Montana Wild

by Vanessa Vale

  From skiing together in March, up to our necks in deceit just south of the Arctic circle in June.

  I shook my head in womanly disgust. That was the vaguest relationship update I'd ever heard. It was going to be like pulling teeth to get the details out of him, especially since he probably hadn't invented them yet. His mother most likely assumed the same thing as me. Men were vague.

  Another cashier showed up from somewhere and it was our turn. I started filling out the form, fished out my driver's license. I slipped my hair behind my ear and a few strands got caught in my ring. I winced. “Crap. I'm stuck.”

  Mike gently worked the ring out of my hair, slipping the freed strands back behind my ear. “There.”

  He had such big hands, like frying pans, but he was so competent with them, so gentle. I could only imagine his skill in the OR, or on my body. Sure, he'd been just as tall our senior year, but he'd been like a puppy, all big hands. Gangly. Since then, he'd grown into them, bulking up with fabulous muscle and hard lines.

  “I—I.” I cleared my throat, trying to cool my flushed skin. “I can't fish with this thing on.” I wiggled the gaudy ring, which caught the fluorescent light and sparkled.

  “It's for show.”

  “That's a big show.”

  I glanced at the guy behind the counter, who waited for me to finish the transaction, and was obviously hanging on to every word of our conversation.

  “Do we need any extra lures, line or other stuff to fish?” I asked Mike.

  “No, sweetheart. It's all in the tackle box in the car.” Mike smiled at me, all innocent looking. As if.

  “Mmm,” I grumbled. “If I didn't want to fish so badly I would walk right out of the store.”

  Chapter 6

  When I envisioned fishing in Alaska, I pictured majestic mountains with snowcapped peaks towering over wild rivers and thick forests of green with the wind whistling through the branches. A bald eagle would soar across the sky, its full size blocking the sun for a moment as it passed overhead. The line from my rod would make that magical whizzing sound and place the lure into crystal clear, ice-cold waters to just the right spot where I'd pull salmon the size of a skateboard out one after another.

  When Mike parked the clown car in downtown Anchorage, my visions quickly changed. Not only were the sun and any mountains that might surround the town obscured by thick, gray clouds, it was pouring. The rain had started when we left Wal-Mart, but now it fell in sheets without any sign of letting up. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since we’d left Uncle Bob's house, and I shivered in my hoodie.

  “We have to be standing in the only part of Alaska that's completely covered in concrete. I expected Alaska to smell more like that air freshener,” I told Mike, observing our very urban surroundings as we climbed out of the car. Where was the wilderness? The wildlife? “Good thing you're a doctor because you make a terrible tour guide.”

  We were in a paid parking lot beneath an expansive overpass for a four-lane road. Fortunately, it sheltered us from the rain, but provided the rumbling of large trucks as they drove overhead. Downtown Anchorage, with some big buildings, including a large hotel over ten stories tall, filled the horizon instead of mountains. “Is there really water nearby?”

  Mike pointed over his shoulder as he opened the hatchback and pulled out our raincoats. “Ship Creek. Runs right through town. Not the most picturesque of places, but Bob said the run's in, so if you want to catch some fish, this is where you need to be.”

  I shoved my arms into my blue slicker, eager. “This is fine, but I thought scenery and fishing went together up here. I guess in this weather there is no scenery, so I pick fish.”

  “Then suit up.”

  I'd packed my waders in my suitcase, now more thankful than ever I had them with me to keep me warm and dry. I sat on the edge of the open back of the car as I worked them on. They were like bib overalls made of neoprene, the stuff wetsuits were made from. It wasn't the most attractive of looks, but they did their job when wading into snow-fed rivers.

  We collected the rods, which were bent and wedged into the car right down the center so the tips touched the front windshield. With a large tackle box in one hand, a rod in another, Mike led me across the street and behind a tourist shop for native Alaskan crafts to a river walk.

  Ship Creek was, in my mind, less creek and more river. It was about fifty feet wide and the current moved swiftly. Falling in would be dangerous to your health. The color of the water was a gray I'd never seen before, and completely opaque. I had no doubt it was bitterly cold. The banks of the creek were mud. Thick, wet gray mud.

