Rescued By Her Rival. Amalie Berlin
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his muscled legs sprawled out in the grass. The man wasn’t bulky, but he was dense and lean in a way that made the shape of every muscle down his arms and legs show under hair-dusted skin.
He’d had a certain soldierly hunkiness before, but now he looked like he’d dulled all his sharp, military corners except for those of his physique. Longer hair. Loose cotton clothes. White and gray, no khaki or green anywhere. And he spent enough time in the woods that he wasn’t as bronzed as he’d been either.
All softening touches. And somehow he was more churlish. Strange that years after leaving combat he’d become less friendly. By the look of him, and the way he’d stood apart from everyone, this man was the one who most needed a friend. What had he even been saying?
Oh, right. She was picking her own cabin, not waiting on orders. Blah-blah cabin shenanigans. They would’ve made cabin assignments today if everyone hadn’t been called to the field for an emergency.
“Do you really think the chief wouldn’t want everyone having a bed?”
“They do things a particular way.”
“And they can do things that way tomorrow.” She shrugged, shifting topic. “What’s your plan?”
“Truck.” He looked up at her finally.
Back to one-word answers.
“Did you have a stutter as a child?”
“What? No.”
“Propensity for mispronouncing words?”
“No.”
“Do you have some kind of a Samson situation going on in reverse? The longer your hair gets, the weaker your vocabulary?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were more talkative last time we met,” she answered, “even if you weren’t exactly Mr. Conversation. Did something bad happen that you find painful to revisit?”
He actually paled then and she immediately felt bad for asking. Suddenly it was something she couldn’t joke about. Something bad had happened. And now he was a rookie.
No smokejumpers had died, she would’ve heard if there had been any deaths. They were so well trained and prepared they could go decades without a fatality.
“Nothing happened.”
The man was not a good liar, at least not when directly questioned.
Lauren’s friends were mostly men, due to the nature of her profession. She wasn’t a native speaker of Dude Language, but she had fair fluency. In this kind of triggering situation, she had a few options on how to respond.
Call him out on the lie. Acceptable only if she was a friend—and she wasn’t, so calling him on it was a sure way to start a fight. She wasn’t looking for that either.
Or she could ignore what he’d said and just keep the conversation going in a way that made clear she’d picked up on the lie. Spotted a weakness. Another great way to make friends.
Or, what seemed smartest, pretend to misread the situation and make a joke out of it. Give him an out, assuming he had a sense of humor.
“Did you sleep with Treadwell’s daughter or something?” She squinted dramatically at him over her bags.
“No!” He answered so sharply some of the color came back to his cheeks and she felt that moment of vulnerability pass. “He doesn’t have a daughter.”
“Okay, you did something else, then,” she announced. “You just like to speak about as much as no one I’ve ever met.”
“Don’t care.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Fine, Miss Congeniality.” She jerked her head toward the cabins. “I’m going to continue moving in. Then I’m going to pack my duffel with some weight to simulate the pack carry and run the forest track. And since I know you’re not making any other friends with that effervescent charm, you’re welcome to take the other room in the cabin if you’d like to sleep somewhere that won’t put a crick in your neck. If you don’t want to sully a bed, use the couch. Or the floor. I can step over you. No problem. I doubt I’ll even accidentally kick you more than once or twice. Three times tops.”
The pack carry was the second biggest thing she worried about doing sufficiently well. The problem that took up most of her overly developed worry centers was her application mistake—her skydiving experience. Good intentions didn’t counter bad planning follow-through. Filling out the application on behalf of her future self—the one who would’ve completed the training program and gone on several jumps—was only okay until life and family emergencies had interfered with her training schedule. Now it was a lie. In writing. Even if skydiving experience wasn’t required to get into the program, once she’d been selected—months later—she hadn’t been able to figure out how to rewind it.
She’d gladly run herself ragged with a heavy pack to keep from thinking about those possible consequences.
He levered himself from the ground. “Don’t weight your pack for the run tonight. Hard track to run in the dark.”
“You think I’ll fall?”
“You wanted advice. Don’t take unnecessary chances,” he said, dusting some of the grass from his...very firm backside and meaty, manly legs.
Then he said more things and screwed up her mental appreciation.
“Washing out already would mean another year before you could get back.”
She had wanted to hear advice. Did want to. And this was even advice that he didn’t stumble his way through or have to force out. It sounded genuine.
It also sounded like criticism. Already was a very judgmental word. Although she couldn’t stop her hackles rising, she was almost thankful for it. Handsome wrapper over a jerky nougat center? He was suddenly far less attractive.
“I’m used to tougher workouts than a woodland path.”
“Uneven terrain.” Still doubting her ability to run on shaded trails, and not answering her invitation. Which was fine. Let him sleep in his truck.
He rolled his shoulders and took off at an easy jog for the all-terrain course where he’d sent the others a while ago.
The course was two and a half miles around, two laps to make it five.
If she hurried, she could stash her stuff in the cabin and catch up with him. Then he’d see how sure-footed she was. No falling. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not already.
And she still kind of wanted to trip him.
BECK’S FEET HIT the ground in a steady rhythm, broken only by the need to readjust his step as he covered the uneven packed earth winding through the various pine, fir and tan oaks of the evergreen forest.
Ahead of him lay the only thing he’d looked forward to when considering his return to camp: the gnarled tan oak near the halfway mark on the trail. Tan oaks littered the state, but he loved the ones that were twisted and gnarled. He’d developed an odd affection for this particular ancient-looking tree two years ago and come to think of it in anthropomorphic terms—the Old Man.
It was almost all boughs, branching at less than three feet from the ground, a hollowed palm with six fingers shooting toward the sky. A great sitting tree, like the one he’d grown up with in his yard. Shaded. Quiet. A respite from the heat. Surrounded by birdsong. Peaceful. Somewhere to forget where he should’ve been and wasn’t.
Treadwell thought he was being obstinate or stupid, or that it meant he just didn’t care