by A. L. Loire
“But it’s so . . . high,” she squeaked, looking up at the saddle. From where she stood, it looked as daunting as scaling a skyscraper.
“You can do it, Jess,” he said, his voice firm. She felt a surge of confidence. “One—two—three!” On three, she pushed with all her might and felt him lift her up from her waist. The next thing she knew, she had landed on the saddle with a slight bump, her right leg finding its way over to the other side.
“I did it!” she cried, a little disoriented.
“You sure did!” said Nate. “How’s the weather up there?”
She looked down at him. “Wow. You sure are far away.” It felt strange and thrilling to be on the horse’s back. She felt the urge to lean forward so she had something more to grip on, but she remembered Nate saying to keep her posture straight. She could feel the animal’s muscles moving underneath her.
“I’ll keep hanging on to one of the reins and lead you around a bit,” Nate said. “But I want you to start feeling comfortable leading Oreo. Treat the reins like a joystick.”
“I was never one for video games,” she said. “Ooph!” The horse had started taking a few choppy steps forward.
“Hey, I’m doing it!” she said. “I’m riding a horse!”
Nate laughed heartily. “You sure are. How does it feel?”
“It feels . . .” She paused. “Actually, it feels pretty damn great!”
“In that case, I’m going to let go of the reins,” he said. “But don’t worry, Oreo waits for definite signals, so she probably won’t move much at all.”
“If you say so,” she said nervously. She barely noticed that he’d released his hold on the reins as Oreo continued to walk forward, bouncing her gently up and down on the saddle. The fresh scent of dewy grass rose up from beneath the animal’s hooves. She gripped the reins tightly at first, then relaxed. She even took her eyes off of her bobbing head and took in the stunning view of pine-covered mountain peaks that ringed the periphery, sunlight dramatically lighting up their eastern faces. The horse continued to walk in a slow, measured rhythm. It was almost soothing.
Hey, this isn’t so hard! Why haven’t I done this before? She must be a natural—she could feel it. Suddenly her head was filled with fantasies of riding off into the sunset on a pure white mare. In the picture that sprang in front of her eyes, though, she was not alone. On one side of her, mounted on a jet-black horse, was Spencer. But who was that on her other side? It was—Nate. She was flanked by both men as they rode off into the distance. What is that about?
She was so absorbed in this confusing fantasy that had leapt into her mind unbidden that she stopped paying attention to the feeling of the horse underneath her. Suddenly she was aware of it picking up speed. The slow amble had turned into a quickening trot. It veered to the left, and she almost dropped the reins as the horse began to canter even faster. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. She was so scared she couldn’t even scream. She was sure she was a second away from tumbling straight to the ground. A terrifying image of landing in the grass and being trampled by Oreo’s hooves sprang to her mind.
“Heels down!” she heard Nate yell. She tried to jam her heels down, but they were already falling out of the stirrups.
“Whoa, whoa!” he yelled, running up to the horse and grabbing the reins. Oreo slowed down to a trot and then to a stop. Jess was shaking and drawing in ragged breaths.
“Are you alright?” Nate asked. “Here, swing your leg over and I’ll help you down.”
Shakily, she hoisted her leg over and let herself fall into his open arms. She was limp as a rag doll. “I almost fell off!” she whispered.
“You didn’t. It may have felt that way, but you were just fine,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You weren’t going as fast as you thought.” He was holding her close, her head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. His body felt lean and strong against hers, and his plaid shirt carried the ghost of campfire smoke. She breathed in deeply, suddenly forgetting all about her scare. The heady rush of their sudden contact had overtaken her senses like paralysis. She couldn’t move a muscle.
“It’s not in Oreo’s temperament to act so impetuously. Did you give her the signal to go faster?” Nate asked after a moment.
“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I was squeezing her without realizing it.” She felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks, cutting into the slowly waning panic.
“You’re shaking,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her head away from his chest, so he was looking intently into her eyes. Her breath seized in her throat.
“I guess I’m a little rattled,” she whispered. His face was very close to hers. His sandy hair fell into his bright green eyes that seemed to be calling her even closer. Then the horse began to neigh and stomp its feet behind her.
She started and the moment was broken. Nate dropped his hands from her shoulders and grabbed the horse’s reins with one hand, stroking her muzzle with the other. “Easy there, easy,” he said soothingly.
She frowned. Her heartbeat was returning to something like normal and her legs were regaining some of their strength, but she was still bewildered. It seemed like a kiss had been imminent—or maybe it was just her imagination, and Nate had simply been comforting her in her moment of fear. Two emotions battled against each other in her already overflowing mind: her deep disappointment that it hadn’t happened, and confusion at how badly she’d wanted it.
“I guess I’m really not meant for the cowgirl life,” she said miserably once Nate had calmed the horse and taken off her saddle.
“I think you did great, especially for a first-timer. Horses are temperamental creatures, particularly when you aren’t used to them,” he said. “But why don’t we try something a little different?”
“Different?” she questioned.
“A little bit lower stress,” he said with a smile. “Come on. I’m going to take you to the fishing creek.”