  “Careful,” Mike said. “It's very slippery.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his feet came out from under him. He landed hard, right on his butt. He wasn't wearing waders, but jeans with heavy black rain boots that came up just below his knees. Unfortunately, they did nothing to protect him from the wet, dirty mess that now coated his backside. As he struggled to push himself back to his feet, his hands too, became covered in mud.

  “Shit,” Mike muttered, rain falling onto his face. “Don't you dare laugh.”

  I couldn't help it. A big, brawny man like him, easily able to protect himself and those who were with him from bad guys, to heal the sick, taken out completely. By mud. He was a complete and total mess. Clots of slippery mud dripped from the tips of his fingers. I held up my hand and said, “No, no. I'm not laughing.”

  Knowing his pride was more wounded than his butt, I gave him room to stand back up. “Here, give me the tackle box.” I put both rods in my left hand, took the box from him with my right. Carefully, I worked my way down from the mud to the shoreline where it was river rock and sand. No chance of slipping and a great vantage point to watch the other fishermen and to scope out the best spot in the water to cast my line. Besides the heavy rain, the air had a bite to it, not summery at all, and the scent of low tide—marshy and a little fishy—was strong.

  Looking upstream, there were probably twenty-five people dotting the river's edge, spaced far enough apart not to tangle lines. All wore mud-coated rain boots, most also in waders, some standing in the shallow and calmer parts of the creek, the water swirling around their legs. Tourists brave enough to stand out in the miserable weather stood at the railing of the pedestrian bridge and watched the fishing action from above.

  Mike came to stand beside me after rinsing his hands in the creek. The back half of his body was a lost cause. “There, see!” He sounded as excited as I felt, completely forgetting he was filthy. He pointed at a man who had a salmon wriggling on the line. We watched while he fought the fish as he reeled it in, then unhooked it and set it on the shore. “A Silver, maybe?”

  It was too far for me to tell if it was a Silver or a Red salmon, but it was too small to be a King.

  “Let's find out,” I replied, attaching the reel and feeding the line through the guides, my fingers moving quickly. I was so eager to pull one in, to feel the excitement as a fish yanked on the line, the challenge to reel it in. For some women, it was hitting a shoe sale at the mall that got their adrenaline flowing. Me, it was catching the Big One.

  “Are you cold?” I asked, selecting a lure from the tackle box.

  “Who me?” Mike pointed to himself. “I never get cold. Soggy maybe, but not cold. My ego sure got a bath.” He pointed to the water. “Don't fall in. This is melted glacier water. That's why it's so gray—pulverized rock.”

  We spent an hour on the banks, Mike moving downstream a fair distance, finding his own spot, his own rhythm. The rain poured down, but I had to admit, once in the groove, the sweet call of the simple act of fishing took over. Cast, wind in, cast. I watched as people all around caught fish, adding them to a string that dangled in a quiet part of the river, keeping them fresh.

  Once, Mike even had one on the line, but lost the fight as he tried to reel it in.

  “Time to go. The tide's coming in,” he said as he came over, water dripp
ing from the brim of his hood. “Sorry you didn't catch anything. So much for bringing dinner home.”

  I looked up at him. Way up. His red hair, the bit that peeked out from beneath the hood, was wet and stuck to his forehead, rain dripping down his cheek. A streak of mud coated the side of his nose. His black raincoat only accentuated his broad shoulders. His jeans, from the front, were damp and I could just make out the mud coating the sides and back.

  “Paul Bunyan fishing. It's quite the look.”

  He quirked a brow. “Paul Bunyan, huh? So that makes you Babe, then?”

  I thought of the moose earlier. I tilted my head. “Are you calling me an ox?”

  Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I'm calling you a babe.” His voice was husky.

  My heart skipped a beat at the heated look in his eyes. I shook my head, instantly pleased by his words, and hoped my heated cheeks were hidden beneath the dripping rain. Especially since I must've looked like a beached whale in my waders and raincoat, dripping wet. There wasn't much chance I looked much better than he, although fortunately I’d skipped the mud bath.

