Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  Are lighted knocks legal?

  (1:57 a.m. Amber Regan text)

  Bear canister—yes or no?

  (1:58 a.m. Amber Regan text)

  Any grouse up there?

  (2:25 a.m. Amber Regan text)

  Doing all my own filming for the hunt. Any restrictions I need to know about?

  Each message also includes a bunch of obnoxious emojis—most of which I don’t recognize or understand. Stupid little animated images of everything from bears and pieces of pizza, to vibrating hearts and winky faces. At least the winking one I get. I’ve considered searching out the perfect way to communicate how badly I want her to stop using them when she messages me, but instead I ignore them, keeping my replies to words.

  (5:45 a.m. Braden Montgomery text)

  Do you sleep? Ever?

  Answers in the order these insomniac txt were rec’d:

  Sept 2. No. Don’t bother. Yes. No.

  FYI: CPW has a handy website with all this info. Use it.

  (11:47 a.m. Amber Regan text)

  I sleep when I’m tired. I just woke up from a solid eight hours. CPW website is SLOW & lacks your sarcasm. I prefer the personal service you provide.

  And now, seven hours later? She wants more personal service.

  (6:45 p.m. Amber Regan text)

  How likely is snow in early Sept? Dry snow? Wet snow? Will Leroux Creek run high? Trying to decide if gaiters are worth the pack space.

  My head drops heavily onto the back of my armchair as I let out a sigh. I set the book I’m reading down on the side table.

  (6:46 p.m. Braden Montgomery text)

  Hold on a second. Just polishing up my crystal ball. Needs to be really clean if I want to PREDICT THE FUTURE accurately. How am I supposed to know if it’s going to snow? Buy a Farmer’s Almanac.

  (6:48 p.m. Amber Regan text)

  Polishing your crystal ball? Sounds dirty. Please describe to me, in detail, this polishing process. Is there a special polishing cream involved?

  Followed by emojis. Lots of them. All of which I have no trouble interpreting. And here I was, doing so well to keep my mind out of the gutter. I should just turn off my phone, refocus my attention on the night I had planned.

  It’s a Sunday night in early June, and in Hotchkiss that means it’s warm enough to open a few windows during the day but when evening comes, the air turns cool and calm, all part of the strange microclimate that makes the Grand Valley an unexpected banana belt, perfect for growing the stone fruits and grapevines this place is well-known for.

  There’s a maple-whiskey-glazed turkey breast roasting in my oven, some asparagus from a wild patch in my backyard that’s ready for a quick poach, plus a bottle of Pinot from a local vineyard in need of only a corkscrew. My favorite Jason Isbell LP is playing, Charley is conked out on her bed and snoring softly, and I’m a few chapters into a reread of Saxton Pope’s Hunting with the Bow and Arrow. All in all, a damn near perfect night for me—and I’m not sure if a little banter with Amber makes it more or less so.

  My phone rings before I can decide. I know who it is without even looking at the display. I raise it to my ear and answer without so much as a greeting.

  “You and I both know that gaiters are rarely worth the pack space. Colorado’s practically a high desert climate. Leave that shit at home.”

  Amber laughs, a soft, genuine sound. My eyes drop closed. As insane as it seems—especially since our relationship amounts to a few hours of bickering, one dance, and one hot make-out session on my desk—I missed her laugh. Fuck. That’s not a good sign.

  “True. I think I’ve used them once, on a moose hunt in Canada. But I’ve packed them fifty other times when I didn’t need them.”

  “There you go.”

  Neither of us continues, and when the line goes silent, things immediately begin to feel awkward. Another laugh from her, nervous this time.

  “God. Are you still polishing your crystal ball? The way you’re breathing into the phone all steady and slow, it sounds like—”

  I cut her off with one word. “Amber.”

  Same nervous laugh.

  “Sorry. I can’t help going there with you, even when I shouldn’t.” She breathes a steadying sigh. “I’m surprised you actually answered the phone. I thought you’d send me to voicemail like you usually do. Then I would have been forced to leave you one of my rambling messages.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” I say, working to sound put-out, even when I’m not.

