by Roxie Noir
“Not when I was your downfall in the first place,” I say, grinning at her.
Clementine makes a noise, somewhere between a snort and a laugh and a guffaw.
“You were my downfall?” she says, laughing. “I’m pretty sure I remember dragging you down into my parents’ basement and pretty much throwing myself on you.”
I’m pretty sure I remember that too, and so does my dick, half-rising to the occasion.
“That was the first time I met your parents,” I say. “I was raised to be a nice country boy, you know, not fool around with someone’s daughter on a couch in the basement.”
“I’m pretty sure I also talked you into sneaking behind the barn in your truck that first time,” Clementine says.
She’s talking about the first time we ever had sex. For just a moment, the memory takes my breath away, because even though it was a little awkward and in the back of a pickup truck, I’m never going to forget the way the stars reflected off the rear window or the way she bit her lip the first time I entered her.
“Just because you suggested it first doesn’t mean you talked me into it,” I say. “I was pretty goddamn willing.”
Clementine looks over at me, her eyes laughing. It’s hard to tell under the shadow of her hat, but I think she might be blushing.
“I’m just saying, you don’t get to take credit for my current fallen state,” she says. “I was a very active participant.”
We come around a bend, and in front of us, there’s a creek going across the trail, rocks poking out of it at intervals. At the edge of the water we both stop and look at it for a moment, planning a way across. I go first, treading from rock to rock. It’s trickier with my heavy pack on, and at the end I have to make a big jump, but I get across fine.
I turn and watch Clementine. She takes a different route across the rocks, longer but without that jump at the end.
She’s nearly across when she puts her weight on a rock and it wobbles. She gasps, throwing her arms out.
Without thinking I step into the creek and hold my hand out toward her, and she grabs it.
Right away she relaxes, getting her balance back. In two steps she’s on dry land and I step out of the creek, her hand still on mine.
“Thanks,” she says. “That didn’t feel unstable when I first stepped on it.”
She hasn’t let my hand go.
“That’s what hiking buddies are for,” I say.
“You got your feet wet.”
“It’s hot out, they’ll dry,” I say, shrugging. “It’s kind of nice, actually.”
“I probably should have just walked through the water,” she says.
We look at each other for a moment. Then she lets my hand go, drops her eyes, and looks at the trail ahead. Her throat moves as she swallows.
“We’re halfway there,” she says, and starts hiking. “We should make it before sundown.”
“Lead the way,” I say, and we set off down the trail together.
13
Clementine
It’s another four hours to the lookout tower, nine miles in total, but it feels faster than that. Earlier today, I came this close to going with one of the other firefighters, because after our fight yesterday, I wasn’t sure I could deal with talking to Hunter again.
And, honestly, it would be a hundred times easier to ignore him for another day or two until his crew is out of Lodgepole, and then pretend that nothing ever happened. It’s not that I can’t face my problems. Generally, in life, I face my problems just fine.
Just not this problem, because this one feels like a giant spider web that’s also been doused in honey and then also in superglue, and then there’s another spider web behind it waiting to catch me if I somehow get through the first one. It’s sticky and tangled, is what I’m saying, and it’s worse because everything hinges on old, half-buried, faded and questionable emotions that I can barely identify, let alone understand.
But here we are. Talking, like friends, like people who can work through problems. I know we’re probably going to have it out again before this little adventure is over. I’m dreading it. I feel like an adult, though, like maybe I’ve finally made a mature decision about Hunter.
That’s not happening yet, though. Now we’re hiking through the sun-dappled woods. We gossip about people from high school. He tells me about being in the Marines, about living with constant dust and roadside bombs.
About how he slowly realized that it wasn’t for him, even as he watched his comrades rise in the ranks, leaving him behind. He tells me about his first Fourth of July back in the United States, when he had to hide in his parents’ basement from the sound of fireworks.
I walk next to him and think, this is someone I don’t know. It feels strange, but good.
I tell him about being in college, about how unsettling it can be to go from a town of five thousand people to a dorm with almost that many. I tell him that when I first got there I felt like a back country hick in the big city for the first time, that I once got drunk and threw up on an ornamental statue, and that I finally figured the whole thing out and graduated magna cum laude in biology.
Before I know it, we’re at a fork in the trail. I point left, and half a mile later, I can see the Spruce Mountain Fire Lookout poking above the trees.
“You know, I’ve never been to one of these,” Hunter says, trudging up the trail next to me.
“That’s because you don’t get involved until the fire’s already found,” I say. “I’ve only been to this one once, when I was the lucky lady who got chosen to give it its annual cleaning.”
Hunter laughs.
“That often?”
“On the good years,” I say. “Though I only went because someone found out a family of squirrels had burrowed into one of the bunk bed mattresses.”
“Maybe I’ll sleep outside,” Hunter says.
I look at the tower as I walk up to it. It’s not big, maybe twelve feet square, but it’s got broad windows on every side, and the whole thing is on twenty-foot stilts. If there was a way to it besides hiking nine miles, it’d be a great vacation spot.