Fishing—that sounded easy enough. Hook some bait, throw your line out, and wait—how hard could it be? “Sounds good,” she said, relieved that Nate wasn’t going to try to talk her into giving Oreo another try.
Chapter 3
Once Nate had taken the horse back to its stable they exited the pasture and started down a long dirt road. On either side of them, fields of wildflowers grew in a riot of color among the tall grass. The sky was the purest Easter egg blue, with fluffy white clouds floating across it like froth on the water’s surface.
“This landscape is just stunning,” she said. “I can see why you and Spencer struck out for Wyoming after all that time in the city.”
“There’s really nowhere else like it—a true earthly paradise,” he agreed. “Actually, Spencer was a pretty hard sell.”
“No kidding?” she said. “He seems pretty happy here.”
“Oh, he is now. But you should have seen him at the beginning.” He gave a low whistle. “He’s a true city boy, born and bred. He couldn’t handle all this fresh air and wide-open space. He said it made him nervous.”
She giggled. It was funny to imagine Spencer being spooked by wide-open spaces.
“Yep, Spencer’s a great guy,” he said. “I’m the first person to say so. But not the most adaptable. When we first got out here, he was all ‘Where’s the Starbucks?’ and ‘What do you mean, I can’t get pad Thai delivered?’”
Her giggle had turned into a full-fledged laugh. Spencer seemed so comfortable here at Getaway—she remembered his ease in leading the group hike up the mountain the other day—so it was funny to think of him as an out-of-place city slicker.
“What’s your impression of Spencer?” Nate asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard. Why was he asking? It could have been a perfectly innocent question, but then again . . . “He seems very nice,” she said weakly. She could feel the blush rising to her face. Ice water. Buckets of ice water, she commanded herself. She was never any good at hiding her emotions. Was it her imagination, or did she se
e Nate stiffen?
“Here we are,” he said. They had arrived at a creek, similar to the one that Spencer had taken her to but without the screen of pine trees hiding it from view. The clouds that swept over the mountains were reflected in its limpid surface, as was the peak of the nearest mountain. This encounter would not end as that one had, though—that was one thing she was sure of. Again, she felt her face flush with the memory of her impromptu tryst with Spencer after a sweaty day of hiking.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“Fly-fishing,” he said, setting down the bag. “Ever done it?”
“I can’t say I have,” she said.
“That surprises me,” he said.
“Really?” she said.
“Nope,” he said drily.
She laughed. Nate unzipped the bag and removed two long fishing rods that trailed yards and yards of blue line. “Lucky for you, there’s not too much skill involved,” he said.
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why, only that you came to Getaway to relax and not to work yourself to death!” he said innocently, a smile playing in his eyes.
“I’ll give you that,” she conceded. “Alright, lay it on me so I can find a way to mess it up.”
He saluted her. “You got it, captain.” He plucked a tiny object from his pocket. “This form of fishing is called fly-fishing because you cast a line with a little fly on the end instead of a lure. We call that kind of fishing spin casting, or spinning with gear—baiting the fish with something that’s heavily weighted. Here, we’re fishing for trout and using weightless flies.” He showed her what looked like a bit of scruffy fur on a tiny hook.
“You really expect a fish to go for that?” she said dubiously. “I thought they were more into worms.”
“They go for it, alright,” he said. “Anyway, would you really rather spear a wriggling worm onto the end of this line?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Good point.”
He handed her a pair of dark sunglasses and put on a pair himself. “You’ll want to put these on,” he said. “Polarized lenses.”
“Gee, thanks, but I’m not too worried about looking cool out here in the middle of nowhere,” she said.
“You look cool enough as it is. No, these glasses are purely utilitarian. You’ll see why you need them in a minute,” he said.
She shrugged and put them on, surveying herself in the reflection from Nate’s shades. “We look like the cowboy version of Bonnie and Clyde.”
“I am a man with a record, after all,” he said, affecting his best Warren Beatty impression.
She laughed. “As long as you don’t get me to rob banks.”
“I made be a bad influence, but I’m the kind you were secretly praying for,” he said. She felt a rush of heat flow over her face—and this one had nothing to do with the sun that was beating down. Nate was a first-class charmer.
“Now. Back to the task at hand.” He assumed an exaggerated air of seriousness. “When we fly-fish, we’re casting the line itself, not what’s on the end of it,” he explained. “Now, when you hold the cork handle of the rod, you don’t want to squeeze it too tightly. Just give it a little handshake.” He demonstrated.
“Don’t squeeze the rod too tightly,” she repeated. “Got it.” She felt her blush intensify. She hadn’t meant to sound quite so flirtatious—or had she?
“That’s it,” he said, a shade of his wicked grin returning to his face. “And the other important thing is to keep your thumb on top nice and straight. Wherever your thumb is pointing is where the line is going to land.” He put his hand on top of hers, adjusting her thumb into the correct position. His hands were broad and his touch firm.
“Now, as for your stance, you want to stand nice and square, with your left foot set just a bit forward and your right foot a bit back,” he said, standing with his feet firmly planted. “That’s how you’ll stay stable once you hook a big fish.”
