Page 42 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Listen,” Ryan says with another sigh, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but yeah, Hunter is flying out to Portland right now.”

“Really?”

I try to tamp down my excitement. Just because he’s coming to Oregon doesn’t mean he is planning to visit me. I’m sure he just wants to see all the beautiful places that I told him about. But now that I have his phone number, maybe…

“Yeah, there’s something else you should know though,” he says.

Over the next few minutes, Ryan explains how Hunter had tried to track me down, if for no other reason than to apologize. When he couldn’t find me any other way, he resorted to contacting a member of the press who had reached out to him for an interview. And, because the media rarely does anything out of the goodness of their hearts, they struck up a deal.

The interview I had agreed to tomorrow with the women’s magazine was actually their clever way of catching our reunion on camera.

A hundred different emotions flutter through me at once. Excitement, anger, happiness, and confusion swirl together deep in my gut.

Ryan pauses while I take in all the information he’s dumped onto me. After a few seconds, he speaks again. “He wouldn’t have done it this way if he had any other choice. I warned him that it might not be well-received, seeing as how you hate the press and all that. But he was desperate. I’m only telling you because I hope that if you have a heads up, you won’t flip out and run when you realize what’s going on.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

“Can you please just promise me that you’ll hear him out when you see him tomorrow?”

I take a deep breath and push the multitude of feelings aside in favor of a single logical thought.

“I have a better idea,” I say. “Do you have his flight number?”

The next seven hours fly by. I don’t call Hunter to try to catch him at his Denver stopover, even though I could probably time it just right since I took the same flight two months ago.

Instead, I book a cabin outside of town, take a long shower, and spend too much time getting ready. When I’m done, I stare at the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I’m wearing a black floral dress with a pair of black tights to keep my legs warm and some booties. My hair is curled into loose waves and my makeup is light but noticeable.

I wonder if he’ll even recognize me. The only version of me he’s ever seen is the disheveled one that wears husky boys’ clothing. Or no clothing.

Before I can rethink my outfit or my decision for the millionth time, I grab my coat from the hook near the door and drag my suitcase out the door behind me.

The airport parking lot is packed. It takes me nearly twenty minutes of snaking through the aisles to find someone backing out of their spot. By the time I’m inside the airport, there are only a few minutes to spare before Hunter’s flight is scheduled to land. It’s chaotic inside. The security line winds all the way past the rope partitions. Not that it matters since I don’t have a ticket.

No ticket and no plan. It would have helped to think this through a little more, but in my defense, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time.

I have his flight number; I could find the baggage carousel assigned to the flight and wait near it. But that will only work if Hunter checked his bags. He seems like the type to travel light, even in this cold weather.

I could try to figure out where all the passengers are funneled through after making their way through the gate and past the security checkpoint. I remember seeing people waiting for loved ones in this area when I de-boarded the plane from Tennessee a couple of months ago. But this is a completely different terminal – one that I am not familiar with – and there’s no guarantee I would find it in time or catch him on the way out.

It’s my best shot though.

I glance around, trying to get my bearings. A herd of fast-walking people stream past me and obscure my view of the signs that seem to point in every direction.

“Excuse me,” someone says from just behind me. I scoot out of the way, but the woman’s voice follows me. “You’re Abigail Webb, right? I recognize you from the news,” she says softly.

Great. Just what I need right now.

I glance back at her. She’s wearing a dull gray uniform with a patch on the breast pocket that says Portland International Airport above the name Janet. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her smile is warm and friendly.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats tentatively, “I’m sure you get tired of strangers coming up to you. I just wanted to say thank you for what you did. My nieces go to that school, and I just can’t imagine if…” The woman trails off. Her eyes grow watery as she considers the unspoken end to her sentence.

After all this time, I still haven’t figured out the right thing to say. ‘You’re welcome’ seems like an acknowledgment of my heroism, but I can’t bring myself to think of what I did as heroic. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Anyone who says that they aren’t sure if they would have done the same thing is not giving themselves enough credit.

I smile weakly at the woman and say the only thing I can think of: “I’m glad your nieces are okay.”

She nods solemnly before speaking again.

“You seem a little lost. Is there something I can help you with?”

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