Page 15 of Mountain Man Rescue
We drive in silence for a while, until he asks, “How long have you known Wyatt?”
The question startles me. “Who said I know Wyatt?”
“You came running down his drive.” He says as a matter of fact.
“He saved my life,” I stare at my silly flats.
“Is that so? How’d he do that?”
“Well, I was trying to take a picture of an eagle when I stepped onto a ledge and slipped. My coat got tangled in a tree while I was dangling in mid-air. Thankfully, Wyatt was nearby and came to my rescue.”
“I see,” he pops a toothpick in his mouth. “So, you’re a photographer,” he says, chewing on the thin piece of wood.
“I am.”
He glances at the seat beside me. “Where’s your camera?”
My stomach knots. “I forgot it.”
“I can turn around and go back for it if you want.”
“No!” I blurt. “It’s fine. I have plenty of cameras.”
Which is the biggest lie I’ve ever told. That camera is my livelihood—and the only one I own.
“Uh-huh.” Gus chuckles. “Just so you know, I’m not buyin’ what you’re tryin’ to sell.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head with his eyes still on the road. “You’re on the run.”
“On the run?” I laugh weakly. “I’m not on the run.”
“Sure, you are. You’re runnin’ from love.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen that look before. Wore it myself once.” His grin softens. “Lucky for me, my Trudy got me sorted out real quick. Forty-two years later, we’re still together.”
“That’s nice,” I whisper, turning to look out the window. The snow-covered trees blur together. Maybe I’ll move to Florida, where it never snows—because now, snow will forever remind me of Wyatt.
“But I’m not in love,” I add, though my voice doesn’t sound convincing even to me.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart,” Gus says kindly. “Just don’t go near no mirrors ‘cause it’s written plain as day all over your face.”
Before I can think of a witty denial to offer, the truck begins to slow.
“What in the world?” Gus leans over the wheel. Up ahead, a green pickup sits sideways across the road, blocking the way.
He frowns. “That fool better not be stuck?—”
The words die in his throat as my door yanks open and a rush of cold air hits my face. Then I’m flying—literally flying—through the air before landing against a wall of solid muscle that smells of cedar and pine.
“Wyatt!”
He’s got me slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, his arm banded tight around my legs.
“What are you doing?” I sputter, pounding on his back.
