Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 1: 6 Romantic sporting novellas

by Janice Thompson

  Darby opened her eyes and blinked. Keats was nowhere in sight. Had he gotten too close to the base of the falls and been pounded under by the force of the water? She should’ve kept an eye on him! She shot to her feet and her eyes swept the clearing, going back to the foaming water crashing on the rocks at the edge of the pond.

  Something brushed her elbow and she jumped with a shriek. The touch became a strong grip and she turned to face Keats, standing behind her, his hair and shirt plastered to his skin from the drench of the falls. “Didn’t mean to startle you!” he shouted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You all right?”

  “I should ask you the same question.”

  “I’m fine.” He stepped back and settled on the rock beside her, and Darby eased back onto her rocky perch. Keats held out a sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag. “Do you want half?” In his ball cap, with his brown hair stuck to his forehead, all she could think of was how he looked like a grade school kid offering to share his bag lunch with her.

  She shook her head. “I already ate while you were taking pictures.”

  “Oh.” He bowed his head for a second before he peeled back the plastic and wolfed down a half in three bites.

  “Peanut butter and jelly on white bread?” It fits.

  “Yeah, I ran out of marshmallow fluff. A triple decker is the best thing to take along on a hike, at least on the first day; after that it can get a little mashy.”

  “Triple decker?”

  “Peanut butter, marshmallow, and strawberry jam.”

  “Oh. Right.” Darby bit her lip to keep from laughing. He was as serious as that fifth grade boy discussing gourmet dining on the playground, without a clue that she’d been mocking him just a little. He was sweet in a nerdy kind of way. But when she took in those sinewy arms, lean and strong and hard as the rock beneath her, she averted her eyes to the falls.

  “We should get the token and head over to Branch Forks soon.” He squinted into the sun. “It’ll take us a couple of hours to get there and we need some time to rest and recharge and figure out strategy with Bonnie and Garrett.” Keats polished off his last bite of sandwich, rolled up the baggie and crammed it into his jeans’ pocket. He took the trail map out of his hip pocket and spread it on the rock before them. His tanned finger pointed to a red circle near the base of the falls. “Want to pick this one up? It’s your turn.”

  Darby shrugged. “Sure.” She slid off the rock and meandered down to the water’s edge, engulfed in the roar of the falls. Frigid droplets of water flung out and hit her as she neared the rocky outcropping at the base. She couldn’t hear a thing, but she sensed Keats a step behind her. “I don’t see it,” she yelled.

  He touched her elbow for a mere second before he spoke into her ear. “It’s over by the tall spruce. He pointed and his short sleeve brushed her cheek. Her gaze followed his direction and she spotted a yellow ribbon tied to a low branch. Darby nodded and trotted through the misty deluge to the marker. She cupped the wet token in her hand; the feel of it brought a surge of pleasure and a smile to her face. She untied the ribbon and the dangling token and shoved both into her anorak pouch pocket and secured the zipper. No way was she losing this puppy.

  She ran back to Keats just as he slipped his phone into his shirt pocket. “I got it. Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.” He pointed to a patch of scree located near the center of the base of Silver Falls. “We need one of those.” He grinned as if he’d discovered gold or some such treasure.

  Darby frowned and looked at the loose rocks bunched haphazardly by the exposed shelf of ledge. Water pummeled and pounded the rocky base and, as she watched, the smaller rocks danced in the force of the rain of water. She squinted her eyes for a better view, trying to understand what her partner saw, when suddenly the sun burst from a puffy white cloud overhead and the rocks sparkled in silver rainbowed hues. “Pretty,” she said, “but we can’t get there from here.”

  “Sure we can.” Keats sat down on the wet rock, untied his boots, peeled off his socks, and rolled up his pant legs.

  “Are you kidding me? That water’s maybe thirty-three degrees, if we’re lucky.”

  “It’s bracing.” He popped up on bare feet and held out a hand to her. “You coming, or not?”

  “To get a rock? Are you crazy?” Darby pointed to a dark patch of rocks a few feet away on the shoreline. “Why not one of those?”

