(Braden)
“. . . going to the mountains is going home . . .”
—JOHN MUIR, OUR NATIONAL PARKS
I’m not sure, but I think things should be awkward right now. Because human nature dictates that when two people who don’t know each other that well end up in a grove of aspen trees doing what Amber and I just did, the next few hours could easily spell some uncomfortable moments.
But that’s not the case. Instead, we’ve hiked in companionable silence, amicably debated the best spot for her to set up camp during elk season, and experienced a near mind meld when choosing this high vantage point to glass from today. We’re above the tree line on a long, gently sloping hillside, with views to both a forest of dark timber and a large wallow, each of which will attract elk.
Amber has her spotting scope on a tripod, alternating between using it and her binoculars. I’ve succumbed to the need for a short nap, stretching out next to her using my pack as a pillow and my ball cap tipped low to shade the sun. My entire body feels weightless and drained, in a good way. Short of having had a condom on me a few hours ago, my day can’t get much better. We’re miles away from civilization, the weather is perfect, and the woman I’ve been crazed over for months just came for me. If someone were to hand me a beer, I’d probably laugh myself stupid at how good it all is.
Amber’s hand lands on my chest, and I open one eye to squint her way. She’s craned forward peering through her spotting scope while using one arm to grope blindly about until she lands on the two food wraps sitting on my torso. Both are from the stash of snacks I keep in my pack, one with dried apple chips in it and the other with venison jerky.
She gathers a small handful of the apple chips and starts to nosh on them, still hunched forward to scan a hillside in the distance. She breaks the silence from around a mouthful of chips.
“Where in the world did you get these fruit chips? Because I’m planning to buy a case to take home with me.”
I grin from underneath my ball cap. “My kitchen. I buy fruit from the local orchards in the fall then preserve what I can. If I freeze the dried fruit chips, they last even longer. These ones have a chai spice mix on them.”
Amber leans back from her spotting scope, sets her gaze on me, and sighs, but without the exasperation I’m used to hearing from her.
“I swear, you were born in the wrong century or something. You and this need to make things from scratch. You’re like some hot, modern-day pioneer man.”
She makes a play for the jerky, but I capture her hand in mine, bringing it close so I can set a quick kiss to her palm. A wary light flickers in her eyes, scattering when she realizes I’m not planning to keep ahold of her for any longer than the kiss requires, releasing her hand almost as quickly as I hooked it. Amber keeps her eyes on mine as she slowly draws her hand back. I tip up one brow, all but telling her with that expression to relax. Calm down, I’m just being affectionate . . . and, trust me, it’s as fucking weird for me as it is for you.
Amber tips her own eyebrow as a reply, a reminder that, silently or not, I’m not to tell her what to do. She’ll relax if and when she decides to. I snort to myself as she snags a piece of jerky.
“I made that, too,” I say, smugly.
“Of course you did,” Amber mutters. “Because it’s awesome.”
She finishes her bite, dusts off her hands, and downs a few gulps of water from her Nalgene. I decide to catch some more z’s because we’ll need to start down the trail soon but I’m still feeling properly wrecked. Just as my eyes drift closed, Amber clears her throat rather loudly, unzips her pack, and begins to rustle the contents around.
I keep my eyes closed, relishing how nice it feels to have laid down arms when it comes to Amber. We’ve moved beyond the way I was just a guy who hated hunting shows and she was just a woman with a hunting show, to two people who both love this way of life, under an open sky and in pursuit of a simple goal. That, I guess, might explain why getting each other off against an aspen tree felt anything but awkward.
“Hey, guys . . .”
My eyes flip open at the sound of Amber’s Record Racks voice. A stage whisper that’s all too common on hunting shows and does nothing but grate on my nerves, usually because most of the time whatever is being said, doesn’t need to be. I cut my gaze Amber’s way to find her with an arm outstretched and holding a small video camera in one hand, addressing her nonexistent audience conspiratorially. She’s taken her hair down then put her hat back on, all her blonde locks artfully arranged to look casual even when they obviously aren’t.
