(Amber)
“Range after range of mountains. Year after year after year. I am still in love.”
—GARY SNYDER
A few hours later, Braden and I descend the trail under the cover of heavy clouds. Our trip down was predictably slower because the steep grade would have made it easy to turn an ankle—and because it seems Braden and I have reached a silent agreement that there is nothing to prove by racing each other down the hill. Either that or we’re both just too tired for any more antagonistic hijinks today.
Once we reach the parking area, Braden continues walking without even a slight pause, evidently hell-bent on getting to his truck. He doesn’t bother with a goodbye, a handshake, or even a parting grumble.
With an eye roll for my benefit only, I walk to my truck and promptly off-load my pack into the backseat, then return to the trailhead. Hopefully, Colin and Teagan resist the urge for any more off-trail shenanigans and get down here before those darkening clouds decide to do more than just hover ominously. I take a peek at my phone for the time—almost four o’clock. Given Teagan’s knees, I’m guessing they’re at least thirty minutes out. If they aren’t here in an hour, I’ll head back up the trail to make sure they’re OK.
“They’ll be fine.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Braden’s voice behind me. Jesus. He truly should crash around like a pissed-off grizzly bear given all that mass, making himself impossible to miss—but instead, he’s stealthy. And given how close he is now, I also can’t miss how he still smells pretty good.
I probably smell like I’ve been sautéing onions in my armpits, with a bonus layer of whatever aggravation smells like. I’m a woman, for Christ’s sake. I’m supposed to smell like sunshine and snickerdoodles, not him. There is such a perverse amount of injustice in our long-day aromas, I can’t even stand it.
I tip my head back to see him. He’s taken off his pack and traded his midweight camo coat for a black puffer. He gives his knit hat an adjustment, tugging it low enough on his forehead so only a few stray locks of dark hair around his ears peek out.
“Pretty sure Colin wouldn’t let anything happen to her, even if that means he ditches his pack, carries her out on his back, and goes up again to get his stuff.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Braden’s put words to what I already know, but it’s nice to hear anyway. They will be fine. But even if I know that Colin’s a hell of an outdoorsman and Teagan’s as tough as they come, they’re also part of my family by design. And after losing my parents and Uncle Cal, I’m prone to doing whatever it takes to keep the rest of my family from disappearing on me.
“I just want them down here before any weather rolls in. I’m guessing that trail is dicey if it gets wet.”
I close the short distance back to my truck and drop the tailgate, hopping up on it and loosening the laces on my boots, allowing my tired feet some relief. Being able to wiggle one’s toes after a few hard miles is a wicked pleasure intimately understood by both hikers and hunters.
Braden follows, leans on the bedside of my truck, forearms resting on the top so he can drum his fingers on the metal. My brow furrows up.
Braden reads the confusion on my face. “What?”
I crook a brow. “You’re free to go. You’ve served your sentence, so consider yourself a free man. You can go back to your warren or your Grinch-esque off-the-grid compound. Wherever it is you lay that enormous head of yours at night.”
“I’ll wait with you.”
“Not necessary.”
“I’ll. Wait.”
We lock eyes until Braden gives in and drops his head to rest on his forearms. I silently congratulate myself on the victory before reaching for a cooler in the bed, dragging it forward to tip the lid up.
“I have water, peach Snapple, and beer. Pick your poison.”
Braden begins to roll his forehead across his arms. “Who drinks Snapple? I didn’t even think they made that crap anymore.”
“I drink it. Water, then? I’m sure beer conflicts with your high-minded ethics about what people should and shouldn’t consume.”
Head still cradled in his arms, he exhales slowly. “Don’t compare beer to your shitty energy bars and Snapple. Beer is different; it’s practically a whole grain. I want a beer so badly right now, you have no fucking idea. But I’m driving my work truck and wearing my uniform.” He lifts his head incrementally. “Water, please.”
Well, well, well. Was that politeness I just heard? And he’s insistent on waiting with me until Colin and Teagan get down the trail? Interesting.
I hand him a water and open my own, taking a long drink. The cold water combined with the cooling temps prompts a full-body shiver.
“Your truck or mine?” Braden asks quietly.
Try as I might, when I peer his way, I can’t find even the tiniest bit of contempt in his expression. If anything, he looks concerned. Like he genuinely gives a shit if I’m cold.
That does it. He’s exhausted or something. Dog-tired and too beat down to sneer or mock. He must be.
I tip my head toward the cab of my truck. “I’m closer.”
What I’d much rather do is unlock the fifth-wheel RV we’ve been staying in and snuggle down in my bunk, but since Braden’s decided to play minder, that isn’t an option. Leaving him outside to wait seems rude, but inviting him in isn’t happening. He’s just demonstrated the ability to care, the quarters are too cozy, and he smells like a big, just-sweaty-enough man. God knows what state Colin and Teagan might find us in if we’re left unattended too long.
We each make our way to the truck, and I start the motor so the heater will kick on, watching as Braden slumps down, taking up the entire seat and then some. His presence overwhelms the cab with far too much virility for such a small space. Maybe the RV, bigger by a stretch, would have been a better choice.