“If I hook a big fish,” she said.
“No ifs, Jess,” he said. “I’m like a good luck charm. Fish with me, and you’ll hook a big one.” His grin was infectious.
“Now, the cast is made up of two simple motions: an acceleration to a stop, and another acceleration to a stop,” he explained. “All of the action is in your forearm, not in your wrist. That’s a common beginner’s error.” Holding the rod in front of him with his arm at a ninety-degree angle, he hinged his forearm up towards his shoulder, and then straightened it out again.
“So now you’re ready for a false cast. You reel out a bit of line, which you call your working line, and hold onto it with your other hand, which is your control hand”—he did this—“and then shake out a bit of line and tip the rod down. Then you simply accelerate and stop back.” He pulled his forearm back and the line flew behind him. Jess jumped back in surprise. “And then do the same thing forward.” He repeated the motion going forward, and the line flew forward. “You do that a few times—think of the first few as warm-up—and then you let her go!” The line rippled out into the stream. He smiled at her. “And that’s it!”
“I thought you said this was simple,” she said.
“Nothing to it, girl!” he said. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.” He handed her a rod.
She took it and then tried to remember what to do next. Come on, Jess, he just told you this. There was some kind of stance . . . something about forward and back . . . and not squeezing too tightly? For some reason that last one was the only bit of instruction that had stuck in her mind.
“Spread your feet a little bit,” he said, standing behind her and putting his hand on her right hip. Gently he eased it slightly back. He put his arm over her shoulder, resting it on hers, as he corrected her grip on the cork. Again, she had the sensation that she’d experienced after she’d tumbled off the horse, as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “Forward and back, forward and back—that’s it.” Standing directly behind her, the line whizzed past her ears. With an extra push and an abrupt stop, together they cast the line far into the creek.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “That was actually pretty cool.”
“Told you so,” he said, his warm breath grazing her neck and sending a rippling shiver through her body, just like the line she had just cast. He moved away, and she felt a pang of longing.
“You seem to have a real ability with horses,” she stammered in an effort to bring her thoughts back to neutral territory.
“Well, I grew up around them,” he said as he picked up his own rod and cast it. “I come from a long line of ranchers outside of Tucson. I guess it runs in my blood.”
“So how did you end up working on Wall Street?” she asked. It was hard to imagine a cowboy from Arizona spending fourteen hours a day in an office high-rise, eating takeout and sweating over dollar signs.
“It was certainly an unexpected turn of events, I’ll admit,” he said. “I suppose the simple answer is ambition. I was always a pretty bright kid. I got good grades in school and I had a knack for numbers. My folks were happy when I got a scholarship to college, but I think they thought I’d come back to run the family ranch after I was done. They never expected that I’d take off for the big city.” He sighed and cast his line out. It went far and wide.
“Were they upset?” she asked.
He was silent a minute, his handsome brow furrowed. “Upset is not quite the right word,” he said finally. “Disappointed, maybe. Mostly confused. They didn’t get it. I think my old man thought I fancied myself too good for the family business. My mom was more understanding, but I think she figured I’d just be gone for a year or two, then get beaten down by the life and come back home.”
“But you never did go home,” she said.
“Not for more than a visit,” he said. “But I guess a life lived mostly outdoors always appealed to me. I spent so much of my childhood outside, riding horses, exploring. You can’t ever really take that out of a man.”
“You’ve got that right. When I had a free moment from working at the hedge fund I would sometimes just sit in some overgrown patch of Central Park and stare at the grass,” he laughed and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that was really me.”
“New York does that to people,” she said.
He nodded. “Look at me, talking a blue streak,” he said. “I’m boring myself. What about you, Jess? What’s your life been about?”
“I work in fashion PR,” she began. “Well, I did until I quit.”
“I know that already. I mean, what’s your life really about?” he said.
She paused as she considered his question. The only sound was a dragonfly buzzing over the creek. “To be honest, I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said. “For the past year and a half, I’ve just been getting up, going to work, maybe meeting up with friends for drinks afterwards, complaining about my job, and then doing it all over again, day after day.”
“That’s life in the big city,” Nate said. “Are you happy there?”
“What a question,” she said with a sigh. “I think it’s one that most of us don’t like to ask ourselves. Well, I’m paying the bills and my student loans and I guess I’m happy enough. I mean I don’t have any massive problems. I know I should be grateful for that.” She paused again.
“But?” he asked for a moment. His voice had a gentle, quiet timber that she hadn’t heard from him before.
“But . . .” She trailed off. “It feels like something’s missing. I couldn’t name what that thing is. It’s just a feeling, a lack.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. He was looking out over the creek and into the distance, as if remembering a long-forgotten feeling. “I got it frequently when I was working on Wall Street. Everything was going great, as far as my ambition was concerned. I was living the dream. Raking in the dough, able to secure good tables at exclusive restaurants, no trouble getting dates, either.” I don’t doubt that, she thought. A man with Nate’s looks, charm and money couldn’t keep swarms of New York women away. “But I’d have these moments—like when I was staring at the grass in Central Park—when I had this feeling of emptiness that was as big as my inflated ego.”
