Page 2 of Mountain Man's Summer Drift
“He thinks he is.”
She almost smiled. Not quite. I had the feeling I could spend a year watching her face and still be learning what each version of that meant.
“Ross Baldwin,” I said.
“Sunnie Jensen.”
We stood there. The road was empty. A cicada started up somewhere uphill. I could hear the river moving past through the trees. I could also hear my own pulse, which was new.
“You been walking long?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Got water at the cabin?”
“I forgot a bottle.”
I tipped my head toward the truck. “Cooler’s in the back. You want one?”
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want it. Because she was a woman who weighed things before saying yes to a stranger, and she was weighing.
“Yeah,” she said.
I walked her to the truck. Popped the cooler. Handed her a cold bottle. She took it with both hands and drank standing right there at the tailgate.
I should not have been watching a woman drink water like it was the only thing happening in the world. I was.
“You always work alone out here?” she asked, lowering the bottle.
“This shed, yeah. Quick job.”
“What do you keep in it?”
“Gear. PFDs, throw bags, a couple of extra paddles. We’ve got an arrangement with the cabin’s owner. Shed space for river trips.”
“That’s a good deal.”
“It was set up before me. I just check the inventory.”
She nodded. She had a way of nodding that made me feel like she’d actually heard what I said.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
She glanced down at the book in her hand like she’d forgotten she was holding it. She held it up. Paperback, cracked spine, something literary I’d never heard of.
“It’s not holding me today.”
She said it like she’d just figured it out while she was saying it.
“You want a ride back to the cabin?” I asked.
“I’ll walk. I came out for a walk.”
“All right.”
“Thanks for the water.”
“Yeah.”
