
He groans quietly, the sound of him asking me to shut up, I suspect. But now, no matter how inappropriate this entire conversation is, I have to know—what turns Braden Montgomery’s crank?
I reel through a few more stereotypical concepts in my head, eliminating each until a very specific image comes to mind and I give into a sly smile, thinking I may have just figured it out. Slowly, I start to paint a picture.
“Wait. I know what it is. You’re all about a tight dress with heels, the all-dressed-up-for-dinner-with-her-man look. A bandage minidress. In red.” I labor over that detail for a moment. I’m off base there—red is far too bold for this one.
“Nope, blue—cobalt blue. Not too short, no crazy patterns or cleavage showing. She’s covered but still showing it off. Simple heels, bare legs, no big jewelry. Just sophisticated and sexy.”
I pause, trying to decide if it’s a good idea to voice what else just ran through my mind. Ah, hell. Screw it. The guy hates my show and is at the very least irritated with me as a human being, so I’m rather enjoying giving this big bear a poke.
I lower my voice. “That is, until they get home. Then all bets are off. Along with the dress.”
I crane my head his way, intent on giving him a smug smirk, but Braden’s expression—the set of his jaw loose and his mouth relaxed—is entirely neutral.
All except for his eyes.
His eyes tell me that I just nailed it, identified exactly what redlines his motor. Heated and glimmering, those green eyes stay fixed on me, his eyelids hooded just enough to melt my smug intentions into something else entirely. Like wondering what his big body would feel like pinned beneath mine. Not that I’d have any hope of keeping him there if he didn’t want to be, but Good freaking Friday, those eyes of his mean business right now—and the business in question may be that Braden’s mentally undressed me from my current ensemble and now redressed me in that blue dress and heels.
And, quite possibly, is nailing me in it.
He blinks once, deliberately. Then simply turns away, raises his binos, and starts to glass. No denial. No scathing retort. No “fuck off” or “fuck you.” Just nothing. And all that nothing says more than he ever could have had he opened his mouth.
I realize that my face, my cheeks, even the back of my neck are heated and a touch damp—enough that a sudden gust of wind raises a shiver across my skin. Everything from my heart down to the senselessly base space between my thighs is either trembling or clenching or otherwise reacting to what just went down, and . . . oh, hell.
Really? Now?
Unbelievable. This is when my body decides to perk up and take real, carnal notice of a man? And for this guy? Mr. Jolly Green Giant with a bad attitude?
What. A. Fucking. Joke.
In general, guys are my indulgence. Some people watch bad TV or read trashy books when they get bored or lonely and nothing else will fix their mood. I happen to prefer my indulgences a bit more tactile. As in hands and lips and skin, all tangled up together in sweat and release.
And because I live in a city like Austin, Texas—where the weather stays warm, the downtown scene is never boring, and the average resident is young and single—I’m not at a loss for a tactile fix when I want one. I don’t do it often, but the simplicity of keeping men as an indulgence does have its merits. While I’ve been happily single for years now, before that I was a notorious three-month girl. Relationships that were just long enough to enjoy the newness but never so long as to end up discussing things I find exhausting—like whether to spend the holidays with his family or mine, debating the exchange of house keys, or the requisite-but-tiresome conversation about where our relationship is headed.
I’m just fine going solo in life; I have everything an established twenty-eight-year-old woman needs: my own house, a legit career, friends and family, and a decent bank account. I also have a healthy imagination and two hands.
So I’m all good on my own.
But those hands of mine are currently shaking, tiny tremors I’m determined to chalk up to hunger pangs. Entirely unrelated to the potently male being sitting next to me and instead, low blood sugar–induced. Understandable, given that I just humped it up a steep-grade trail, fueled only by the whole-wheat tortilla slathered with cashew butter that I ate this morning.
I slip one hand into the inside pocket on my coat and attempt to extract the protein bar I have stashed there as quietly as possible. A learned habit from years spent hunting, because every sound you make is amplified in nature and even the quietest snap draws attention your way—in direct opposition of what you’re trying to do, which is be invisible. Today, it’s a good thing we aren’t actually hunting, because the wrapper doesn’t do me any favors, making a crinkling sound that’s almost deafening given our surroundings.
Braden lets out a short gust of air—a huff, really—a split-second snort that makes it clear, yet again, how put out he is by this whole ordeal. The ordeal being me.
And that trembling in my body that I was just fussing about? The involuntary oh, look, a pretty man with pretty eyes reaction I didn’t want to deal with?
Poof.
All gone.
One obnoxious little snort from him is all it takes to huff and puff my appreciation into oblivion. I pluck the still-wrapped bar up with a flourish, hold it right in front of me, and proceed to yank on one edge to tear it open, then give it a good rip to see if I can get him to groan again, all because I have the audacity to eat a snack.
He does me one better. Groans and huffs. I take a huge bite of the bar, enjoying the mushy pecan pie flavor, then do my best to chew loudly while still keeping my jaw shut. No need to gross him out, just irritate him.
“You shouldn’t eat that.”