  “No. They won’t do.” He grinned.

  “What’s so special about those rocks except for the fact we’ll get soaked in the process?” She looked at the water droplets collecting on his dark stubbled jaw line. “Ah, you’re already soaked so you don’t care.” She shook her head. “Killer Cotton Man, you are going to be hurting tonight.”

  Darby did a mental inventory of her backpack. She had spare silk long johns and tops she could loan him. The idea appealed and repelled. It felt good to help this bookworm Boy Scout man but, at the same time, it was embarrassing to think he could fit into her clothes.

  “We’ll build a fire and dry out. I’ll rub two sticks together. No big deal.” She looked into his hazel eyes sparkling silver behind the misted lenses. He was obviously pleased with himself for reading her mind.

  Okay, read this, Atticus! She plopped down on the shore, ignoring the jab of cold wet rocks on her backside, undid her boots, struggled to extricate herself from her socks, and finally pushed up her hiking pants to her knees and stood before him, barefooted and ready.

  “Let’s go.” He held out his hand for a second but let it drop before she took it. Instead he led the way, striding out into the pooled stream on a set of natural stepping stones until there was only water. He jumped off into the pond, plunging up to his knees. “Balmy” he shouted.

  “Someone’s balmy,” she shouted back. That’d be me! She stepped off more gingerly into the foaming water, and the icy immersion sucked the breath from her lungs. She stumbled in the drag of the water and the uneven footing, but he reached out, clasped her hand and held tight. His strong hold pulled her through the water to the ledge. As soon as she climbed up on the wet perch, he promptly let her go and crouched down to study the rocks at their feet.

  Keats picked up one and pressed it close to his nose before he set it back down again. Then out came the phone and he snapped several pictures in a row, all of the rocks at their feet.

  He slipped the phone back in his pocket, selected a rock and stood. The narrow wet surface of their perch put them close, eye to eye. She held her breath, wanting to step back to put a little space between them, but didn’t dare for fear of falling off the rock and into the water on her backside. Instead she quickly knelt down to view the rocks, but her companion mirrored her move.

  “Find one you like?” he yelled.

  She shrugged.

  “You want to win, right?” he persisted.

  She nodded.

  “Then choose the most unusual one you can find.”

  Darby swept her eyes over the scree and settled on a greenish stone with flecks of red and a wide white stripe running through it. Lucky rock. The voice in her head was Bonnie’s from years ago when they were kids into collecting rocks and all sorts of hiking treasures to take home and make into craft projects. It seemed Keats hadn’t outgrown that phase of his life yet.

  While in Rome… Darby straightened and slowly turned to show him her choice, only to encounter empty space. She twisted her head toward the shore but Keats was standing midstream, the water funneling around his legs as he took her picture. Darby shook her head but held her rock high and mugged for the camera.

  ~

  Darby shoved the rock into her anorak pocket before she started back toward him. Keats slipped his phone into his pocket and waited in the strong current, offering his hand when she staggered toward him.

  Darby clasped his fingers, her hand wet and cold, but her grip strong and sure. She advanced with him, close at his side. He angled his stance and took the brunt of the water surge fr
om the falls as he led them to the chain of rocks. Darby released his hand before she scrambled up to the rock. She wobbled and Keats reached up to steady her, but she sprung away and jumped to the next rock and the next in rapid succession until she was safely onshore. Independent!

  He followed more slowly, watching her quick movements. She grabbed her boots and socks and stork-walked barefoot over the rocky shore, dodging through the boulders they’d sat on at lunch, before strapping into her pack. Keats settled on a nearby rock and worked his wet boots and socks onto his equally wet feet while Darby scrambled up the banking to the marked trail and disappeared.

  He pulled out his phone and clicked a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the waterfall clearing before he loped up the banking after his partner. He needn’t have worried about catching up to her. Darby sat on a rock drying off her feet with some sort of chamois cloth, fussing over minute bits of gravel between her toes.

  “You could just put your boots on and let the dirt work its way out.”

