Chapter 1 #4
After a few more excruciating seconds of waiting, I lunge for the coat.
My fingers scrabble across the rough surface of the boulder until I find the soft material.
The coat is big enough to wrap around me like a blanket.
The man’s body heat is still trapped within its fleece lining.
I may as well be getting hugged by a pile of sheep.
A distinctive musk of cedar and leather fills my nostrils as I clutch the jacket around me with all my rapidly waning strength.
My most recent adrenaline rush of the evening is quickly wearing off, leaving me feeling disoriented and dizzy.
It’s either the adrenaline departure or the hypothermia setting in. I need a boiling hot shower, stat.
First, though, I still have to climb back up the stupid goat trail.
I can’t feel my fingers or toes, and I have zero energy left to try to find my clogs and clothes.
The way back up to the porch is just as bad as I’d imagined.
My feet are throbbing slabs of meat, but I try to keep my cursing quiet.
By the time I make it back inside the cabin, my whole body is aching.
I hobble to the bathroom and wait impatiently for the water to heat up.
I don’t get in until it’s nearly scalding.
I stay under the stream until the hot water runs out.
I dry myself off and then yank on my softest pajamas before crawling under the covers.
My feet continue to throb painfully, but at least my teeth have stopped chattering.
With my luck, I’ll wake up in the morning with pneumonia, and I deserve it after that ridiculous stunt.
Burrowing under my down comforter, I can’t help thinking of the man at the river.
He’s probably miserable in his tent without his coat, cursing the day I was born.
I wish carrier pigeons were still a thing.
But he was a big man, so I’d need something like a carrier eagle to lift his coat off the ground.
Visions of fleece-toting eagles usher me into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
My phone starts buzzing incessantly at 7:45 the next morning. Messages from Jo blink painfully at me from the too-bright screen. My head is like a watermelon after it’s been dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. Twice.
Wake up. R u up?? Wake UP.
I’m ravenous and have a feed order to pick up at 9:30. Meet me at Cheri’s in 20 `
Jo gets up before the sun and considers anything after 7am “sleeping in,” but that’s because she’s burdened with needy livestock and humans (she’s a ranch owner and a mother).
If she weren’t my favorite person, I’d be furious.
Sunday is my only day off, and I feel like roadkill.
I am roadkill. Far too much wine with only a handful of nuts and crackers to absorb it—this is not a surprising turn of events.
I creak slowly upward. The light coming through the bedroom curtains lances into my eyes. I need sunglasses, a full order of Cheri’s buttermilk biscuits, and 24 hours in a deep, dark, dank cave.
When my feet touch the floor and I don’t immediately pass out from the pain, I take it as a good sign that my barefoot night-hike up the mountain didn’t do any permanent damage. Another bright spot—the pain in my tender tootsies manages to distract me from the mosh pit raging inside my head.
I sort through the pile of unfolded laundry on the chair next to my bed and find a soft pair of sweats and my favorite vintage Rolling Stones concert tee that I found at a church consignment sale years ago.
It’s slowly but surely becoming threadbare.
Today is a day for elastic waistbands and gossamer cotton only.
On my way out the door, I spy the stranger’s jacket in a pile near the back door where I dropped it last night.
I pick it up and hang it on the wall hook in the entryway.
How am I going to get this back to the grumpy camper?
I need to be about ninety percent less hungover to deal with that element of last night.
If I’m feeling up to it later, maybe I’ll walk down to the ranger station and leave it in the lost and found.
By the time I park in front of Cheri’s Bakery I’m only five minutes late.
Usually on a Sunday the line for Cheri’s would be out the door, but the brunch crowd has yet to descend so I’m able to nab a parking spot right in front.
Jo is sitting on the bench outside the entrance with her arms and legs crossed, her face creased into a beautifully toothy smile.
Her long red hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing her usual day-on-the-ranch uniform of mud-splattered boots, Wranglers, and an old softball T-shirt from high school.
“You look hungover as shit,” she says, standing up to give me a hug. I sink into her embrace and groan in response.
We head into Cheri’s, and the moment the door opens, I’m hit square in the face with a bouquet of delicious, buttery smells.
