Page 3 of Big and Rowdy
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the pub washing around us. I find myself reassessing my first impression of this woman. There's strength in her, but also something that looks like loneliness, even though I doubt she'd admit it.
"What about you?" she asks. "Born and raised in these mountains?"
"Third generation. My grandfather bought the land where I live now, and my dad expanded it. Now it's me and my cousins keeping the family business going."
"Which is?"
"Hartwell Outfitters. We do guided hunting and fishing trips, some backcountry camping expeditions. I handle the extreme sports side—ATV tours, rock climbing, that kind of thing. Orson handles the more technical aspects—gear maintenance, safety protocols, all the stuff that needs actual brain power." I pause, my fingers tracing patterns on the condensation of my beer bottle. "Dad always said I was too reckless to be trusted with the family legacy, but here I am anyway."
The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"Sounds like he was wrong," she says quietly.
"Jury's still out on that one."
Two men at the bar glance over at us, whispering something that makes them both chuckle. I catch them looking and shoot them a warning glance that silences them immediately.
"Town gossip," I explain with a sigh. "Hazard of living in a place where everyone knows your family history back five generations. The Hartwell boys are favorite subjects at the barber shop."
"Sounds nice," she says. "Having family close."
"Has its perks. Also means everyone knows your business before you do." I can't help but grin. "My cousin Holt's probably already heard through the grapevine that I'm having a beer with a pretty woman."
"And how does cousin Holt feel about that?"
"Holt doesn't feel much of anything about anybody these days. Man's been grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth since his divorce." I shrug. "But that's his story to tell."
I appreciate that she doesn't push for details. Most women in town would be fishing for the whole divorce saga by now.
We talk easily after that, conversation flowing from travel stories to favorite hiking spots to the best places to see wildlife in the area. I tell her about the hidden valleys where the elk gather in fall, the secret fishing spots where the trout are so plentiful you can almost catch them with your hands. She listens with genuine interest, asking intelligent questions instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.
She tells me about camping in Yellowstone, about the desert in Utah that looks like another planet, about watching the sunrise from a mountain in Colorado. The passion in her voice when she talks about these wild places matches my own, and I find myself more and more drawn to her.
"You know," I say as the evening winds down, "if you're planning to stay in the area for a while, I could show you some spots that don't make it onto the tourist maps."
Her eyes light up with interest. "What kind of spots?"
"Waterfalls most people never see. Views that'll take your breath away. Places where you can camp and not hear anything but the wind in the trees."
I can see her wavering, and something in my chest tightens with hope. I want to show her those places, and I want to see them through her eyes.
"I might be interested," she says carefully.
"Saturday morning? I could pick you up, show you around properly. Promise to keep the four-wheeler at a reasonable speed."
She looks at me across the table, her green eyes digging deep into my soul. I feel like she's seeing past the charm to something deeper, the stuff that most girls never get to see.
"Okay," she says finally. "Saturday morning."
three
Savannah
Saturdaymorningdawnsclearand crisp, the kind of late autumn day that makes the wilderness look like it's been painted in gold and crimson. I've spent more time than I care to admit choosing my outfit—hiking boots and jeans, practical but flattering with my favorite sweater just in case we get another November snowfall. Weather is unpredictable this far north.
Boone arrives at my campsite exactly on time, which surprises me. I'd half-expected mountain time to be a flexible concept. But there he is at nine sharp, looking unfairly good in worn jeans and a thermal top that clings to his broad chest, emphasizing his massive frame. Standing at his full height, he towers over me, making me tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"Morning, beautiful," he says, swinging off his four-wheeler with fluid grace. "Ready for the grand tour?"