“It’s late July and I’m back in Colorado, trying to get in one last scouting trip before season opens. The weather is great, but shooters are slim. I’m using my new Vortex spotting scope, so you know I can see everything. But I’m still looking for a bull that’s Record Racks–worthy.”
Then she winks at the camera, like she’s sharing a secret she’s not the least bit guilty about. I have to work hard to keep from snorting, scoffing, or rolling myself down the hill. So much for skirting past any awkwardness. One thirty-second recording of her being the Amber Regan—product placements, annoying stage whispers, contrived blathering and all—and we’re right back where we started. No matter how much we have in common or how much we want each other, this career of hers is one thing we’ll never see eye to eye on. All this preening and posturing? For people you don’t know and will never meet? I don’t fucking get it.
Amber turns off the camera and sets it in her lap, then draws her hair back up into a practical ponytail.
“How did that sound?”
I shrug one shoulder. My best chance of getting out of here alive is to keep my mouth shut. I might pass out from holding back every snide comment that comes to mind, but I’m going to at least try to avoid pissing her off.
“Is that a you nailed it shrug or a try again, more cowbell shrug?”
I swipe a hand down my face, tipping my head her direction. “It’s an ask someone else shrug.”
She makes a show of looking at the wide-open space around us, shielding her eyes with one hand as if she’s looking for another biped who gives a shit. Once she’s done with her performance, she shoots me an impatient look. I give up a grumble. I tried, anyway.
“It sounded like that shit always does. Stupid. No one actually says things like that when they’re hunting. And the fucking whispering. That just makes whatever you say sound like complete bullshit.” I rub my temple with two fingers. “But if that’s what you’re going for? Then yes, you fucking nailed it.”
I try to tip my ball cap down as a means to communicate that I have nothing else to say on the topic, but Amber’s hands shoot out and shove the snack wrappers off my chest and onto the ground. Then she flicks the bill of my hat to drive it up and she crawls over me with her legs astride my body so her knees can press tight to my hips. My hands latch on to her thighs, sliding up her bare toned skin until I can grip her hips roughly, immediately wishing she was naked and coming—instead of pissed off and fully clothed, as she is right now.
Her hands land on my chest and she gives my pecs a hard shove.
“I don’t want to sound the way I always do. I’m trying to do something different here. I want it to come across that way.” Her fingers curl in and her eyes leave mine. “I need it to.”
I furrow up my brow, processing what she just said. Along with what she didn’t say. How she managed to sound desperate, determined, and resigned all in a few sentences, I’m not sure, but she did. Combine that tone with the way this always-assured woman’s shoulders have slumped and her lips are pressed into a thin line, and whatever plans I had to brush off this conversation are forgotten. I fix her with a matter-of-fact look.
“Then talk to the camera like you’re talking to me.”
Her shoulders sag once again. “I’m trying to. It’s like I don’t know how to be normal anymore, not when there’s a camera around. I see that little red light and something in my brain switches on, then I’m doing what I’ve always done.”
I tug on her ponytail playfully. “Maybe try not worrying about how you look so much. Keep your hair up like this.” I grab the camera and start to fumble with it. “Just talk to me. Pretend we’re on our own hunt, out here trying to fill the freezer. Like it’s our own personal home video.”
Amber snorts. “I’m guessing any home video you and I make might include the position we’re currently in. Except we’d be sweatier. And wearing fewer clothes. Maybe something skimpy and lacy for me, but that’s about it.”
“I fucking hope so,” I mutter, continuing to turn the camera around in my hands. Amber sighs and yanks it away, pressing a button on the side. She turns it so we can both see the viewfinder.
“It’s powered up; just press this button to start recording. Press it again when you want to pause recording.”
I gather it up from her hands and adjust the angle until Amber is center frame, then tell her we’re good to go. Amber scans her own length.
“Wait, does it look like I’m straddling a Jolly Green Giant?”