  Fishing in Alaska was a big deal, more like an item on my bucket list, and the man recognized that. Besides bringing me to the creek to fish, he'd given me the room to appreciate the fishing-ness of it, walking off and leaving me alone on the creek bed. Then it was just me, my rod and the elusive fish. Mike didn't feel left out or jealous of a salmon. And I didn't feel the least bit prickly toward him.

  Not every man knew the quiet aspect of fishing, but Mike did. I didn't know why he was flirting with me. He was acting as if nothing had happened between us, that our history hadn't made a place inside of me hurt. But it had been over ten years. Had he let go and moved on? I might not have caught a fish, but it's possible I might have caught me a man. And maybe I just had to start reeling him in.

  I looked down and stepped out of the quickly rising water, now up past my ankles where there was dry ground just minutes ago, and placed the hook into a guide and wound the line tight. It was amazing how fast the tide moved in. “This was great. I had the best time.”

  Mike laughed, bright and clear. “Only you, babe. Seriously, what other woman could I bring to a muddy riverbank in the pouring rain to freeze her ass off to catch a fish?”

  “Not just any fish. The elusive, infamous King salmon.”

  “Careful walking up the slope,” Mike advised, letting me lead the way up the incline. “I'll go behind you to catch you if you slip.”

  It was solid mud, deep and thick, our boots making sucking noises as we stepped. I was almost to the top when my right foot lost traction. With a rod in each hand, I couldn't stop myself. The reels would be ruined if they were caked in mud, so I lifted my hands up, landing elbows first with a big oomph. It was jarring, but the mud was soft and absorbed most of the impact.

  “Ow!” Mike yelled as the top end of a rod whacked him in the head like a whip.

  Besides my arms buried in mud, my entire front half landed hard and I quickly slid back down the incline and collided with Mike. It was easy to fell a tree when you cut it low to the ground, which was what happened with Mike.

  “Shit!”

  Taking his legs out from under him like I did, he fell forward, landing on top of me, smooshing me into the oozing mud even deeper, knocking the wind out of me.

  He tried to push himself off, but sunk elbows deep himself with weird mud-farting sounds. Recognizing he was losing the battle, he rolled to his side, and then flipped me over like a pancake, deflecting one of the rods before it hit him again. I lay there, my back now equally cold and sopping wet from the mud, trying to suck air into my lungs as rain fell down onto my face.

  “Jesus, Vi, are you all right?”

  I just stared up at the thick clouds, waiting, waiting...gasp.

  Sucking in gulps of air, I turned and looked at Mike. He had a red welt down the left side of his cheek in the shape of a fishing rod. His hood had fallen back, so now all of his red hair was wet. He was covered in mud from the chest down. “So much for catching me.”

  “God, sorry about that. I did not see that one coming.”

  Yeah, neither had I.

  I was afraid to look down at myself, but I knew I had mud...everywhere, but fortunately was protected by my waders and raincoat. I was wet and cold from top to bottom. Squishy. This was one of those moments in life where you could either throw a total tantrum like a toddler or embrace the moment and see something ridiculously positive, even when bogged down in thick, dark, cold glop.

  Struggling against the tug of the mud, I gave up the fight after a few seconds and collapsed back. I started to laugh at the situation. Mike brought his hand up to wipe something off my face, but when he saw that his hand was coated as well, he started to laugh, too.

  “Is there any part of me that's not covered?” I asked, knowing we were quite a sight to the other fishermen. I saw a few people pointing from the pedestrian bridge. No doubt they'd be telling stories of the idiots who fell in the mud for years to come. So would I.

  Mike's gaze raked over me, and not in a clinical, doctor sort of way. He looked from top to bottom and back up again, his blue eyes assessing, but stopped at my lips. “Just one.”

  He lowered his head and kissed me, a gentle, soft brushing of his lips against mine. His mouth was warm, no hot, and the contact heated me better than a shot of whiskey and a crackling fire. Wow, his lips felt good. Soft, gentle. A little shock to the system. My body did a little ‘Oh yeah, I remember this’ moment. His kisses were not something easily forgotten.