  There’s no need for her to know that I listen to her messages at least twice. The first go-around is to hear what she wants, and the second time through is because I like the way she rambles and sometimes loses her train of thought.

  “Although it’s a little too early for you to ramble. You seem to be at your best at two in the morning.”

  Amber snorts. “Well, since you answered, I’m assuming you have time to talk. Are you busy? Am I interrupting anything?”

  Other than my quiet, easy, uncomplicated life? In a way I’m not sure if I hate or love? No. Feel free to keep at it. Because I missed your laugh.

  I give myself a quick lecture on self-preservation and stupidity—and it does absolutely nothing.

  “Nope. Go ahead.”

  I hear the sound of papers shuffling and Amber’s tone turns purposeful.

  “OK, I’m down to the little things, detail stuff. I’m planning on ten days camping in the backcountry for my hunt, but I’m thinking I’ll want to come into town halfway through. Get water and a decent meal, fuel my truck, and stock up on anything I might be running low on. I’d also love to get a shower if there’s a motel around that will rent to a hunter for a few hours. Give me some leads on the best places to do all that.”

  As I listen to her, I’m vaguely dumbstruck by the way her mind works. Mostly because it works a little too much like mine. She plots and plans in the same way I do, working through the details to be sure she’s setting herself up for success. And if we were both honest, she could probably find all the answers for herself, too. She’s plenty resourceful and completely driven, which means these texts and calls are as much about us keeping in touch as they are about anything else.

  “Fuel up at the Crossroads station; they have the cheapest gas in town. You’re stuck with the local A&P for water and supplies, and everything is priced like a small-town store, which means it’s overpriced. For a good meal, I’ve already told you about True Grit. But based on all of Colin’s shit-talk, it sounds like you guys weren’t impressed.”

  She doesn’t laugh, yet her tone tells me there’s a smile on her face.

  “It’s a Texas thing. Barbeque is practically our religion, and we worship at one altar. You don’t know any better, so it’s not your fault. Come to Austin someday and I’ll prove it to you.”

  The invitation there is nothing but a sidebar to her speech on barbeque, I know that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t then picture myself in Austin, with Amber playing my tour guide. My very friendly, welcoming, personal tour guide.

  Austin’s always been on my to-visit list, but with all my stalking of Amber online, it’s risen from “maybe someday” to “how about next week?” Because if the local tourism board isn’t paying her, they should be—she’s a standout ambassador for the city, because every landmark, restaurant, and attraction looks like a place you want to go, so long as she’s standing in front of it.

  Amber rambles softly, talking through whatever she’s now writing down, and I force my focus back on our conversation when I hear more paper shuffling on her end.

  “OK. What about a motel? Not to stay the night, just a place that will let me pay for a few hours’ time to grab a shower, maybe a nap.”

  My grip on the phone tightens. The closest motel is halfway between Hotchkiss and Paonia, and it’s a dump. Its name—the Empire Ambassador Motel—in no way suits it. I know this because they do cater to hunters, and my job routinely takes me through their parking lot, on the lookout for anythin
g out of place, like antler tips peeking out of a truck bed the day before elk season opens, or a trailer full of goose decoys a week after that season is over. When I’ve had cause to knock on a door or two, I’ve also caught a glimpse of the inside of those rooms, enough to know I hate the idea of Amber anywhere near one. They’re dirty and dingy, and I’m guessing the door locks are about as sturdy as a tuna can.

  “The nearest motel is a shit hole,” I grit out. “You shouldn’t go there, even for a shower.”

  She casts off my caution with a snort. “I can guarantee you it’s no worse than anywhere else I’ve showered while on the road. So long as the water is reasonably warm and it comes out of a showerhead, I’ll be happy.”

  “It’s a dump.”

  “I’m sure it is. But that’s part of the experience, isn’t it?”

  I try to keep my reaction in check, but fail when an image of Amber stripping down in the craptastic Empire Ambassador Motel comes to mind. A protective streak I didn’t know I possessed rushes forth—and right out of my stupid mouth.