I thrust my hips up once, roughly, when I assure her that no one will be able to tell. Amber’s eyes fall closed and her head drops back on a moan, driving her core down to meet my body with a roll of her hips. Amber must feel the way I go heavy and hard, because she tips her head upright slowly, meets my eyes with a gleam in hers, and rolls her hips again. No matter how much I might want to play this game for a bit longer, I have to keep this train from going off the rails, otherwise this camera will capture some lively footage not meant for her viewers.
“OK,” I tell her. “Do your thing.”
Amber starts to fuss with her hair, tucking stray strands behind her ears and smoothing the length of her ponytail so it hangs over one shoulder. I use my free hand to give her fiddling one a swat.
“Knock that shit off. You look gorgeous. Like some guy recently slipped his hand between your legs.” The blinking red light on my side of the camera scolds me. I whip the camera away from my face. “Shit. You can edit that out or whatever, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Braden.”
Good. She might be used to the idea of people knowing everything about her, but I’m not interested in playing that game, especially when it comes to us enjoying certain private privileges. Amber thumps two fingers on my forehead to remind me to stay on task. I bring the camera up, whirling my fingers through the air to prompt her, but Amber falters, everything about her shouting a need to fuss and fidget. She sighs and jiggles her shoulders about as if that might help shake off the discomfort.
Suddenly, no matter how much I couldn’t give a shit less about a TV show, I just want to help her, so I find my inner director.
“Let’s talk about why you’re here. I know you came for this.” I gesture to myself, sweeping a hand down my body, which earns a snorting laugh from her. “But I’m a sure thing when it comes to you. Not so much for these bulls. Tell me why you picked this unit, what it is about this hunt that’s important to you. Tell me, though. Not the invisible ‘them.’ ”
Amber takes a deep breath, holding back an exhale until she’s buoyed herself.
“I picked this unit because it’s where I shouldn’t be. This unit isn’t ripe with trophy bulls, or even big numbers. This is public land hunting at its best and worst. You have to do your homework, hunt hard, and be OK with going home empty-handed. All of that is exactly what people think I can’t do.” She gives me a sly smile. “And I hate it when people underestimate me.”
“Sounds like you have something to prove,” I prod.
She nods. “I have to prove my show is worth another season. This hunt hinges on that. Without it, I don’t have anything. I’m as good as unemployed.”
Amber locks her eyes on mine as if she wants to be sure I heard what she just said. Again, I couldn’t give a shit less about a TV show, hers or anyone else’s, but I’m smart enough understand that this is not only her income, but her identity. And if there is one thing I’d hate to see, it’s this amazing woman not being one hundred percent of who she is. Even if that means there’s not much room in her life for a guy who thinks her career choice is, at best, kind of ridiculous.
I add an edge to my voice, challenging her. “So what’s it going to take to make sure that doesn’t happen? How are you going to prove yourself and save your show?”
Amber takes the bait. Her gaze becomes steady and sure.
“I’m going to do the work. And I’m going to get it right. No matter the outcome.”
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. I pause the recording and stretch my arm out to set the camera aside.
“Was that OK? Did it sound right?”
I blink once. Startled by the return of uncertainty to her voice, because now I don’t know if what I just saw was real or for show.
“That depends. Was it bullshit?”
Her brow creases. “No. Did it sound like bullshit? Dammit, I’m trying to be real here, and it’s not coming through. I don’t know how—”
I grab her hips and give a rough yank to cut her off.
“You’re doing exactly what you should. I only asked because you’ve spent years on camera and I don’t know what your tells are. But I believed you.”
“Good.” Amber’s posture relaxes and gives in to a little eye roll. “Because you’re a tough sell.”
Always a fucking smart ass, this one. Pulling her forward, I kiss her, soft and slow. I slide my hands up and down her thighs as we kiss, and Amber shoves my hat off so she can twist her fingers through my hair. A rumble sounds in the distance. Loud enough that both Amber and I freeze, waiting for the inevitable crack of lightning that will follow. It comes all too quickly. I mutter a curse word and give Amber’s hips a swat to prompt her off of me.
Late summer means afternoon rainstorms in the high country. Rainstorms mean thunder. Thunder means lightning. And lightning storms at this altitude mean we could end up human barbeque. Silently, I tell myself off for screwing around and putting us both at risk.