Braden scans the dash of my truck, strewn with topographical maps and big game brochures. My truck looks like a command center because I’ve voluntarily sequestered myself here more than once on this trip, desperate for some quiet time to study my maps. Although it was nice of Colin’s parents to let us use their RV for this trip, it’s definitely made for close quarters, and all of us are used to living alone. Colin also managed to use his pull over at Afield to borrow two of their decaled trucks, one we could hook the RV to and another to carry our remaining gear. Given that I don’t seem to have pull anymore, I need every favor Colin can garner on my behalf.
Braden’s gaze lands on the map at the top of the pile, detailing the Routt National Forest hunting unit near Steamboat Springs. Before we made our way to Hotchkiss, we spent time there and near Aspen, scouting those as possibilities for my hunt as well. When we leave here, we’ll make one more stop down south in Durango to check out a unit in the San Juan Mountains. Braden attempts to get a better look at the map by tilting his head and skimming what he can see, but he doesn’t reach for it.
“Unit fourteen,” I offer. “We were up there last week. Nice herd, but I think there are too many roads in and out of that area. Might feel like Grand Central Station come season. Horse and foot traffic I can deal with, but the last thing I need is a bunch of guys roaring around on their ATVs like idiots because they’re too out of shape or too lazy to walk anywhere.”
Admiration flickers in his expression, like he’s pleasantly surprised to discover I’ve given my hunt some actual thought. That I understand why less motorized traffic in the area is best, especially when archery hunting demands a closer range to your target and if some joker on an ATV spends too much time barreling up access roads, that will spook the elk. Inside, I grouse a little. Of course I understand that. I may have spent the last few years on luxury ranches with expert outfitters, but I went on my first deer hunt when I was twelve, which makes this my sixteenth season hunting big game.
Hunting 101: Don’t make a bunch of noise. Fucking duh.
Braden points to the map, asking for permission. I give him a nod and he drags it into his lap, hunches over, and begins to trace the tip of his index finger across the map. After a few moments of silent study, he sets the map on the center console between us and circles his finger on a small section.
“What about this basin? I’ve never hunted here, but I’ve camped near Mt. Zirkel. If I remember correctly, this area takes you east enough that you’ll have some breathing room from high-traffic areas.”
I lean closer to the map, but doing so puts our faces nearer to each other, from where I can hear him breathing steadily and feel the heat from his body. He also just spoke to me like he might if he was planning a hunt with one of his buddies—assuming he has any—instead of the way he would if I was just a blonde with a hunting show.
Unfortunately, the respectful camaraderie he just offered up doesn’t make me want to have a beer with him. Nope. It makes me want to crawl over the console, straddle his big body, and kiss him.
I lock every muscle in my body to keep from doing exactly that and force my brain to focus clearly on the spot he’s pointed out, eventually recalling the area in my mind.
I nod. “We spent a little time glassing from a ridge up above there. And that basin is a honey hole, for sure. But it’s also steep. If I fill my tag down in there, I also have to get him out on my own, and I can only carry so much weight at a time. No way am I risking losing any meat because I can’t get him out fast enough.”
Braden immediately gives me the same look he did a moment ago. Again, the fact that I know a bull elk will yield hundreds of pounds of meat and require multiple treks in and out of the wilderness to pack it all out seems to blow his mind. And when our eyes meet, I think he might be considering how best to drag me over the console and into his lap. He takes a labored swallow.
“Then hire a packer with horses to haul the meat out.”
I tip my head back and forth loosely, suggesting that I’m not sold on the idea—because that might feel a little like cheating. Braden shakes his head, replies to my hesitation without my even having to say it aloud.
“No shame in that, Amber. Especially when it’s at the cost of possibly losing meat. It’s a practical, responsible solution.”
I sigh. “I know. I just want to do it all myself. One hundred percent. Not to mention, then I have to find the right packer to hire. One who won’t take my money and then flake out. Or expect that by working with me, he’ll automatically cash in on big exposure for his company.”
Braden tosses the map back on the dash. “I’ll help you with that part. I can make some calls to the wardens in that unit, find a reputable company, and send you the info—”
A sharp knock against my door glass interrupts us, Colin’s cold-reddened face on the other side. Teagan is a few steps behind, already taking advantage of the signal strength by peering down at her phone. I roll down my window.
“That sucked,” Colin announces. “The snow’s already starting up there and I need to get Teagan warmed up as quickly as possible.”
My lips curl wryly. “I’ll just wait out here, then. Let me know when you’re done and it’s safe to come in the RV.”
Colin blushes. “I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s just get cleaned up and then go find ourselves some food and some beer.”
Teagan sidles up behind him with a grin, pointing her phone my direction. My post from earlier is up on her screen.
“Braden’s practically trending. Even Trey’s chimed in.”
I pull my phone out and open the app to scan the comments. My followers are split about sixty–forty between men and women, but broody Braden has driven the female contingent to the forefront—and they’re feeling chatty.
Who’s the hottie in the corner?
Grrr. Somebody looks grumpy. And yummy.
IS HE A GUIDE? I’d follow him anywhere!!! #hotguysincamo
And from my little brother, Trey, one of his dry-witted gems.
