behind him, silent but palpable. The muscles in his back tensed. In his experience babes with balls were inclined to throw things at the object of their ire.
Which in this case meant him. As it usually did.
But she didn’t.
“By the way, you’re welcome,” Jess said over his shoulder as he sent his note snaking up the cliff. “I’d be glad to save your life again anytime. Babe.”
12
S HE NEEDED A CIGARETTE . Trudging behind Jess, tromping through a primeval alpine forest along a barely discernible trail between stands of moss-covered undergrowth so thick and high it could have hidden a baker’s dozen grizzlies, stumbling over rocks and roots and sliding on slippery things she preferred not to try to identify, that was the thought uppermost in Lynn’s mind: She needed a cigarette.
She was marooned in this wilderness hell with a grumpy fake cowboy, an injured teenage daughter with the hots for said cowboy, a thirty-pound pack that felt ten times heavier, and no cigarettes.
Adventure, Inc.’s literature had promised: You’ll get in touch with your body in a whole new way .
They were right: She’d never before experienced a nicotine fit the magnitude of the one she could feel coming on. By the time they got back to civilization she would not have smoked a cigarette in two whole days !
And that was the best-case scenario. Given the track record of the trip so far, there was about as much chance of things going as planned as there was of spotting a hospital around the next bend.
Scanning an old mountain-goat trail for discarded butts was obviously a waste of time, but Lynn found herself doing it anyway on the off-chance that they were following in the footsteps of a nanny goat with a tobacco habit. It was hopeless, of course, just as discovering a stray cigarette on her person or those of her companions was hopeless. She’d turned her own clothes inside out, and Rory’s too, out of pure desperation, though her daughter was an avid anti-smoker.
Jess had no cigarettes. She’d already broken her seething silence long enough to ask him. He’d given her a superior smirk as he informed her that he didn’t smoke.
Lynn hated that kind of smug nonsmoker.
There were no cigarettes in either of the packs Owen had sent down the cliff. Lynn had already torn them apart, checking.
Her own cigarettes were tucked away in a saddlebag, left behind with that stupid horse. Of course, she couldn’t really blame herself for that. Though she was a planner by nature, it was a little too much to ask to plan to fall off a cliff.
She needed a cigarette.
To distract herself Lynn dwelt on the growing discomfort at the backs of her heels. The farther she walked, the worse the pain grew. Obviously, the combination of damp socks and new boots was giving her blisters.
Huge blisters.
If Adventure, Inc.’s to-bring list had not specified boots as the only acceptable kind of footgear, she would be wearing comfortable sneakers right now, not shiny English riding boots that were devilish to walk in. Everyone else had opted for cowboy boots, including Rory, whose I-told-you-so had been the first words she had said to her mother when the group all met up at the corral for their initial ride.
And that was Adventure, Inc.’s fault too, for not being specific enough. If they had been she’d have been spared embarrassment and blisters, and the tight, tall leather shanks would not be chafing the area just below her knees with every step she now took.
Lynn dwelt on that too.
From there she dwelt on her tired knees, her sore back, the stinging in her palms.
She dwelt on her shoulder, which ached where it had slammed into the cliff.
She dwelt on her antipathy for the man she had—for the moment—no choice but to follow.
She dwelt on her anxiety about Rory. But that was so acute that it produced an even greater craving for a nicotine fix.
She needed a cigarette!
It was growing dark. Whether she disliked Jess or not was soon beside
Which in this case meant him. As it usually did.
But she didn’t.
“By the way, you’re welcome,” Jess said over his shoulder as he sent his note snaking up the cliff. “I’d be glad to save your life again anytime. Babe.”
12
S HE NEEDED A CIGARETTE . Trudging behind Jess, tromping through a primeval alpine forest along a barely discernible trail between stands of moss-covered undergrowth so thick and high it could have hidden a baker’s dozen grizzlies, stumbling over rocks and roots and sliding on slippery things she preferred not to try to identify, that was the thought uppermost in Lynn’s mind: She needed a cigarette.
She was marooned in this wilderness hell with a grumpy fake cowboy, an injured teenage daughter with the hots for said cowboy, a thirty-pound pack that felt ten times heavier, and no cigarettes.
Adventure, Inc.’s literature had promised: You’ll get in touch with your body in a whole new way .
They were right: She’d never before experienced a nicotine fit the magnitude of the one she could feel coming on. By the time they got back to civilization she would not have smoked a cigarette in two whole days !
And that was the best-case scenario. Given the track record of the trip so far, there was about as much chance of things going as planned as there was of spotting a hospital around the next bend.
Scanning an old mountain-goat trail for discarded butts was obviously a waste of time, but Lynn found herself doing it anyway on the off-chance that they were following in the footsteps of a nanny goat with a tobacco habit. It was hopeless, of course, just as discovering a stray cigarette on her person or those of her companions was hopeless. She’d turned her own clothes inside out, and Rory’s too, out of pure desperation, though her daughter was an avid anti-smoker.
Jess had no cigarettes. She’d already broken her seething silence long enough to ask him. He’d given her a superior smirk as he informed her that he didn’t smoke.
Lynn hated that kind of smug nonsmoker.
There were no cigarettes in either of the packs Owen had sent down the cliff. Lynn had already torn them apart, checking.
Her own cigarettes were tucked away in a saddlebag, left behind with that stupid horse. Of course, she couldn’t really blame herself for that. Though she was a planner by nature, it was a little too much to ask to plan to fall off a cliff.
She needed a cigarette.
To distract herself Lynn dwelt on the growing discomfort at the backs of her heels. The farther she walked, the worse the pain grew. Obviously, the combination of damp socks and new boots was giving her blisters.
Huge blisters.
If Adventure, Inc.’s to-bring list had not specified boots as the only acceptable kind of footgear, she would be wearing comfortable sneakers right now, not shiny English riding boots that were devilish to walk in. Everyone else had opted for cowboy boots, including Rory, whose I-told-you-so had been the first words she had said to her mother when the group all met up at the corral for their initial ride.
And that was Adventure, Inc.’s fault too, for not being specific enough. If they had been she’d have been spared embarrassment and blisters, and the tight, tall leather shanks would not be chafing the area just below her knees with every step she now took.
Lynn dwelt on that too.
From there she dwelt on her tired knees, her sore back, the stinging in her palms.
She dwelt on her shoulder, which ached where it had slammed into the cliff.
She dwelt on her antipathy for the man she had—for the moment—no choice but to follow.
She dwelt on her anxiety about Rory. But that was so acute that it produced an even greater craving for a nicotine fix.
She needed a cigarette!
It was growing dark. Whether she disliked Jess or not was soon beside
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