Page 61 of My Salvation
Reaching out, I grab them and watch as he pulls out some rubber pants, a net, and a tackle box. Leaving the picnic basket, cooler, and blanket in the truck, he heads over to a spot on the bank.
“Let’s set everything here.”
Once we’ve got everything laid out, he hands me a pair of the rubber pants. When I hold them up, I notice they have built-in boots. Kind of like someone attached rain boots to the rubber pants.
“Do I take off my shoes?”
“Yes. Take off your shoes. They might be a little big, but use the suspenders to tighten them up.” He slips off his boots and tugs on his pair. Slipping his arms in the straps, he shows me how to tighten them.
Once we’re dressed, he opens the tackle box and shows me which slot holds the “flies.” “They don’t look like real flies. What are they?”
“Essentially, it’s a concoction of materials designed to look like a fly or other type of bug. The fish don’t know the difference until they bite. Once they bite, you reel them in pretty quickly.”
“They look pretty real from here.” My mouth twists, and I scrunch up my nose as I reach down and pick up a small black one. “This one looks like a dead fly. Where do you get them?”
“Some I made when I was younger. Some I’ve bought.”
Shrugging, he walks through the various pieces of the pole, from the reel to the tippet, then shows me how to put the bait on the end. Reaching out, he puts a few more flies into the pockets of both our waders, and we head out towards the water.
Sticking his pole into a rock to hold it, he steps in behind me. He shows me how to hold the pole, then gripping my hips, he moves me into a good standing position. Sliding his hands along my body, he positions my arm up and back to show the starting point. By this point, I can barely pay attention to what he’s saying. The friction between our bodies is setting off little sparks. And he smells so good, like sunshine, man, and an undertone of spice from his cologne. Suddenly, he throws my arm forward and brings his body in tight to mine as he leans over me. Inhaling, I hold my breath until I can regain some focus back.
“OK, those are the basics. We’ll practice the overhead cast a few times, then you’ll be ready to go.”
Swinging my arm up and back, he throws it forward again. Struggling to pay attention, I get the gist of it and nod. My body is tingling as he steps away, taking the heat and smell of spice with him. Standing back, he motions for me to cast.
Shit.
OK, holding the fly line in one hand, I grip the rod, rotate my arm backwards, then fling my arms forward to the ten o’clock position. The fly line flows out into the water as the fly sits on top of it. Gasping, I smile and turn to Shaw.
“I did it! I can’t believe I’m fishing.”
His head tilts back as he laughs. Damn, that laugh gets to me every time, turning his usually serious face into a younger, lighter version.
“OK, I’m moving upriver to cast my line so we don’t get tangled.”
Watching as he uses some weird side arm throw, he casts out the line. “Why did I go overhead, and you cast from the side?” I ask, puzzled.
“Experience. Beginners start with the overhead cast because it’s the easiest.” He talks about the various types of casts. I’m not really paying attention, but I love to hear his passion. Standing there with my feet in the water, listening to the river and him, I can see why he likes it so much. It’s peaceful. And here in the middle of Montana, the world is light years away.
He shows me the spot on the other side of the river where his dad first taught him to fish. We talk about his father and their relationship. His mom died when he was a baby, so it had always been him and his dad. While he had been a good dad, a ranch this large took up a lot of his time, which meant he didn’t have a lot of time to spend with a young boy. Still, he tried to teach him everything he knew, from fishing to ranching.
“When did he pass?”
“He passed about three years ago.” He frowns. “We had a falling out over my choice to join the Army instead of going away to play ball. About ten years passed before we spoke again.”
“I’m guessing he wanted you to play ball? I heard from Sarah you were All-American and had a scholarship to an SEC school. And supposedly, you left a high school sweetheart in the dust?”
A slight blush tinges his cheeks. “This town is way too small.” Pulling at his cap, he runs a hand through his hair before settling it back on his head. “She’s right and wrong. When I went into the Army instead of taking the scholarship, the high school sweetheart left me in the dust. Seems she was quite taken with having a big shot footballer for a boyfriend, but not an Army grunt.”
Hmm, true love indeed.
“And the scholarship?”
“Football came easy to me, but I never loved it. As I started my senior year, I realized college would be a lot like high school if I kept to the same path.” Rolling his shoulders, his eyes are distant as he looks into the past. “I wanted more. I needed to feel like I was making a difference in the world. The Army felt more like a calling than a career choice to me.”
“I understand completely.” His eyes swing to mine. I tell him about my grandpa, his cancer, and his influence on my decision to be a doctor. “Becoming an oncologist felt like a calling to me. A chance to help people like my grandpa, who had no control over the outcome of this horrific disease and how it affected his life.”
Frowning, he asks, “Did you grow up with your grandpa? What about your parents?”
