Page 49 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“I’ve never been fishing,” I admitted, trying to figure out a way to tell him how pleased I was that he was letting me in on this part of himself.

“Not once?” he asked.

“No, because New York has so many lakes and rivers and aqueducts and ponds or puddles in the middle of the?—”

“I get it, I get it,” he laughed. “You and those damn synonyms. Anyway, up and at ‘em. I made some lures for you last night, too.”

Pausing in sipping the perfectly doctored drink, my brows lowered. “What is a lure?”

“Oh, you poor city child,” he sighed. “I have so much to teach you.”

After slipping into the bathroom to use the facilities and brush my teeth, I changed into a pair of jeans, a blouse, and sneakers before grabbing a cup of coffee and pouring it into a to-go cup. Piled at the door, I saw two fishing poles, a backpack, and a box with latches.

“That, sweetheart, is called a tackle box,” Warrick grinned, hefting the poles over his shoulder and the box. “Carry that bag, please. I got food and drinks inside, the waders inside.

"But you need to change those shoes—” He gestured to a pair of water boots. “Those are Connie’s. She comes up here sometimes to fish. She’s got tiny feet too.”

“Aw, thank you,” I said dryly while tugging the boots on. “Where are we heading?”

With Goose padding behind us, Warrick led us down another track, bouncing down a gravel path to this small clearing.

It was not the same way to the waterway where Goose had swum in before, but this time to a jetty. We stopped on the shore for me to put on the hip waders, which were more like rubber overalls, only without a bib.

All around us were hills full of flowering green trees, and the warm, stronger rays of dawn were coming through the boughs. Warrick had chosen a part of the river that was shallower and calmer, curving around an inlet of land lined with scrubby trees and bushes on both sides.

“When this river goes around the bend, it turns into rapids and whitewater,” he said.

We set the tackle and backpack on a rocky outcropping along the bank while Warrick took out the rod and reel for me. He then proceeded to fiddle around with it, talking about guides, hooks, tippets, and leaders.

“Is this how it feels when I talk about my coffee orders?” I laughed. I was never going to remember all the pointers he was giving me but I’d bluff my way out of it. “What is a lie?”

“We’re in one,” he grinned. “It’s an area in a river or lake out of the main current where fish hang out and provide a good source of insects and other food.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You took me to a fish trap.”

“Easy pickings,” he said.

It was not so easy. He put my rod in my hand and came around my back to show me how to cast. I heard his instructions—but my attention was on how firm his body was behind mine and the huskiness of his voice in my ear.

When he finally stepped away, I tried to cast. It took me about ten tries to get it right, but when I did, his kiss to my ear made the pain in my wrist vanish.

He fished beside me, catching fish every so often, but not one tug on my line. He threw most of them back into the stream, but a few went into the cooler.

“I can see why you like it out here,” I told him. “It’s peaceful.”

A sharp tug pulled at my line. “Oh, my God, I think I’ve got something!”

“Reel it in,” he said, coaching me on how to reel it—but the damn fish was putting up a fight.

I ground my heels in. “It’s fighting me!”

Warrick came up. “Give me the line and jump in there. Grab it.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

“Go, now,” he ordered. “Hurry up.”

Even aghast, I jumped into the water, and now I knew why the waders were such a good idea. Hurrying to the line, I tried to reach under it—and touched wet scales. I jumped back, scared.

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