@amberregan, are you aware that you’ve been photobombed by an angry yeti?
A near psychotic laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Braden immediately begins to launch a series of irritated questions at us.
“Why are you laughing? And why in the hell are ‘trending’ and my name being uttered in the same sentence? Someone tell me what the fuck is going on. Now.”
I finish my giggle-fest with a satisfied sigh and slump into my seat, turning lazily to point my phone his way. “The picture I posted earlier. Part of your handsome frowning face is in the shot, and chicks are getting lady boners over you.”
His face screws up. “That’s a sign of some sort. I’m going home. I have shit to do later, and Charley will pout if I hold up dinner—and I hate it when she pouts.”
My grin starts to fade. Not that he owed me a relationship status disclosure, but who is this pouting “she” he’s talking about? What sort of woman does Braden go home to? She pouts? I can’t picture him putting up with much drama of any kind, let alone female drama. What does she look like? Is she pretty?
Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Look at him. The dark hair and the scruff, the serious sage eyes, and a sourpuss attitude many a woman would love to claim she single-handedly charmed into submission. All of that and he’s built like the caricature of a lusty lumberjack. So yeah, she’s probably gorgeous.
My phone beeps with a text, interrupting my internal ramble. Bless my little brother’s heart, because he probably just saved me from making a fool of myself had any of the ramblings become external.
Where is your extra laundry detergent? I know you have some. You’re my laundry whisperer. Better yet, come home, laundry whisperer. WHITES! COLORS! MY DELICATES! THIS IS TOO HARD!!!
Sigh. The kid is twenty-five going on twelve. His adulting skills are especially weak when it comes to laundry, and since I find laundry to be the most relaxing chore in the world, I’m content to be his enabler when it comes to his aversion to washing machines.
Plus, he’s my kid brother. We lost our parents in a fire when I was ten and he was seven, and despite Uncle Cal taking us in and loving us the best he could, the two of us still became a little codependent unit. I mothered him and he protected me—and we do the same today. If I were home, he would have shown up with his laundry basket like a college kid, dumped it next to the washing machine, and then concocted a bullshit story about a sudden work emergency. But given that he’s part owner of a burgeoning custom furniture company and runs the design portion of the business, most of his job involves him hunched over a sketch pad. Not exactly a job fraught with crises.
Another text lights the screen.
You’ll need to buy more peanut butter when you get back. And eggs. And milk. Toothpaste. TP. I’ll make a list. You’re welcome.
I snort. He also struggles mightily with grocery shopping, so I’ve been known to stock up on extras of the things he likes. I tap out a quick reply.
Stop *shopping* in my pantry and take your lazy ass to the grocery store. IT’S THAT HUGE BUILDING NEXT TO THE STRIP-MALL DIVE BAR YOU FREQUENT.
Teagan peers toward my phone. “Trey?”
“Yeah,” I answer, clicking the lock on my phone. “I can’t leave him alone. His laundry won’t do itself, and I’m not there to make it magically disappear, then reappear clean and folded.”
Braden clears his throat and my eyes shoot to his. We’re both holding our phones awkwardly, somehow quizzing each other without so much as a word.
“Well, I’m sure your brother,” Teagan offers, “will figure it out. Either that or I’m sure he can just brush off the sawdust and make do.”
Visible relief works across Braden’s features. Suddenly, he thrusts his phone in my face. My eyes drop to his home screen, where there’s a picture of a dark toffee-colored Chesapeake Bay retriever zonked out in a layout blind, her head resting on what I’m assuming is one of Braden’s manly thighs.
“Charley,” he declares.
A smile spreads across my face. Braden returns my smile with his own.
OK, calling it a smile might be pushing it. But he isn’t glaring or frowning, and the left side of his mouth is curved up ever so slightly, enough to send a zing of satisfaction through my body. We stay that way until Colin’s stage whisper absolutely kills the moment.
“Jesus. Is that what we look like?”
An oof follows, likely the back of Teagan’s hand whacking against Colin’s abs. Teagan then chimes in with an invitation.
“Come to dinner with us, Braden. We need you to tell us where to go anyway—you’re the local.”
His eyes drift over to Teagan before opening the truck door to get out. “I can’t. I wasn’t bullshitting about having a thing to be at tonight. Your choices for dinner are limited in Hotchkiss, but there’s a barbeque place called True Grit. It’s pretty good. Give that a try.”
The door shuts, and he disappears into the low light of a late afternoon creeping toward sunset. We wait until his truck starts before turning to give one another the same skeptical expression.
“Did he just recommend a barbeque joint to us?” Colin asks.
“He did,” Teagan replies.
We all go silent for a few beats. Dumbfounded by what Braden has just so innocently proposed.
Shocked by the nerve of it.
Entirely confused.
“Was he joking? He knows where we’re from, right?” Colin continues, prompting only a shrug from Teagan and a questioning headshake from me.
Because if there’s one thing we Texans readily unite behind, it’s our barbeque—the belief that no matter how you smoke it, baste it, or slather it, no one else does it the way we do. We do it right. Everyone else does it wrong.
And to claim otherwise is blasphemy.