Page 1 of Big and Rowdy
one
Savannah
Thetraillooksmanageableon the map. Hell, it looks downright easy compared to some of the routes I've tackled over my three years of solo camping adventures. But maps, I'm quickly learning, don't account for last week's early snow or the particularly stubborn boulder that's apparently decided to relocate itself right into the middle of the path, blocking my way back to the main road.
I stand beside my mud-splattered SUV, hands on my hips, surveying the situation with the kind of calm that comes from experience. My dark hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and my hiking boots are already caked with the rich black soil that seems to coat everything in these northern Alberta wilderness areas. The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across my full figure as I consider my options.
"Well, this is just fantastic," I mutter.
Part of the appeal of solo camping is dealing with exactly these kinds of challenges. I've gotten myself into worse scrapes and found my way out just fine, thank you very much. But this landslide must have happened overnight—the boulder wasn't here when I drove in yesterday, and now it's completely blocking my exit route.
The sound of an engine roaring to life somewhere in the distance makes me look up from my phone, where I've been checking my GPS coordinates. The engine gets louder, and closer, until suddenly a massive four-wheeler bursts through the trees like something out of an action movie.
The machine is impressive but it's nothing compared to the man riding it. He's built like he's been carved from the same granite as the mountains around us, with broad shoulders that strain against a black t-shirt and arms that look like they could probably lift my SUV without breaking a sweat. Dark hair, a day's worth of scruff, and the kind of cocky grin that probably works on most women he encounters. He has to be at least 6'6", a veritable giant of a man, making even my SUV look small in comparison.
He kills the engine and swings one long leg over the seat, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. "Well, well. Looks like someone's having a rough day."
I raise an eyebrow. "Looks like someone thinks he's riding to the rescue."
The grin widens, revealing teeth that are irritatingly perfect. "Boone Hartwell," he says, extending a hand. "And unless you've got a winch hidden in those hiking boots, I'm thinking you might need that rescue."
I look at his outstretched hand for a moment before taking it. His grip is warm and callused, the kind of hands that actually work for a living. "Savannah Mitchell. And I've been gettingmyself out of tight spots since before you probably learned to drive that toy of yours."
"Toy?" He looks back at his four-wheeler with mock offense. "Darling, this is precision machinery. And speaking of precision, how exactly were you planning to move a boulder that weighs about as much as a small moose?"
I bristle at the endearment. "First of all, don't call me darling. Second, I was working on it."
"Uh-huh." He walks over to inspect my situation, his assessment thorough and professional despite the teasing tone. "You've got decent ground clearance, good tires. But that rock isn't budging without some serious leverage."
I cross my arms, not liking being told what I can and can't handle. "And I suppose you have a better idea?"
"Matter of fact, I do." He's already walking back to his four-wheeler, pulling a heavy chain from somewhere in the cargo area. "I've got a winch on this beauty, and the horsepower to pull your ride clear. But it's going to take some finesse."
Despite myself, I find myself watching the play of muscles under his shirt as he works. The man is undeniably attractive, in that rugged, outdoorsy way that usually leaves me cold. I prefer my men with a little more substance and a little less swagger.
"You do this often?" I ask. "Ride around rescuing damsels in distress?"
He shoots me a look that's equal parts amused and appreciative. "First of all, you don't strike me as the distressed type. Second, I was just heading home from checking my trail cameras when I heard your engine spinning. Sound carries in these mountains."
He's right about the not-distressed part. I've built my confidence through years of proving I can handle whatever the wilderness throws at me. I'm not about to start playing helplessnow, even if this particular mountain man is making my pulse quicken in ways that I haven’t experienced in a while.
"Trail cameras?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.
"Hunting season's coming up. Like to know what's moving through the area." He's threading the chain around the boulder now, his movements efficient and sure. "You pick an interesting spot for camping. Most folks stick to the established campgrounds down near Whitepine."
"Most folks don't know what they're missing."
He pauses in his work to look at me, and I feel heat creep up my neck under his scrutiny.
"No," he says quietly, "I don't think they do."
The moment stretches between us, charged with something that makes my breath catch. Then he straightens and that cocky grin is back in place.
"Alright, beautiful, let's get you unstuck. You're going to want to give her just a little gas when I start pulling, but not too much. Don't want to spin those tires and dig yourself in deeper."
"I know how to drive," I say dryly, but I'm already moving toward my driver's seat.
"Never said you didn't. Just want to make sure we do this right the first time."
