Conard County Spy by Rachel Lee Page B

escape him. He was giving his cover story to his cover story. Life sometimes had a twisted sense of humor.
    And thinking about cover stories brought him back to theirs. “We never hammered out our story,” he reminded her. “Nothing beyond that I was a guide you hired when you were hiking in the mountains. I need details that fit with what your friends might remember of that trip. Maybe some photos so I don’t stumble about what the area looks like.”
    She raised her brows. “So there’s some place you’ve never been?”
    â€œQuite a few, actually.” He summoned a smile for her benefit.
    â€œI’ll bet most of them are within the borders of this country,” she said tartly. “Okay, then, get ready for the teacher to teach.”
    She urged him to sit in her desk chair and carried over the chair he’d been sitting in for herself. Then she opened a folder of photos labeled “Coast Range.” Two hours later, he felt he had a good enough handle on what the area looked like, including some of the small towns at the foot of the mountains. She brought up a map that he memorized quickly, then told her that he would say he hadn’t grown up in that area, that he was a relatively recent arrival who had brought his guide skills from the Appalachian Trail.
    â€œIt’s all about not getting too specific,” he advised her. “Were there any particular stories that you shared with friends that I should know about?”
    â€œWait, have you walked the Appalachian Trail?”
    â€œPortions of it as I had time, which wasn’t very often. Why?”
    She put her chin in her hand, green eyes growing dreamy. “That was next on my list. What did you think of it?”
    â€œI enjoyed it. It’s truly challenging in places. And not everybody attempts it without a guide. In theory you could do it alone, but not everyone is cut out for that. So you can get guides to lead small groups on hut-to-hut hikes, or even longer trips if you want.”
    â€œSo why did you stop doing that and go to the Pacific Northwest?”
    â€œBecause,” he said wryly, understanding that she was padding out his cover for him, “for most of the summer, portions of that trail are nearly as well traveled as a highway. I wanted more isolation. More rugged hikes.”
    â€œOkay.” She smiled. “You know enough to be a guide.”
    â€œStories?” he prompted her.
    â€œOnly one that sticks out when I was with the guide. We were off trail, off the lumber roads, which isn’t easy to do. Climbing up toward a peak through complete wilderness. Then I saw some footprints. Huge footprints.”
    He felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Sasquatch?”
    She laughed and shrugged. “Who knows for sure? My guide studied them. He was troubled by how separated they were but kept reminding me that when a bear walks it puts its hind foot almost exactly where its front paw landed. That leads to slightly overlapping prints that can often be mistaken for a single huge, human-type print. He pretty much decided that a bear had left them. So I told my friends about it because it was fun and kind of funny. That was the only story they might have remembered. The rest were pretty ordinary, off-trail kinds of things. I got to do some rock climbing belayed by my guide. I’m pretty sure he took me to some views I couldn’t have seen otherwise. And the main thing that impressed me was how much wilderness there still is out there.”
    He nodded. “That leaves the question of what I’m doing here.”
    â€œOh, that’s easy,” she said, waving her hand as if it were of no importance. “I kept in touch with you by email. I was attracted to you, but you were professional and never crossed any lines. Then when you mentioned you’d hurt your arm in a fall, I was just brazen enough to invite you to visit. They’ll believe