“It’s not so bad,” I say, neck craned up. “Kinda—”
Suddenly my ankle buckles under me and I fly sideways, slamming into the ground. It happens so fast I don’t even make a noise, just an oof when I land.
“Clem?” says Hunter, half alarmed and half confused.
My knee and elbow hit hardest, and I gasp as pain spikes through them. I don’t dare move for long seconds, afraid I’ll just hurt myself worse.
Hunter’s on his knees next to me, his pack off, and he’s saying something but I’m not paying attention. I just focus on breathing, flexing my fingers, and slowly the pain fades.
“Shit,” I say.
Hunter reaches over and unbuckles my pack, letting it fall off my back.
“Did you hit your head?” he asks, and I realize it’s the second or third time he’s asked that.
“I don’t think so,” I say, blinking.
He takes my jaw in his hand and leans in, bringing his face inches from mine.
I hold my breath. My knee throbs. I wonder if I did hit my head and I’m about to hallucinate some weird romantic scenario.
“Your pupils look okay,” he finally says, and I exhale. He lets my face go.
Right.
“What the hell happened?” he says.
I sit up slowly, bending my elbow, flexing my knee back and forth. It still hurts pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s broken, just badly bruised.
“I think I tripped,” I say. “Or I stepped wrong, or something.”
I straighten my leg, bend it, straighten. Hunter is hovering, kneeling next to me, frowning.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
He gets to his feet and offers me one hand. I take it, and he pulls me off the ground like he’s lifting a stuffed animal, the muscles in his forearm bunching.
I’m suddenly reminded that we’re going to be spending a
t least one night together in a twelve-by-twelve cabin, alone, and complicated feelings or not he’s still super hot.
Maybe I should have picked a different hiking buddy after all.
“At least you chose the right place to take a dive,” he says, nodding his head at the cabin behind him.
I laugh, and take a step toward my pack to pick it up again.
“Yeah, I — shit,” I yelp, pain shooting through my right ankle.
I nearly go over again. The only reason I don’t is because Hunter grabs me as I stand on my left leg, hopping a little, flailing my arms around.
“Your knee?” he asks.
I shake my head and take a deep breath.
“Ankle,” I say. “Fuck. Fuck.”
This is bad. Immediately, I start running through disaster scenarios: it’s broken. I won’t be able to walk, and I’ll have to get helicoptered down, all because I didn’t look where I was walking. Or, there won’t be any helicopters available, and I’ll have to wait a week.
I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Okay,” says Hunter, his hand on my back. “First thing, I’m gonna get you and our stuff into the cabin, and then we’ll see what’s going on with your ankle. You probably just turned it and all you need is ice.”
I look over at him, a little surprised at how perfectly calm he is, and how fast he took charge of the situation.
“What?” he asks, giving me a funny look.
“Listen to you, mister calm-instruction-giver,” I say. It’s not clever, but my ankle fucking hurts.
Hunter laughs.
“You know it’s my job to remain calm in emergencies, right?” he asks. “This is kid stuff. Where’s the key to the cabin?”
He has a point.
“That funny little outside pocket on the waistband,” I say. He bends over. Despite my injuries, I check out his ass, just a little. “The other one, and it’s the thing with the Yellowstone keychain... yeah.”
He holds up the key to the lookout cabin. Then he gives me a long, appraising look as I wobble a little on my left foot.
“If I can kinda lean on you, I’m fine to—”
I’m still talking as Hunter crouches down, puts one shoulder at my hip, and slings me over his back before standing. I yelp yet again.
“I’m fine,” I protest. He grabs my arm to keep my steady.
“Is that what you call not being able to put weight on that ankle?” he says coolly, walking toward the stairs to the lookout cabin.
“I could have gotten myself up there,” I grumble.
I don’t really mind. I feel kind of silly, because I’m upside down and my ass is in the air, but if I’m being really, really honest? It’s kind of hot to just be picked up like it’s nothing.
Awkward position aside, I can feel the muscles in Hunter’s shoulders move and flex under my stomach, even though I’m trying to ignore it. I don’t hate it.
“No, you were gonna insist that you could get up a flight of stairs on one leg, and then get pissed when I carried you anyway,” he says.
He reaches the bottom of the stairs and adjusts me a little before heading up.
“I feel like one of those sickly noblewomen who got carried around by servants or something,” I say as we climb.
Hunter looks over at me, from the corner of his eye, as he unlocks the door.
“You hiked nine miles with a forty-pound pack on, now you’re being lugged around like a sack of potatoes, and you feel like a noblewoman?” he teases.
He opens the door and turns sideways so I don’t hit my head.
“I feel helpless like that, I mean,” I say.
Hunter puts me down on one of the bare cots.
“I think you meant thanks for the ride, I like your muscles,” he says, darting a look at me.
I laugh and feel myself blush.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“And?”
“And... you’re very good at carrying things?” I say, still laughing.
“C’mon, Clem,” he says, his blue eyes dancing as he stands in front of me. “I carried you up all those stairs. On my back. It’s one simple phrase.”
I sigh dramatically, for show.