  “I could,” she said. “But it’s been my experience the sand and dirt always work their way in, not out, and I can’t risk getting blisters on this trip.”

  She can’t take a little blood, sweat, and tears? The thought brought a surge of satisfaction. He’d begun to enjoy her company, and now he could relegate her to Prima Donna status. It went down a whole lot easier than New Friend status.

  Darby didn’t glance in his direction as she proceeded to procure a pair of clean dry socks from her pack. Keats studied her and picked apart all the things that confirmed his assessment of her: self-absorbed, definitely a fashion hiker with her periwinkle backpack, high-tech socks and two-toned high-priced bandanna.

  Darby pulled on her fresh socks with a sigh. “I love the feeling of warm dry clothes after I get soaked.” She looked up at him and her face radiated a cheerful pleasure.

  He looked away down the trail. Prima Donna. The mental name calling didn’t stick as well this time.

  “Oh, sorry.” She frowned and gestured to her backpack. “I have lots of dry tops to spare, thanks to my COPD, chronic over-packing disorder. You’re welcome to have one if you like.”

  He snorted and shook his head.

  She laughed. “Ah, so you’re a tough guy!”

  Don’t be nice to me. “The boots and shirt will dry out on the way to our campsite.”

  “And you promised us a fire when we get there, don’t forget.” Darby looked up at the clouds filling the sky before she pulled on her boots and gingerly tied the wet laces. “We might as well have worn our boots into the stream. I think they got just as wet from the spray.”

  Prima Donna. Keats tried to drill the slur into his brain, but as she shook out her wet hair and raked it back into a casual ponytail, he gave up. She didn’t look like a snob. With her sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked like a woman who loved life, at least from the neck up. The uber hiking outfit… not so much.

  Darby pulled the rock out of her pocket and rolled it in her palms. “It’s not very pretty now that it’s dry.”

  She grimaced and cocked her arm to throw it into the trees but he grabbed her wrist and shook his head. “Keep it.”

  “Why? It’s just a rock. Added weight to carry.” Despite her protest, she lowered her arm and ran her fingertips over the smooth surface, tracing the band of quartz.

  “It could be a winning rock.”

  Darby raised one blond brow and tipped her head. “How do you figure? It’s just a rock.”

  “You want to win, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Come on, tell me you don’t want to be standing on top of the peak blowing a bugle and planting a flag when the Neanderthal and his peewee bubblehead sidekick drag themselves over the last rise.”

  Darby’s eyes widened and she laughed. Keats couldn’t stop his grin in response to the low, musical sound.

  “I don’t know about the bugle blowing and the flag waving, that’s definitely got Boy Scout written all over it. But sitting up there sipping water and eating chocolate, maybe reading a magazine for effect when they come into sight, would be sweet.” She crouched down and wiggled her shoulders into her pack.

  He squinted up at the overcast sky.

  “Did anyone ever tell you, you’ve got a way with words?”

  He jerked his head down to meet her friendly blue gaze and she flashed him a smile. “I mean really? Neanderthal? Peewee bubblehead sidekick? You’re gifted. Am I the only one who’s noticed?”

  Keats spun away, pulled off his glasses and smeared the lenses between his fingers and wet shirt front before he crammed them back on his face and shrugged into his pack. People viewed his magazine photos, his exhibits, and proclaimed him gifted, but only one person had ribbed him about his ‘way with words’ — Jess. One person until now. The memory stabbed into his heart and he sucked in a deep breath. “It’s getting late. We’d better make tracks.”

  He strode off down the trail, but a second later, her hand caught his elbow. “Hey, Boy Scout, can’t we backtrack or bushwhack back to the trail and save some time?”

  Keats grunted and set off through the trees on their former path. He hiked at a good speed with one ear cocked to the progress of his companion. Darby followed without a word. When they gained the marked trail leading to Branch Forks, he glanced back at her flushed face. She gave him a weary grin. “I’m fine. We can rest when we get to the campsite.”

