Page 4 of Wild River

I won’t stand a chance if I stay, either.

“And where will you go, Becca? You know the Pritchards will find you wherever you run.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, I have to try.

“Tell Tristan…” It feels weird sending a message to the guy I’m leaving at the altar, but hey. Perhaps I owe him this. “Tell Tristan he deserves better. Tell him to marry for love instead.”

The guy scoffs and shakes his head.

“Sayonara,” I say, gathering my torn skirt up in both hands.

“Wait!”

But I’m already airborne, blades of green grass stuck to my bloodied feet. I’m already soaring, flying, the mountain wind whipping at my hair. Crystal clear water sparkles beneath me, promising to be cold, oh so cold, and then I crash through the surface of the river nearly halfway across. Sure enough, it’s a thousand icy needles digging into my flesh, my bones, so freezing that my teeth and eyes ache.

The current seizes me, dragging me deeper under.

The air escapes my lungs in a frenzy of bubbles.

High above the churning surface of the river, the sunshine is bright.

Here we go again, I think, swept in a swirl of ivory silk down the river. And whatever happens next… at least I’m free.

Two

Jake

It’s a day off from Mountain Rescue, and my little niece Ellie doesn’t need babysitting today. That means only one thing for me lately: fishing.

There’s a folding chair and a cooler with a couple of beers on the grassy bank, and I’m stretched out in the chair, ankles crossed and arms folded over my chest. The line’s in the water, and my old baseball cap is dipped low over my eyes. Overhead, the sun blazes.

Never used to have such old man hobbies, but over the last couple years, making dangerous climbs and pulling white water stunts has lost its shine for me. Taking those risks feels so dumb now.

Sure, in my twenties I used to be all-in on the macho mountain culture, competing with the other guys around here to climb harder, run faster, swim the most dangerous currents. Being able to shift boulders, chop wood, and run from the center of town to the highest peak was a point of pride for me. How else could I stroke my own ego? How could I know if I measured up?

But ever since I held Ellie in my arms as a tiny baby, her little fingertips still puckered from being inside her mom, those things have seemed so goddamn trivial. Who cares if I can flash my way up a finicky route on the rock face? Who cares if I can kayak off a waterfall?

There’s a little girl out there who needs her uncle alive and kicking. Not as much as she needs her mom and dad, sure… but still.

It’s good to be needed.

So: three years ago I held that baby and something shifted inside me. Now I’m one of those grumpy old bastards who spends their free time fishing and carving wooden toys. Ellie chews ‘em all over, gets tooth marks in the wood, but I don’t mind that. So long as she’s having fun.

She hasn’t nailed fishing just yet. We’ve tried. She doesn’t have the patience to sit still and let the fish come to us, but hopefully one day she’ll like this too. What’s not to like? It’s meditative. Like napping with your eyes open, and Ellie loves naps after she stops fighting ‘em.

Groaning out a sigh, I shift in the chair to get comfier. It creaks beneath me but holds my bulk well, and my eyes drift closed as the sun warms my skin. Shouldn’t have worn a flannel shirt this morning, even with the sleeves rolled—should’ve stuck to a t-shirt. The breeze may be cool in these mountains, but on a bright day the sun can cook you in your clothes.

The wind sweeps over the grass, rustling the blades together. The river slinks past, quiet except for the occasionalplinkof a fish, burbling serenely over rocks. It’s deep but calm by the time it reaches this valley.

I crack one eye to check my line. No bites yet.

I’m gusting out a breath, settling in for a long wait, when I see it. A flash of white, coming downriver. At first I think it’ssunlight against fish scales, and I sit up and reach for my rod before my brain finally computes what I’m seeing.

A dress. Awhitedress, drifting along the surface of the river, swirling around… a woman.

Holy shit.

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