Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Four

Briar

Sweetie’s has that perfect, small town Southern charm I’d been hoping for when I chose Shady Rock as the home base for my summer class project. Jasmine vines are crawling up the rock exterior, and even though the blooms are mostly gone, faint traces of the fragrant scent cling to the air.

When I enter, I take a seat at the first empty table I find, happy that I can look out the large window at the main street. I’m not waiting long before a friendly waitress comes to take my order. Telling her to surprise me, I laugh when she accepts my challenge with a wicked grin.

Reaching down, I grab my camera from the bag at my feet, scrolling through the photos I’ve taken this morning around town, smiling as I zoom in on a large, dark purple Iris. The flower is in focus, but behind it and to one side is an old couple on a park bench. They’re out of focus, but they’re holding hands, gazing at each other, and it’s clear that they’re still madly in love.

That’s the kind of love I want to find.

Someone moving quickly through the diner catches my attention just before the front door closes with a loud thud, and I see a large man walk past the window. He’s only in view for a few seconds, but I’m riveted. He’s tall—his head nearly out of view at the top of the window—and broad. The kind of build that makes a woman feel small and protected in all the best ways.

Before I can do more than glance at his chiseled features, he’s gone, leaving me with a pang of disappointment.

“Alice and William,” Sammi says, glancing over my shoulder as she sets a glass of cranberry juice on the table. “They’ve been married for sixty-seven years.” Her wistful sigh tells me there’s a story behind it.

“That’s so sweet!” I say, mentally doing the math. “I’d love to hear about them.”

Cultivated flowers and love stories of beloved octogenarians are hardly the focus of my class project—the last hurdle before I graduate—but I can’t help my curiosity.

Sammi looks around, checking her tables, before she pulls out the chair beside me and launches into an unbelievable story of family rivalries, forbidden love, war, and happily ever after, spanning nearly seven decades.

“Wow,” I sigh, looking from Sammi back to their image on the screen. “I’m no writer, but that sounds like an epic romance novel.”

“Honey, no one would believe it if they didn’t know Alice and William,” she says, standing and walking away with a wink, returning a few minutes later with a plate of bacon and a fluffy pumpkin waffle with cinnamon butter. “Enjoy, honey.”

Waving goodbye to Sammi, I head back to the lodge to get my car and the bag with my supplies for the overnight floating trip I booked with a local rental service. Driving through town on my way to the river, I make a mental note of places I want to visit before I leave.

The outfitter is a twenty minute drive from town, and I catch glimpses of the river as I wind through the foothills. My GPS goes offline when I drive down a steep hill into a lush valley, and I’m forced to stop and ask for directions at a gas station with one pump and a hand-painted sign advertising homemade local jerky.

A balding man behind the counter points me in the direction I’ve been going with a warning that there’s an unexpected turn “’bout a mile thaterway” before offering me some jalape?o squirrel jerky that I quickly decline. Jumping into my car, I get back on the road, and after only a few wrong turns, I finally see the large, wooden sign telling me I found the right place.

Getting out of the car, I look around at kayaks, canoes, and innertubes stacked high, just waiting for tourists to take them down the river. Turning toward the wooden building, I watch as a woman about my age leads a family with three young children over to a rack with dozens of colorful life jackets to fit them for their adventure.

“Miss Collins?” a deep voice asks, startling me.

Spinning around, my hand moves to cover my racing heart, and I laugh at my own foolishness.

“That’s me,” I smile. “Please, call me Briar.”

He nods. “Hank Dayton. I’ll be dropping ya off after the safety brief and picking ya up tomorrow at the rendezvous point. Follow me.”

He walks past me, and I follow, entering the building as he holds the door open for me before leading me to a cluttered desk and indicating that I should sit in the old metal chair across from him.

Within twenty minutes, he’s gone over the rules of the river and wildlife safety. He slides a release form across the desk, and I sign it with a flourish. He takes me outside, handing me a bright red life vest, carefully adjusting it.

“Go ahead and grab your bag, then move your car, and we’ll get goin’,” he says, pointing to a gravelly spot under a few large trees across a large open space. Without another word, he moves to a passenger van with a full trailer behind it, climbing behind the wheel and turning the key.

I hurry to obey, grabbing my bag and locking my car quickly, not wanting to keep him waiting. Three small groups are already in the van when I reach it, and I’m forced to squish myself between Hank and an older woman who doesn’t look happy to be here on the front bench seat, my arms wrapped around my bag on my lap.

“You have any kayaking experience on a river?” Hank asks conversationally, never looking away from the narrow, curvy road.

“A little,” I reply. “Mostly on the lake, though.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Best keep your vest on. We ain’t lost one yet, and I’d liketa keep it thataway. This part of the Buffalo, ‘specially this time of year, you shouldn’t have many problems, but better safe than sorry.”

I’m fascinated by his gruff voice and word choices, which are so different from what I’m used to hearing only a few hours north across the Missouri border. I lose myself watching the scenery as he turns onto a gravel road, the breeze from the open front windows cooling my skin and forming goosebumps on my arms.

Soon, we’re pulling into a busy gravel lot with a concrete launch jutting into the river. We all crawl out of the van before Hank backs it toward the launch and starts unloading the boats, pointing us toward our rentals.

“Miss Collins? We’ll be at the rendezvous to get you tomorrow. You have until five to make it. Even with stops, you should have plenty ‘a time. You remember where we’re meetin’?”

“Yep. Skip’s Landing. Twelve point six miles that way,” I say, pointing down river. “I got it, Hank. See you tomorrow.”

He nods and leaves us on the bank.

Pulling on my life vest and securing it, I follow it with my waterproof camera bag, grateful when it’s not too bulky. Grabbing the handle of my kayak with a deep breath, I pull it to the water’s edge, the micro tent and camping supplies I’ve rented already strapped to the back. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I tuck it into my supplies bag and tether it to the tent. Paddle in hand, I step into the cool water.

Sitting delicately in the molded seat, I breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t immediately tip over. With a few experimental rocks side to side to get my bearings, familiarizing myself with the proper paddle technique—giggling at the double entendre—I push off, deciding it’s now or never.

I let the river do most of the work, carrying me downstream, stopping on gravel bars every now and then to take pictures or grab a snack. My ass is numb by the time I stop for lunch, and I pull the boat onto the bank and eat the sandwich I packed. Despite the cool water, I strip down to the swimsuit I’m wearing under my t-shirt and shorts and sink under the water to watch the minnows glint in the sunbeams filtering through the clear water.

There are quite a few people on the river for the first several miles, but just before dusk, when I’m ready to find a place to set up camp on the riverbank, I realize I haven’t seen anyone for over an hour. Spotting a flat area up from the bank, I try to move to the side, but the water is running faster, and when I get sideways, it pushes hard enough to tip me.

Landing on my ass in the cold water, I use the paddle to push myself up and look around for the kayak. I see it moving down river without me and try to run through the calf-deep water, crying out in pain when I step awkwardly on a large rock that I hadn’t seen beneath the water.

“Fudge!” I scream, watching the boat disappear around a bend in the river. Limping to shore, grateful for the paddle-crutch, I drop to the rocky bank and sit down, defeated.

I reach into my pocket to grab my phone, panicking when I remember tucking it into the bag that is now floating down the river on my kayak. I have no way to call for help and nothing to build a shelter with.

Laying on my back, looking up at the darkening sky, I let the tears flow as I scream in impotent rage with no one to hear. “Fudge!”