Page 4 of Big and Rowdy
"Ready as I'll ever be." I grab my daypack, already loaded with water and snacks. "Please tell me you're not planning to break any land speed records today."
"Scout's honor. Nice and easy." He holds up three fingers, grinning. "Though I should mention I was kicked out of Scouts for refusing to follow the buddy system."
"Of course you were." But I'm smiling as I say it.
The four-wheeler is even more impressive up close. Boone shows me where to hold on, his hands briefly covering mine as he guides them to the right grips. The contact sends electricity shooting through me.
"Trust me?" he asks, and something in his voice makes me look up to meet his eyes.
"We'll see," I say, but I'm already climbing on behind him.
The first few minutes are admittedly terrifying. The machine is powerful and loud, and the trails we take seem barely wide enough for a mountain goat, let alone a vehicle. But Boone knows what he's doing, taking curves with confidence and navigating obstacles like he's memorized every root and rock.
And gradually, I begin to relax. The speed that seemed reckless starts to feel exhilarating. The rush of air, the blur of trees, the way the four-wheeler seems to dance through the terrain—it's like flying, if flying involves the very real possibility of hitting a tree.
The trail gets bumpier and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his thick waist like Jasmine when Aladdin takes her for the first carpet ride.
Our first stop is a clearing that opens onto a vista that quite literally takes my breath away. Mountains roll away into the distance, layer upon layer of ridges painted in every shade of autumn. A hawk circles lazily overhead, riding the thermals.
"Oh my God," I breathe, climbing off the four-wheeler on unsteady legs. "This is incredible."
Boone watches my reaction with obvious satisfaction. "Most folks never make it up here. Too far off the beaten path."
I walk to the edge of the clearing, pulling out my phone to capture the view, though I know no camera could do it justice.
"You're not going to post this on social media, are you?" he asks, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before.
I look back at him in surprise. "Why would you care?"
"Because places like this..." He gestures at the vista. "They're special because they're not overrun with people looking for the perfect Instagram shot. Once something goes viral, it's ruined."
I study his face, seeing genuine concern there. "I wouldn't do that. These kinds of places should stay special."
The tension leaves his shoulders. "Good. Sorry, it's just—I've seen it happen too many times. Secret swimming holes turned into party spots, quiet trails that become highways."
"You really love these mountains, don't you?"
"Born and raised here. Can't imagine being anywhere else." He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean. "My great-grandfather homesteaded the land where I live now. Carved it out of the wilderness with nothing but determination and a good axe."
There's pride in his voice, but also something deeper. A connection to a place that I, for all my love of travel and adventure, have never quite experienced.
"That must be nice," I say softly. "Having roots that deep."
"It has its advantages." He glances at me sideways. "What about you? Where's home when you're not camping in the middle of nowhere?"
"Wherever I park for the night, I guess. I travel a lot for work, pick up short-term rentals. Haven't had a real permanent address in about two years."
"Sounds lonely."
I bristle automatically. "Sounds like freedom."
"Didn't say it was bad. Just said it sounds lonely." His voice is gentle, without judgment. "There's a difference between being alone and being lonely."
I want to argue, to insist that I love my independence and wouldn't trade it for anything. But standing there in that perfect clearing, with this man who seems to understand the appeal of wild places, I feel the truth of his words settle somewhere deep in my chest.
We visit two more stops that morning—a waterfall that tumbles down smooth granite faces into a pool so clear I can see the bottom, and a meadow where deer graze without fear, apparently accustomed to the sound of Boone's four-wheeler.
As we ride past what looks like an old trapper's cabin, Boone points it out. "That's Miner's Rest—named after the gold prospector who built it back in the 1890s. Local legend says he hid his fortune somewhere in these mountains, but no one's ever found it."