Silently, I finish chewing. Braden exhales sharply through his nose. I take another bite, doing all I can to draw it out.
“You’re eating a candy bar. You realize that, right? It’s a candy bar masquerading as a protein source. Same calories, same sugars. It’s just those things are made with brown rice sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup. All those shitty things will do is spike your blood sugar and give you a stomachache.”
Oh, goody. Now he’s going to get all sanctimonious about nutrition. The fact that my belly does sometimes rumble unhappily after I eat these is not for him to know. Any bellyaching I might experience is easily dealt with by using some of the endorsement money I make from this company to buy some antacids. I open my mouth and lean forward exaggeratedly to take another bite. But a big man paw appears before my face, snatching the bar clean from my hand so quickly I instead end up sucking in a mouthful of clean Colorado air, like a big-mouth bass surfacing to make for some bait.
I stare slack-jawed at the place where my bar used to be. Are you kidding me? In what universe is it OK to do what he just did? We’ve known each other for a few hours, for God’s sake. In no universe is two hours enough time to yank anything out of my hand. Anything. Only the fact that I’m speechless saves him from me letting him have it.
Braden snags the bar out of the wrapper and proceeds to chuck it into the forest with the force, speed, and accuracy of an MLB pitcher. OK, now he’s littering. For someone who’s all about being right and righteous, and is employed as a steward of state lands, that’s not exactly a cool thing to do. He flattens the wrapper out so he can point accusingly at the ingredient list.
“Organic brown rice syrup, organic cane syrup, organic dried cane syrup, organic date paste. Just fancy ways to cover up the fact they’re all sugar. Fucking thing has twenty grams of sugar. Don’t get me started on soy protein isolate. It’s like the Twinkie equivalent of soy, stripped down and fucked up. Do you know there’s research connecting too much processed soy to breast cancer?”
I yank the wrapper back into my possession. “Thank you for your concern about my breasts. But they’re fine. And these ‘shitty things’ help pay my mortgage, thank you very much.”
To prove my point, I grab my phone and hold it up at the perfect selfie angle while clutching the empty wrapper in my other hand, making sure the company logos on my knit hat, the protein bar, and my camo coat are all clearly visible in the shot.
“What are you doing?” Braden barks.
“My job,” I mutter. I turn my head and tip my chin, checking my hair and giving my best smile before snapping the pic.
Lowering the phone, I review the picture and spot Braden’s face peeking in from the corner of the screen, scowling a little and looking appropriately broody. A quick internal debate as to whether I should crop him out or not. Leave him in, I decide; he looks hot, scowl and all.
I start to tap a few keys, reading aloud as I do. “ ‘Can’t beat the view. Or my midday power up snack. #ColoradoElk #scouting #RecordRacks #fulldrawlife #womenwhohunt.’ ”
My eyes stay glued to the screen, fingers tapping away as I add the names of the endorsers. I can feel Braden leaning in, his head craning toward my phone.
“Are you posting that? Right now? Out here?”
“Yup. You want in? Give me your handle.”
“My what? No. Whatever you’re doing, the answer is no. Jesus Christ.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
The signal up here is weak, but one bar is enough to post the picture. I turn my attention to Braden, who’s clearly so horrified he looks close to either screaming or sucker punching his backpack, just to get some frustration out.
I’m feeling nearly the same, with an added dose of hangry. There are three other energy bars stashed in my pack, but they would probably meet the same fate as the first, so going for those will be a waste of time. I’m relatively sure there’s a small baggie of trail mix buried somewhere in there, but I’m guessing it’s stale and not worth the effort of digging it out.
My stomach growls. Loudly—like it’s cussing out Braden with the sound. I sigh and take a drink of my water. Best to stay hydrated at the least.
“Are you hungry?”
This freaking guy.
“Are you insane?” I snap. “Yes, I’m hungry! I had a tortilla with cashew butter hours ago, long before I had to chase the Jolly Green Giant up a steep grade. All those calories are burnt off. That’s why I was eating that bar. Because I’m hungry.”
Braden curses under his breath while jamming his hands into his coat pockets, pulling out what look like small pale yellow dish towels with a honeycomb pattern printed on them. He dumps them in my lap where I’m sitting cross-legged. I draw my hands up, palms out—yes, Officer—and stare down at the packages.
“Eat those.”
“Dish towels? No thank you. While I’m sure they are very low in sugar, I’m guessing they don’t taste too good.”
“Those are reusable cloth wrappers lined in beeswax, not dishtowels. Saves on plastic bags—and bonus, unlike the wrappers on those crap bars, it doesn’t sound like a herd of buffalo crashing through a field full of tinfoil when you open them.” He flicks the top of one of the wrappers. “Homemade fig millet energy bars in this one and some snack mix in the other. Like Chex Mix, but without the additives that will kill you.”
I continue to stare down at the wrappers, hands still up, now feeling as if this is some version of your crazy house cat leaving a dead mouse on the doorstep in offering, or a wolf who leaves a half-eaten carcass for the taking as some weird-ass sign of submission.