“If I say it will you stop harassing me like this?” I tease.
“One way to find out,” he says. “Say it.”
Hunter pulls his t-shirt sleeve up, revealing his right bicep. Then he flexes, and the muscle practically jumps up.
I feel my face go bright red, because holy shit, yes, I do like his muscles. It feels silly, but just watching that makes my body react without my brain’s permission.
I clear my throat.
“Fine,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Hunter, I like your muscles.”
“Was that so hard?” he says, grinning as he grabs a chair and brings it over. I lift my foot onto it.
“There are worse payments for getting carried around,” I say.
I lean forward, untie my hiking boot, and pull it off slowly, followed by my sock.
My ankle is swollen, but not purple or anything. I can wiggle my toes just fine. Right now, when I’m not putting weight on it, it barely hurts at all.
Hunter touches my ankle, his fingertips skipping along the pebbled indentations from my hiking socks. It sends a quick shiver up my spine.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not broken,” I offer.
“Where’s the first aid kit in here?” he asks, looking around.
I pause, boot in hand, and look around as well. The cabin has a narrow balcony that wraps all the way around, and all the walls are plate glass windows. For a second I forget the question as I take in the spectacular three-sixty view.
Inside, there are two narrow cots, perpendicular to each other in one corner, a propane-powered stove in the other corner, a kitchen table in the middle, and the chest-height fire-finder table. Besides a couple of storage trunks and some cabinets, that’s it.
“I don’t think I need first aid,” I finally say.
“It’ll have those instant ice packs in it,” Hunter says. “Since it’s not like there’s a freezer up here.”
He finds the first aid supplies, breaks the capsule inside the packs, and stacks a couple around my ankle.
“Try not to hurt yourself again for a couple minutes,” he teases. “I’m gonna go grab our bags.”
He disappears down the stairs, and I lean my head back against the plate glass window, feeling like an idiot. I’ve only led about a thousand group hikes for kids, and even though they’re on easy terrain, I always drive home that you should look where you’re walking, or you could seriously hurt yourself.
Nine miles from help. In a fire lookout tower. With your ex-boyfriend. Whose muscles you like.
A minute later Hunter is back, carrying eighty pounds’ worth of backpacks up the stairs like it’s nothing. I try and fail not to notice his muscles as he sets them by the door, then looks around.
“Wow,” he says.
I just laugh.
“Welcome to the Spruce Mountain Lookout Cabin,” I say. “Spectacular views in every direction and only one invalid.”
Hunter doesn’t respond right away, just crosses his arms and looks out the windows. We both do, just sharing the silence comfortably.
I wiggle the toes on my foot, the skin on my ankle numb from the ice packs. Hunter walks to another window, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye, even as I pretend to rearrange the ice.
I’m slowly realizing something, and it feels strange and uncertain and new, but it’s true.
I think I’d like him anyway.
Even if he wasn’t the ex who broke my heart. Even if we’d never met before last week.
I keep watching him as he shrugs his shoulders a couple of times, then swings his arms around, loosening up from hiking nine miles with a heavy pack. The back of his t-shirt is damp with sweat, but I don’t mind the way it sticks to him. I don’t mind at all.
And that’s the problem: if Hunter h
ad just been a stranger in the fire crew who walked me home and called me about my dog and came to my stargazing talk, I think I’d like him.
I have no idea what the fuck to do with that.
14
Hunter
Dinner is twenty-cent ramen followed by freeze-dried backpacking food. All it involves is boiling water, and I do that while Clementine sits on a cot, ankle wrapped in instant ice packs, scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars.
“Anything?” I ask.
We both changed out of our sweaty hiking clothes. I’m wearing super-lightweight “lounge” pants — okay, they’re basically really thin sweatpants — and tomorrow’s shirt. Clem has on leggings and a long-sleeve t-shirt with no bra on underneath.
The no-bra thing is making it kind of hard to focus.
“Not yet,” she says. “There’s a couple of clouds that kind of look like smoke, but I’m pretty sure they’re just clouds.”
“Want the expert to take a look?” I ask.
“You’re not the expert on fire spotting,” she says. “You just put them out.”
“Really, I’m the expert at making boundaries that fires can’t cross, if you want to get technical about it,” I say.
Clementine doesn’t answer, and the cabin goes quiet. I don’t mind. The silence now is different from the loaded silence this morning in the car. That one felt like an anvil was swinging over my head, ready to fall, but this one is oddly comfortable. Companionable.
Sometimes you run out of things to say to another person, especially if you’ve been together for twelve hours already, and it’s fine. It feels like putting on a pair of worn-in shoes.
Not that Clementine is a pair of old shoes.
The water on the stove boils, and I pour it into the laminated bags of freeze-dried spaghetti, close them, and wait. I’m not exactly a gourmet chef, but we won’t starve.
“Hey, c’mere,” Clementine says.
I walk to the cot where she’s sitting and stand behind her. She looks back and hands me the binoculars, then points.
“That’s a cloud, right?” she asks.
“I thought I wasn’t an expert,” I say, lifting them to my eyes.