  He nodded and set off again, this time at a more comfortable stride, having temporarily exorcised his personal demons on the trek through the brush. With each step, Keats sent up a silent protest. He liked her a whole lot better when she came off as shallow and self-centered. Why did she have to say and do things that remind him of Jess? You’re killing me here, and You know that!

  An hour later, the ascending trail headed due west and they paralleled a rushing steam swollen with spring runoff. He turned, and Darby straightened her sagging shoulders but not before he caught the limp in her stride. Keats pretended not to notice. “This is Branch Stream, we’re almost there.”

  She nodded and kept plodding upward.

  Fifteen minutes later, the trees grew sparse and they wove through a small stand of birch and fir. Almost done for the day. Keats could’ve gone on until midnight. He was so used to pushing himself beyond the limits of natural strength, hoping it would help him sleep at night, that he never willingly stopped. His body no longer registered pain, or fatigue, or maybe he just didn’t listen to his tired muscles anymore.

  A chill wind had picked up out of the northeast and he looked ahead through the thinning trees, weary in soul. Today had been difficult; not the hike, just being around people all day. He wished he could shuck off his damp clothes, take a dip in the stream, and hunker down in his sleeping bag and pray for the oblivion of sleep, but no. Garrett and Bonnie were waiting for them. Darby was his constant shadow. They were all waiting for him and expecting him to be congenial and friendly for the evening. Ugh! Never again would he let Garrett talk him into something like this.

  A roar of wings pressed on his ears just as a bird buzzed over his head. “Uh!” Keats ducked in surprise and raised an arm to ward off the attack. A low laugh made him spin around and face the woman standing behind him.

  “Not to worry. It was just a Spruce Grouse or, should I say, Fool’s Hen.” A grin graced her face from ear to ear and banished his weary melancholy.

  “Now who sounds like the Nature Scout?”

  “Hey, I may be rusty, but this isn’t my first climb.” Darby laughed.

  He gestured toward the last length of trail before the campsite. “Ah, then, lead on, Girl Scout.”

  “With pleasure.” She brushed past him and the half-forgotten scent of some sort of garden flowers tickled his nose. He took a quick step back and automatically reached for his phone. He waited until Darby trudged ahead, and snapped a photo before he followed.

  They broke into a small clearing a few moments later. Bonnie w
as sitting on a rock by the lean-to and jumped up when she saw them. “You’re here!” She hurried over and gave her cousin a hug, pack and all. “How’d it go?”

  “Swimmingly.” Darby whipped her head around and winked at Keats. “Someone decided we should walk on water and get a closer look at Silver Falls.”

  Bonnie stepped back and turned her attention on Keats. “You do look a little like drowned rats.”

  Darby ran her hand over her ponytail. “Nearly drowned, but clean and nature fresh. Besides, someone’s going to build us a fire. At least that’s the rumor I heard on the trail.”

  Bonnie helped Darby out of her pack. “Garrett’s out collecting wood, as we speak.”

  “I’ll give him a hand.” Keats shucked his pack and set it in the corner of the shelter. He tried to ignore the two women, heads together, laughing. Just like old times except…

  He shook off the ghost of past hikes and hurried to the fire ring. Garrett dumped a load of fairly dry wood, some cones, and birch bark at his feet. “How’d it go?”

  “Okay.” Keats knelt down and ripped the bark into strips before layering it on the ground with last year’s cones.

  “Okay, okay? Or just okay?” Garrett crouched beside him.

  “That makes no sense. It was hiking, what else is there to say?” He got out his knife and whittled shavings from an old spruce limb.

  “You know what I mean. How’d it go with Darby?”

  Keats scooped up the pile of whittlings and placed them on the rest of the kindling. He opened the tin Garrett handed him, shook out a match, struck it on a soot-blackened rock, and held it to the pile. The flame wavered and smoked before it flared up and caught the fuel. He sat back on his heels and stared into the bright flicker. The wind gusted and he automatically moved to shield the fragile flame from its bite.

  A shiver ran through him at the drop in temperature as the breeze pressed the damp shirt to his skin. Killer Cotton Man. He shook his head to dislodge her voice from his head. Not good.