Page 30 of Falling

“Geneva,” I beg. I don’t know if I’m begging for more or for her to force me away.

“I’m—” she begins and clears her throat. “I’m just going to get ready for bed.” She stumbles toward the tent.

“Jesus,” I mumble, dropping back into my chair. Now, what in the hell do I do? I won’t get past a kiss like that.

Geneva obviously doesn’t want anything to do with it or she wouldn’t have scurried into the tent for the night. I guess I could sleep out here so it’s not awkward. Although awkward seems like the one word that has defined this trip from the beginning.

I push myself out of the chair. The camp still needs to be secured for the night. It doesn’t take me long to clean up, pack everything away, and put the campfire out.

Now to enter the tent. Geneva is curled up on the far cot. She’s pulled the sleeping bag up to her hairline. I can’t tell if she’s fake sleeping so she doesn’t have to talk to me or not.

Folding my clothes neatly, I lay them next to my cot. I slide into my sleeping bag in my boxer briefs. We can decide what to do about tonight sometime tomorrow.

I’m exhausted, and tomorrow is already shaping up to be another long day. Hopefully one with no unplanned injuries. I’d settle for another toe-curling kiss, though. With a last look at Geneva’s back underneath her sleeping bag, I turn to the wall and drift off.

* * *

I wake the next morning to the soft tinkling of laughter from outside. The laugh I would recognize anywhere. The male voice that answers it, however, is not as familiar.

I bolt out of bed. Every muscle screams in protest. I ignore the pain as I jerk on my pants. Stomping out from behind the tent flap, I find Geneva standing at a fresh campfire. Rusty is helping her stir something.

“Good morning,” she calls.

I spear Rusty with a glare. He takes a step away from her.

“Rusty is helping me learn to make gravy for our biscuits.” Rusty had better back the fuck off before I renderhiminto gravy. “Get dressed, it’s almost ready.” I reluctantly step back inside the tent. I layer back up before leaving the tent again.

“We have fresh horses,” Geneva singsongs as she ladles passable-looking gravy over two dishes of biscuits. “Meet Bocephus,” she says, pointing at a bay.

“He’s named after Hank, Jr.,” Rusty says.

“You’ll be riding Widow Maker.” She smirks.

“Widow Maker was Pecos Bill’s horse,” Rusty adds.

“Why would I want to ride a horse named that?” This doesn’t bode well.

“We just call him Willie.”

I don’t know what to say to that. How does a horse go from a killer of men to Willie? I just grunt. It seems safer to eat rather than continue questioning the animal that has to haul my ass out of here. I fork a dripping bite of biscuit into my mouth. It’s not half bad.

“See, I told you I can cook,” Geneva says. She’s smiling at me.

“Nice job.” I nod. This is the only thing I’ve eaten that she’s made that didn’t try to poison me. She looks so proud, though, that I finish every bite on my plate. Rusty takes my empty plate to add to the stuff he’s packing up.

“Today’s ride isn’t that far,” he says. “I’ll pack this up and see you there.”

I leave the campfire to meet Geneva at the horses. She’s as anxious to get on the trail as she was yesterday. Why do I feel like I’m dying and she appears no worse for wear? I cup my hands to help her on the horse.

Taking Willie (I refuse to call him that other name), I swing into the saddle. There are two bones in my ass I didn’t know I possessed until this moment. If I just stand in the stirrups all day, I should be okay.

“Sore?” she asks me.

“How are you not?”

“I just fake it better than you,” she says with a laugh. Turning her horse, we start down the trail. “Your face always tells me everything I need to know. Right now, it’s begging for me to kill you and put you out of your misery. I guess my question is this: Why did you agree to the ride if you don’t enjoy it?”

“Because I knew it was something you’d want to do.”

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