Silvercreek is a small town in the middle of nowhere, so it doesn’t make sense how we managed to attract the world’s best baker, but we did, and I thank my lucky stars every day.
Cheri opened the bakery several years ago, and it’s become quite the draw for our tiny town after it ended up on a couple of well-known websites‘ “Must Visit” lists.
I probably have Cheri to thank for making my quarterly sales goals.
There are a couple of people ahead of us, so we take our place in line. I do my best to not actively drool. “She has those apricot tartlets again, Jo. I might wet myself.”
“Same. I should have worn a bib. So, tell me about yesterday,” Jo says, lightly squeezing my arm. “Linda at Mike’s Feed said their first dance was to “My Heart Will Go On.” Choreographed. Be grateful every day you did not end up marrying that man.”
“I dodged a bullet,” I say, but the words feel hollow, and my chest tightens.
We reach the front of the line and order our combined weight in pastries. Grabbing our coffees, we find a table in the back corner of the shop.
“Spill it, P.” Jo says around a mouthful of pastry.
Over the next twenty minutes, I don’t spare any details. As I lay out yesterday’s many disasters, Jo’s facial expressions vacillate between horror and hilarity. By the time I arrive at my nightmarish polar plunge, we have both dissolved into tears of laughter.
“My poor, sweet Paige,” Jo says, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know where to start. When I think about how your day stacks up to mine?” Another laugh wheezes out of her and she can barely get the words out. “I was shoveling horse shit…while you were…”
“While I was letting a tourist go down on me on the check-out counter.” I finish for her in a hushed whisper, brushing tears from my cheeks.
“I clearly made a wrong decision somewhere,” Jo rubs at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I can’t remember the last time Andy attempted to get frisky at work.”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “You want your husband to attempt oral while you shovel horse shit?”
“Maybe not mid-shovel, but I’d be open to him shoving me up against a hay bale every once in a while.” Jo says, reaching across the table to snatch a piece of the apricot tart. I bat her hand away.
“You’re just trying to make me feel better by throwing shade on your perfect marriage.”
“I’m serious! And secondly, while I don’t condone your idiotic midnight swim, it is kind of hot. You, naked and afraid. Then a benevolent—and I’m assuming handsome—jacket-Samaritan arrives to save you from yourself. Maybe I’ll use it as inspo the next time Andy and I role play.”
Another eruption of laughter threatens to overtake me. “Please stop. I’m going to pee my pants.”
“You should make an appointment at the clinic to make sure you didn’t get hypothermia on your bits.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. My bits are fine. I feel bad keeping the grumpy dude’s jacket though. It’s really nice…” The memory of wrapping myself in that impossibly warm, fleecy goodness was the only real highlight of yesterday’s chaos fest.
“Keep it. It’ll be a reminder that you should never do a solo river plunge again. You’re so lucky you weren’t sex trafficked or murdered.” Jo downs the rest of her coffee. “Also, Gareth is officially off my Christmas card list. Is there anything I can do to help you with the Webber event?”
A knot of anxiety takes the place of the laughter bubble in my stomach. No books and no Lyndon equals no Webber event. “Do we know anyone else that’s charming, gorgeous, and ripped?” I groan.
Jo considers the question for a moment. “The only males I know that fit the description are horses.”
I take a long sip of my coffee. I’m way too tired to figure all this out now. I’ll need at least ten more coffees to even attempt a coherent to-do list.
Jo clocks my growing distress. “Try not to stress yourself out too much. Think of all the work you’ve already done. The Katherine Webber is coming to your store. This is a huge deal. You made that happen. Nana would be so unbelievably proud of you, P.”
“Nana would be kicking me in the ass over ordering the wrong book.” I say, massaging my temples. I’m not sure if this new headache is still from the hangover or the impending doom.
“True. Nana did love a good ass kicking. Listen, there’s nothing you can do about the book order today. Try to enjoy your one day off at least.”
“Jo, your optimism is actually making me nauseous.”
Jo checks her watch. “Crap, I gotta run. I’m sorry to abandon you in your time of need, but I’ve got to pick up our feed order and then meet a new seasonal hire back at the ranch. Come by for dinner tonight? Kody would love to see Auntie Paige.” I nod and blow her a kiss as she rushes out the door.