Page 41 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“What aboutAll Along the Watchtower?” Quinn adds. “That song still gives me goosebumps.”

We work together packing the gear into the boat, then carry it across the road and down the bank to the calm, deep eddy pool. Lexie climbs in and takes the middle seat, facing the bow, and slides the oars into place. There’s a lot of gear to manage, but Lexie is quick to get everything organized.

She gives us an expectant grin. “You guys ready for this?”

“We’ll see,” I reply, climbing into the stern. The inflatable boat jostles under my weight. Quinn climbs into the bow.

“I tied you a couple of special flies,” Lexie says, handing us each a strip of foam with a row of colorful, fuzzy flies hooked into it. “These are sinkers. Kings like to go deep.”

She sweeps the oars, her lean, taut forearms engaging, and the boat enters the current. The sides of the valley are a patchwork of greens, the river cutting down through the silty soil. Sitting on the back pontoon, I tie on one of the chunky flies, feeling completely clueless. I have no idea how to fish a big river like this. Even though Lexie described how to “swing and strip” during our practice session in the meadow, I’m sure I’ll fail to put it to use.

I think about last night and the way we danced and laughed, like we were in our own little world. How I wanted to kiss her and hold her close, to whisper in her ear all the ways I wanted to touch her, kiss her. That I can’t is tearing me apart.

With a steady pull on her oars, Lexie guides the boat with the current. She’s rolled up her yellow-and-blue plaid shirt to the elbows and the early morning light makes the downy hairs on her tanned skin almost glow. When she turns, scanning the surface, I catch her profile—dainty nose, freckled round cheeks, and soft lips. She’s focused and alert, but I catch her eye, and she smiles.

Is she thinking about last night, too?

She rows, no doubt guided by some inner fish-finding compass. I’ve barely made my first cast when Quinn gives a shout. He’s gripping his reel with both hands, his thick line taut.

Silver flashes as a giant fish leaps out of the water. Quinn’s line zips across the river.

Lexie hoots. She maneuvers the raft while coaching Quinn. A fish the size of my thigh fights and leaps, whizzing all over the river, burning through line so fast I think Quinn’s reel is going to combust. Finally, with Quinn slowly gaining ground, Lexie beaches the boat at the edge of a gravel bar.

“Hold the boat, Dawson,” she orders, and they jump out.

Awkwardly, I clamber into the seat and just manage to grab the oars before the handles crack me in the ribs. I know shit about rafts, but I only have to keep it from drifting away.

Quinn splashes into the shallows, reeling hard. With Lexie’s help, he gets the fish close enough to the shore so Lexie can scoop it into her giant net.

After a trophy photo, Quinn smiling like a crazy man, they lower the net. With a flicker of his shiny tail, the King is gone.

Quinn and Lexie splash back to the boat.

“Check itout!” Quinn passes me his phone while he clambers into the bow.

The King is a gorgeous bright silver. Okay, maybe I’m a little envious.

“Your turn,” Lexie says, as if reading my mind. Standing there on the gravel bar with her feet planted wide and her bare arms crossed, I imagine her saying that to me in the darkness, her naked body pressed to mine. My pulse taps harder against my throat.

I scramble out of the driver’s seat so Lexie can resume her position. She pushes us off the gravel bar and steers us back into the current.

Rod in hand, I start casting, aiming for the pools. I get two or three shots in each before we drift past. When we come to a particularly big one, Lexie steers closer, then holds our position with steady strokes. I cast and let the fly sink, following it with my rod. Just as the current catches, I feel a bite and tug back to set the hook, but my line soars into the air, empty. I lost him.

Lexie takes one hard stroke to get the boat above the pool. “Try setting your hook a second time. He’s testing you.”

Determined, I check my position, then cast again.

“Closer to that darker bit of water. That’s where they are,” she says, pointing to an area that’s partly shaded by a rock protruding from the bank. “I’ve swam in that pool. It’s undercut. I’ll bet there are thirty Kings in there right now.”

“You swim in this river?” I try to picture her lithe body moving with the swift current.

She laughs. “Yup. Now show me what you got.”

I’m too busy thinking about showing her exactlywhat I’ve gotwhen my line gives a tug. A jolt zings down my spine.

I do as Lexie instructed, pulling back hard to set the hook a second time. Line flies out of my reel. I’ve got him!

“Quinn, row!” Lexie jumps out of her seat and comes behind me.

---