  A catcall from across the river had Mike lifting his head. Up close, I could see the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “I guess we should get up.”

  “Mmm,” I mused.

  “Are you hurt at all?”

  “No.”

  “How's your head?” I started to reach up to touch it, remembered the mud.

  “Smarts, but it's fine. The kiss helped my dented ego a lot, especially since I fell twice.”

  He pushed himself up, got his balance and took the poles from me. I was proud to say I saved the reels from ruin. Carefully, he made the short trip up the incline, left the poles in the grass and returned for the rest of our gear as I separated myself from the mud. Stood.

  I looked down. I had stepped out of a mud bath with my clothes on. Mike as well. The pouring rain started to wash the mud off our raincoats, but nothing would get us clean except stripping down and a hot shower.

  “Here, take my hand.” He easily tugged me up the slope to flat, mud-free ground.

  “Thanks.”

  Mike bent over to pick up the tackle box he'd left with me and I got a great view of his ass, mud and all.

  He turned and caught me looking. “Like what you see?”

  I grinned. “Best view all day.”

  Chapter 7

  After stripping off his outer layers by the car, including his sodden jeans, dumping the wet, muddy mess into the hatchback, Mike climbed behind the wheel in a fleece, T-shirt and his boxers, barefooted. Needless to say, I got confirmation on Jane's underwear question. A little thrill shot through me at the sight of him. His legs were long and corded with muscle, the little orange ducks all over the black boxers did not distract me in the slightest. I wanted to reach over and run my hand over his thigh, wondering if the dark red hair covering it was as springy and soft as it looked.

  Touching him would surely lead to making out and that couldn't work in the clown car. I had to control myself, but my hormones were at war with my brain. Mike wasn't helping things at all. Perhaps he knew it and was subtly seducing me. Then I thought about how ridiculous that idea was. He'd fallen in the mud specifically so he could take his pants off, expose his goofy boxers all the while driving a speck of a car.

  As if. I envisioned Mike more the press me up against a wall and have his way with me kind of guy. Oh crap. There went my hormones again. I swallowed, realizing I was in big trouble.

  T
he only thing to my advantage was that his scent—always pretty potent when I was close—was completely knocked down by the scent of pine air-freshener and damp earth.

  I, on the other hand, still had my pants on, which was a good thing because I wouldn't be able to control myself if they'd been tossed into the back as well. The waders had kept me mud-free, my jeans were dry and I was able to avoid showing my underwear to everyone driving in Anchorage's cross-town traffic. And Mike. When he caught me shivering, he gave me his dry fleece to wear. It was warm from his body when I slipped it on which was somehow...intimate.

  Once back at Uncle Bob's, Mike—since he was dirtier than me—used the outside hose to rinse everything down while I went to our room to shower. I spent the time under the spray, now finished with my lusty thoughts of his legs, reliving the mud kiss. How soft his lips had been, how he'd angled his head to deepen the kiss, how he'd tasted. I didn't need the hot water to warm up. My thoughts were doing a really good job. After two rounds of shampoo, I was finally clean.

  An hour later, we were sitting at the dining room table with all of Mike's family.

  “Caribou hot dogs,” Mike's uncle said. “My favorite.” He stuck a fork in one on the platter and placed it on a bun.

  Meeting Uncle Bob for the first time, it was easy to see where Mike got his size. He was well over six feet and broad-shouldered, just like his nephew, handsome in an imposing sort of way. I envisioned military men like him sprinkling ball bearings on their Wheaties for breakfast. That's where the similarities ended. Mike leaned more toward serious than silly and, being a doctor, that was a good thing. I expected the same for Uncle Bob as well, but the pendulum seemed to have swung the other way. Maybe a little too far.

  Uncle Bob sat at the head of the table wearing a full Civil War Confederate uniform, Johnny Reb hat and all. The jacket was double-breasted with large brass buttons, a stiff high collar, epaulets on the shoulders. It was the real Civil War deal. The hat, gray with a black brim, was slouched exactly as I'd seen in pictures and movies. Beside him on the floor was his saber; he couldn't wear it while sitting in his closed-back dining room chair.