  “I don’t want you to go there. The carpets are disgusting, the doors locks aren’t secure enough, and come elk season there will be too much testosterone prowling around. Not safe. Not for you. Don’t, you hear me?”

  Amber says nothing. She’s silent, only the sound of her breathing evenly. I drop my head and consider how best to extract my foot from my mouth. I’ve earned whatever wrath is headed my way, because what I just said wasn’t merely an overreach, it was unwarranted.

  Still nothing but silence. Charley lifts her head from the dog bed, locks eyes with me, and then lets out a long, dramatic doggy sigh as if she’s disappointed with me, too.

  Amber finally speaks. Calmly. Almost too calmly.

  “I’m smart enough to read between the lines and hear what I think was genuine, non-controlling-asshole concern for my safety. But I hope you’re smart enough to pay attention when I tell you to stop acting like some chest-thumping boyfriend I’m about to break up with.”

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I let out a long exhale.

  “I have no idea where all that shit came from. Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. Not OK and I know that.”

  “Apology accepted. Now give me the name of the damn motel. I’ll do a little research and decide for myself.”

  “The Empire Ambassador Motel.”

  “Sounds classy.”

  “It isn’t. And you really shouldn’t, because—”

  “Braden,” she warns. “Do not start again.”

  I clamp my mouth shut and try to think. A thin shaft of light appears in my foxhole, inspired by an idea she might shoot down—or I might regret bringing up.

  “Permission to offer an alternative?”

  She sighs. “Granted.”

  “Use my place. Shower. Eat something that isn’t freeze-dried. Wash your gear if you need to and catch some sleep up off the ground.”

  She doesn’t immediately tell me to fuck off, so I add a critical piece of information. “I won’t be here, so you’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “What? Why?”

  I won’t lie, her obvious disappointment makes my chest swell. I know the feeling, because when Amber gave me the dates for her hunt in one of her first texts, my heart sank straight into my gut. Whether it was the universe working with me or against me, I’m not sure, but the dates overlapped almost exactly with the time I’d put in for to hunt deer back home.

  “I’ll be at my parents’ cabin in Oregon.”

  “Oh.” More disappointment, and my chest swells again. I clear my throat.

  “I’ve got a deer tag and a score to settle with a wily buck that I’ve been chasing for three seasons now. Even a chance to piss you off in person won’t change my plans. So you’ll have plenty of alone time in my house to plot some prank in retaliation for everything I’ve ever done to irritate the shit out of you.”

  Amber hums, scheming mischievously. “Like Scotch tape on your sink sprayer? You’re bound to turn the faucet on at some point. Woosh. Waterworks.” Amber then full-on laughs, I’m sure because she’s picturing that scene playing out in her mind.

  Side A on the LP I’ve had playing comes to an end, making her laughter all there is for a moment, and I settle into the sound as I push myself out of my chair and cross the room. Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I flip the record over. Side B starts, and Amber’s now soft laughter goes quiet.

  “Jason Isbell?” she asks.

  Slowly, I twist the volume knob up. “Yup.”

  “Southeastern?”

  I answer quietly, only a little surprised that she knows the album. At this point I’m more apt to notice the things we have in common, than not. If I were prone to indulging in the sunshiny sort of optimism that romantics believe in, I might find myself considering exactly how much we truly share.

  But even if I did, a cloud cover of pessimism reminds me that not only do we live states apart, but Amber also happens to star in her own TV show. I’ve been known to go months without so much as even turning my television on. We live our lives in entirely different ways and neither of us seem interested in trying on a new way.

  Amber lets out an almost resigned exhale, as if she’s battling against the same realizations I am. “Let’s say I take you up on your offer. Give me an idea of what I should expect.”

  A little confused, I try to determine what it is she wants to know. “What you should expect?”

  “Tell me what your place is like. A bachelor pad with black leather couches and a bitchin’ media system that you don’t want me to touch? A frat-boy den with stained recliners and a futon for a bed?”

