Page 10 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
Now Ben was gone. That loneliness was back. And though I was a fiercely independent person, I missed having another adult around to talk to.
I steered the Explorer into the drive and parked. I sucked in a jagged breath and blinked away the tears.
Fresh air.
That’s what I needed to make the ache in my heart go away. So away I went, running along a county road with the mountains as my backdrop.
Not so much enjoying the fresh air as desperately trying to suck it in. Surely this was not what Ben had meant.
I effing hate altitude. I can’t breathe.
Turn around now. Just quit. Be a quitter. No one needs to know.
I can do it. I’m almost there. I can make it.
No you can’t.
Those thoughts were looping on repeat as I hit the halfway point on my run.
This jog was nothing like those from my past in Spokane. I was miserable. My head was pounding, my heart was
beating out of my chest, my lungs were on fire, my legs felt like Jell-O, and I was drenched with sweat. Any minute now, I was going to puke.
But I had to get back to the farmhouse. Otherwise I was going to be late to pick up Roe, and for every minute you were late past six o’clock, Quail Hollow charged you ten dollars.
Ten dollars a minute!
Robbery.
So I inhaled a deep breath and swallowed, tasting blood, while I pushed my feet forward.
You can make it.
You can make it.
You can make it.
I chanted with every step, hoping my positive mental affirmations would get me through the next mile and a half.
I stared at the rough pavement and decided if I kept my head up, maybe it would make the run go easier. My chin lifted just as a huge truck headed down the road, coming my way. I inched to the far side of the road but kept running, expecting the driver to give me a wide berth and pass me by.
But the truck was not just a truck, it was a behemoth police truck. The bronzy-brown monster had a rack of lights on top of the cab, plus one of those menacing grill guards. The sheriff’s emblem was proudly displayed on the driver’s side door. And so was the sheriff in the driver’s seat.
Eff.
As I came to a stop, Jess stopped right next to me. He started speaking but the loud roar of the diesel engine drowned out his words.
“What?” I shouted just as Jess cut the engine on his truck.
He leaned out his open driver’s side window. His eyes were covered with aviator-style sunglasses.
“I said you shouldn’t be running out here. It’s a dumb fucking thing to do.”
Did this guy just keep getting nicer and nicer, or what?
My heart rate was already well past the elevated range. At the sheriff’s harassment, it was now thundering. There was a good chance it would sprint back to the farmhouse without me.
“How is it that running in broad daylight in warm weather is a ‘dumb fucking thing to do’?” I panted, throwing my hands up in air quotes.