“Look, I’m sorry.” He lets out a long exhale, resigned. “That was a dick thing to do. I just reacted. I didn’t want you to eat that junk, OK? You obviously take care of yourself, and that stuff is terrible for you. I mean, your body is . . .”
My eyes immediately cut his way at mention of my body, and his jaw snaps shut before I get the distinct pleasure of hearing him finish that sentence. My body is what? I can’t even explain how badly I want to know what he was about to say. So much that I’m two breaths away from egging him on, pushing him somehow, getting him to crack. But my sanity dictates that I let this go and just take the Jolly Green Giant’s dead-mouse offering without comment.
Plus, I’m so hungry. Starving. Hangry.
Silently, I work on unwrapping the first cloth. Three energy bars are inside, cut to the same size as my prepackaged ones and chock-full of dried cherries, pumpkin seeds, and big quinoa-like nuggets of what must be the millet, and flecked with what I think are chia seeds and orange zest. My mouth waters, and despite wanting to hate these things on sight, after one bite I can taste the difference between this and what Braden previously heaved into the forest. This tastes like real food, a cross between the granola my mom made when I was a kid and a Fig Newton. I almost say so out loud, but given that Braden would likely lose his sanctimonious shit over the latter comparison, I keep it to myself.
“Thank you. These are good. Great, actually.”
He nods and I work on opening the other bundle, revealing a mix of popcorn, almonds, and pretzel pieces, all dusted in a spicy herb blend. I toss a piece of popcorn in my mouth.
“And I appreciate you acknowledging that you’re a dick. I didn’t want to have to point it out myself.”
Braden snorts quietly. Behind us, Colin and Teagan have finally crested the top, voices carrying as they head our way. When they arrive, Colin looks smug and Teagan looks sheepish, cheeks flushed and her wild-child hairstyle even more mussed than usual. They so got off trail on the way up here.
I crook a brow and give Teagan a knowing look. “You two get lost?”
She thrusts her arm out and points in Colin’s direction but doesn’t look his way, barely stifling the guilty grin that threatens to break free.
“He made us stop every ten steps so he could ask about my knees. No exaggeration. Every. Ten. Steps.”
A year ago, at the ripe old age of thirty, Teagan couldn’t shake a few nagging aches in her joints, but chalked it up to an aftereffect of a bout with the flu. A few weeks later, she blamed it on her new kettlebell workout regimen. Two months after that, she claimed it had to be a sudden onset of gluten intolerance. Then it was nightshade vegetables. Then a mineral deficiency. Then she decided there was mold in her house. She gave up wheat, dairy, peppers, tomatoes, wine, coffee, and air-conditioning. Nothing helped.
Six doctors and a million self-diagnoses later, a specialist finally landed on a real answer: rheumatoid arthritis. A shit diagnosis for a woman who works as a freelance producer to help pay the bills (and only works on my show as a favor to me) but is a different type of artist at heart—a painter and mixed-media designer whose hands are everything to her and which she may eventually end up unable to use the way she wants.
Despite her remaining as active as ever and having more good days than bad, Colin can’t help hovering over Teagan’s every move. Yes, Colin is a God-fearing army vet who now works part-time as an outdoor sports cameraman and full-time as a pig farmer in the tiny town of Harper, where he grew up. And yes, Teagan is a heavily tattooed agnostic who is part of progressive Austin’s modern art elite. So on the face of it, the two of them together is almost impossible to fathom. But no matter how unexplainable their mutual adoration is, it’s there.
“So stopping that often must mean there was plenty of time to film b-roll on the way up?” I ask.
B-roll footage is what fills in the blanks for viewers on shows like ours; it gilds the lily so we can tell the whole story: panned shots of the land and the game, early moments at the truck and trailhead, and anything else that might set the tone for the final cut. Even if I don’t end up back here for my hunt, it’s best to gather what we can now, because, on average, every hour of raw b-roll captured yields only a few minutes worth of usable show content.
Colin fiddles with his camera.
“Still need a little more,” he mumbles, finally working up the courage to peer up at me. “How did it go for you two? You guys spot anything good while you were glassing?”
Too bad for Colin, but his face owns everything. He looks happy—like he always does when he and Teagan are together, no matter how temporarily.
Maybe that’s why my body is intrigued by the Jolly Green Giant and his bad attitude. Maybe because as much as my indulgences with men are uncomplicated, they’re also fleeting, and maybe I miss the happy buzz of chasing someone around—just one specific someone—then enjoying all the good stuff that comes when you finally have them. Because even if they routinely seem to make a mess of it, Colin and Teagan get the good stuff when they’re together. And maybe I’m just a little bit jealous of that. Maybe.
Darting a glance in Braden’s direction, I try to figure out how to answer Colin’s question. How did things go for us? There’s no easy answer to that.
“She didn’t push me off this rock ledge or fall off of it herself,” Braden finally offers.
He stands up and makes his way off the rock with a nimble jump down to the ground. I’m now expected to dismount the rock myself—straight into his awaiting arms, apparently—because he turns back to extend his hands in my direction.
“So we’re both still alive.” Braden flicks his wrists to encourage me. “I think we can agree that’s a win.”