  I roll my eyes. “Neither. I’m a thirty-two-year-old game warden. I don’t live like a college kid or a bachelor with a hard-on for surround sound.”

  “But what do you live like? Pretend I’m on my way to your place tonight. Tell me what I would find when I walk through the front door.”

  My entire body soaks up the idea of that. Amber back here in Hotchkiss, on her way over to my place—all of her sass in tow, along with her strawberry scent and her soft skin, those blue eyes, and the curves I’ve had the momentary pleasure of reading with my fingertips. I step toward my front door and stop on the threshold, right where Amber might be if this were truth instead of fantasy.

  Charley eases off her dog bed and makes her way over me, then plops down to lean all of her weight on my leg. When she does, I imagine Amber leaning down to pet her, making friends with the only female companion in my life these last few years. I reach down and ruffle the fur behind Charley’s ears.

  “You’d find a renovated miner’s cabin crafted out of cottonwood timbers. Inside, there are a lot of books, a decent number of records, a TV that picks up one channel not worth watching. Furniture that’s old but not shabby, including a bed that’s sized to fit a guy like me. Although on nights when a bed hog like Charley is determined to take more than her fair share, it doesn’t feel near big enough.”

  Amber sighs, soft and almost needy, the way I’d want her to if she were here and I had her in that bed of mine. I tamp down a groan at the thought, only so I can tell her more and hopefully draw another sigh out of her when I do.

  “And tonight? You’d hear the rest of that Southeastern LP playing in the background, on the old record player I stole from my parents’ house. A maple-whiskey-glazed turkey breast in the oven, off the Merriam’s jake I shot this spring. A bottle of local wine on the table that puts most Napa shit to shame, ready to crack open. And outside, there’s a damn nice Hotchkiss sunset.”

  I take a beat, pausing so she can soak it all in. “That’s what you’d find.”

  She trumps my pause with her own. I hold my breath.

  “Jesus,” she breathes. “I can’t tell you how much I’d love to walk through that front door, Braden. Right now.”

  When she’s finished, I hear it—that sigh I wanted to draw out of her. The unsteady sound of Amber Regan wanting more.


  (Amber)

  “Your restless ways and your solitude, I see you leaning your lanky frame just inside the door, a figure behind the kitchen screen staring down at the floor, little angel, little brother.”

  —LUCINDA WILLIAMS, “LITTLE ANGEL, LITTLE BROTHER”

  “That’s beautiful, Amber. Now shoulders down and chest out. Smile.”

  Oh, if only I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard those words.

  I do as instructed while keeping a firm grip on the twelve-gauge shotgun that’s slung over my left shoulder, my arm smarting a little from holding this pose for the last ten minutes. The photographer—a silver fox with a reputation in Austin for often blurring the line between personal and professional—continues to cajole and compliment, making that reputation of his seem well earned. I give the camera another smile without suggesting anything with my eyes that might mean I’m smiling at the man behind the camera. Here’s hoping the silver fox can tell the difference. Even if he can’t, the Lucinda Williams mix I chose is blaring from speakers behind me, which boosts my bravado. Nothing like a little “Changed the Locks” to erect an emotional barricade when needed.

  He stops shooting, concentrating on the camera’s viewfinder as he flicks through the images, absently tracing the tip of his tongue to the center of his upper lip as he does.

  Blech.

  “OK, I think that’s good for this setup. Let’s take a quick break, and then we’ll move on to the Sunday supper scene.”

  He wanders off and a timid, waiflike assistant appears in an instant, extending a bottled water with a straw in it my way. Then she awkwardly mimes with her hands as if to take the shotgun from me. With a smooth twist of the barrel in my palm, I shift the gun from my shoulder into the crook of my opposite arm, and accept the water bottle with my free hand.

  “My gun. I’ll put it away.”

  Her big brown eyes widen as she blinks rapidly, trying to process what I just said. Perhaps no one clued her in as to the premise of this photo shoot, or the backstory on the woman posing for it, because she looks entirely baffled by the idea that this shotgun belongs to me, and is also not a prop. She continues to look bewildered until I gently shoo her off with a patient smile.