Amber swiftly rolls off of me. “We need to go, huh?”
I nod, sitting up and working my pack on at the same time. “Now. And quick. I don’t like how close that storm sounds.”
She moves into gear, taking her spotting scope off the tripod so she can wrangle it into its case, then starts breaking down the tripod. I unzip her pack for her and open it up so she can quickly stow everything away.
Amber brushes off her legs as I start toward the trail, walking backward to be sure she’s right behind me. She pulls on her pack but doesn’t move. I call her way, asking if she’s OK, struggling to keep my tone even when what I really what to do is tell her that now is not the time for plodding behind. She balls her hands into loose fists at her sides.
“What happens when we get back down to the truck?”
Another rumble of thunder. No time to play games.
“We get in my truck, I drive you back to that shitty-ass motel, and you pack up your stuff and check out. Then you follow me to my place in your rental car and stay with me until it’s time for you to fly home. You said I have you for two nights. I want every minute I can get.”
Relief crosses her face. Still, she’s not moving.
“Permission to suggest an alternative?”
I look skyward, asking for patience, because the clouds have already turned darker. We need to get going. Now. Amber knows that, but looks determined for us to have this conversation before she’ll even consider taking another step.
I flick my hand to encourage at least some sort of forward motion and answer her sharply. “Granted.”
“You drive me back to the motel, but I don’t check out.” I send her a hard look that says absolutely not, but she ignores it. “Until later. I want you to take me on a date tonight. I’ll get ready at the motel and you come pick me up. Like a real date.”
I balk. “A date? In Hotchkiss? Where? You’ve already made it clear that True Grit doesn’t meet your standards.”
Her response comes in a rush. “There’s a turkey foundation dinner at the Elks tonight; I saw a flyer posted at the gas station when I came into town. It starts at seven, and there are still tickets left—I checked. I want you to take me.”
I know all about the dinner. I’m a member of both the Elks and this local conservation group that works to protect wild turkey habitats—but these dinners aren’t my thing. I’m happy enough to send in my annual membership check, have them send me a bumper sticker, and leave it at that. No need to waste an evening listening to people spin yarns about some hunt they went on or wander around pretending that I want to bid on any of the junk they’re hawking on the silent auction.
“I hate those things,” I grumble.
Amber smiles. “Like how you hate hunting shows but just helped me try to make mine better? Like how you said you don’t dance but caved when I asked? Because I brought a dress with me, one I think might change your mind about foundation dinners. An all dressed up for a date with her man dress. And you are my date.”
I run my tongue over my now-dry lips, inspired by the mere mention of that sort of dress. Amber watches the gesture, looking smug. Shit. Nothing worse than knowing you’re over a barrel—and the barrel knowing it, too.
“Those things go on forever. Do we have to stay through the whole thing?”
“Nope. Just so we stay long enough to feel like it’s a date. After that we’ll employ a code word. Either one of us says it and we’re out of there.” She humps her pack around to shift the weight and tightens the waist strap down. “I’m thinking ‘sauerkraut.’ ”
“Sauerkraut.” I tilt my head. “That’s all I have to say when I’m ready to bail?”
“Yup. Sauerkraut.”
Fine. If a bad buffet-style dinner and feigning interest in some crappy art is what it will take to get her out of that motel and into that dress she described, I’m game. She’s here, and this may be the last time we ever see each other in person. There are too many miles between here and Texas, spelling the end of this, I’m sure—so I’m going to make the most of what we can.
I outstretch my hand in an agreement to her terms. Amber steps forward, takes my hand in hers, and we shake hands like bitter rivals, best friends, and bedmates all rolled into one.
Amber releases my hand and passes by me to take the lead on the trail. “I can’t wait to meet Charley.”
Aw, hell.
Some guys might claim the path to their heart is through their stomach. For me, it’s my dog. Because if a woman falls for my dog, then she’s golden in my book. And if she also meets Charley’s canine approval? I’ll give that woman whatever she wants.
Anything and everything—even if it’s only for a little while.