Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Prescott
Before I leave the small guest room that’s nothing but an old futon with a record player doubling as my nightstand, I dig my camera case out and hook it over a shoulder. Might as well blow the dust off and practice during my fishing trip today.
Senior pictures. For a guy who’s twenty years or so past his senior year. Still, I smile. Haven’s been a go-with-the-flow type since I met him, but a photo shoot?
My excitement’s building, and I thought the days of being revved up for a session were over.
I find Papa at the square kitchen table, sipping what’s gotta be his fifth cup of coffee. The smell has seeped into every fiber of the house, and it’s become my new perfume. There are worse smells, but I’ll be glad to get my own place. Someday.
“Need anything before I go, Papa?”
He scrutinizes my camera. “You working again? ”
He sounds so hopeful, I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m doing a shoot for free. “I’ve got to keep my skills sharp.”
Making a show of looking at his watch, he sucks his teeth against his lips. “You going to that Hennessy boy’s place?”
The Hennessy boy whose strong thighs grip his horse just right? The Hennessy boy whose biceps flex when he’s holding the reins? Or the Hennessy boy who has a nice, deep laugh and a smoldering gaze under the brim of his hat?
“I’m going to get some images of the cats. I’m thinking of starting a new account.” The first part’s not a lie.
Papa takes a slurping sip. “That social media stuff is just gambling.”
But it made me happy. “Isn’t that sort of what you did with rodeo?”
Instead of getting disgruntled, he shrugs. “The social media stuff has guarantees. How about that?”
“Agreed.”
“That all you’re doing there?” His eyes glint over his mug, taking in my long-sleeved, moisture-wicking top and leggings. “Taking pictures?”
I tug at my hem. I might’ve looked up what to wear fly-fishing and dressed as best I could with what I have. “I’m socializing the cats.”
He sniffs and pooches his lips out, giving his mustache a little lift. “Just the cats?”
I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to answer to him even if I’m staying in his place. Yet blowing him off will only make him suspect something is going on, and nothing is.
I’m not laughing on horseback when Haven’s riding next to me. Nor am I admiring how sexy he is when he’s training a puppy. Definitely not making plans to do more things with him that don’t include the rescues he’s caring for.
“Haven’s been nothing but friendly, and only friendly.”
Papa grunts and takes another drink, interrupting the flow of steam. “Haven’s friendly, all right.”
“Don’t worry, Papa. I’ve developed a severe allergy to charming men who can’t commit.
” I should thank Haven. I don’t have to worry about getting seduced into staying in this small town, only to cry myself asleep when Haven spends his nights everywhere else.
“I’ll be back to help you out at the bar tonight. ”
His muttered, “You better be,” has nothing to do with me covering a shift. He’s used to working alone. I’m going to go ahead and take my time today.
Haven told me to meet him in the distillery parking lot. Before I get into my car, I spray myself off with sunscreen. I’m not turning into a beet in front of him. Then I slip on my sunglasses and hit the road.
Each time I’m out this way, the beauty of the Beartooth Mountains captivates me. Papa only brought me here once when I was a kid, but he talked about returning home all the time. It was one of his many campfire stories. After he had his last ride, he’d go home.
My chest tightens for that little girl. I can’t believe I told Haven the story of my parents. He’s one of Bootleg’s customers, but he didn’t get hung up on how cool my dad’s life must’ve been, or what a whiner I am. What I experienced is nothing compared to him. But he listened.
A girl could get used to that.
Soon, I pull into the parking lot. Haven’s pacing behind his pickup. His head is bent, and he’s on the phone, brows pinched together. He stops, looks at his phone, and angrily stuffs it into his back pocket.
I park a spot away from him, and his scowl automatically turns into a welcoming grin. Butterflies explode in my stomach. Other than my mom, no one’s ever been that excited to see me. If my ex looked at me like that, I might’ve believed his lies.
When I get out, a warm grain smell surrounds me. He’s waiting behind his pickup, his stance easy, relaxed, the phone call forgotten.
Is my presence enough to wipe away whatever angst the call gave him? Wishful thinking? “Hey.”
“Ready to cast a line?”
The wings of the butterflies in my stomach droop a little. Did I expect him to unload all his problems on me? I barely know him. I’m drawn to him. I can’t deny that. It’s like the more a guy doesn’t want to settle down, the more attracted I get.
Whoever he was talking to and whatever they were talking about is none of my business. I’m just spoiled. He’s opened up so much, and now I’m feeling shut out.
None of this day is about us. It’s about fly-fishing.
“I’ll need help with my casting stroke.” Now I’m flirting. I shouldn’t do this. But I get my hat out of the passenger seat, hook my camera bag over my shoulder, and lock my car.
His gaze drops to my feet and lazily climbs all the way up, leaving streaks of heat where it touches. “You came outfitted for the occasion.”
“All I had were hiking sandals.”
“We’ll make it work. You gonna do my senior shoot?”
“You said you needed a haircut first.” The edges of the hair he pushes off his face stick out from the bottom of his hat. Is he going to trim so much that a girl can’t run her fingers through the strands?
What about those whiskers? It’d be a shame to shave those clean off. I want to catch the real Haven Hennessy.
My curiosity continues pushing out at the seams. It’s the most animated I’ve seen him since I arrived. Which isn’t long, but still. “Did I interrupt your call?”
He flinches. “No. It was winding up.”
That’s all I get. The day grows a little dimmer. “Oh. Guess we’re ready, then.”
“Got anything else to bring? It’s not a long hike.”
“No. I can help carry whatever you have.”
I get another smile, but there’s a heaviness in his eyes that isn’t usually there. From the bed of his truck, he digs out a couple of poles, a boxy backpack that he slings across his shoulders, a small cooler, and another backpack.
“Is that bait?” I point to the cooler. Does fly-fishing need bait? I didn’t read as much as I should’ve about it.
“Close. Snacks.” He lifts the second backpack. “This is a cooler for anything we catch. I just fillet them on the riverbank instead of setting up a stringer. The bears don’t usually bother us here.”
“Bears?”
“Never seen a mountain lion either.” He smirks. “Bet they’ve seen me, though.”
“That’s not funny!” I laugh anyway. If he’s not worried, I’ll try not to be jumpy. “I’ll carry the cooler.” I hold my hand out. “I should’ve thought about packing food. I could’ve contributed.”
“Nope. I’ve got my fishing snacks. No problem adding more.”
“Let me guess—beef sticks and cheese? ”
He laughs and starts for a break in the trees around the parking lot. “Oh, the city girl thinks she has me pegged.”
“Compared to Huckleberry Springs, everywhere I’ve lived is a metropolis. Although I lived in Phoenix for a while.”
“Are you from Arizona?” He moves to the edge of the trail to give me room to walk next to him.
“I spent most of my time in Colorado. It’s where Mom met Papa.
She moved where he did, and when they broke up, we went to Phoenix, but it was too expensive.
Back to Colorado we went.” I trace the map in my head.
“After I graduated, I went back to Arizona for college, got a job in Tucson, and I traveled around and did school photos. That’s how I picked up some clients for senior pictures.
” The gentle trickle of the river grows louder.
“And some wedding and family portraits.”
“You don’t sound excited about those.”
“They were a lot of work,” I lie. “Juggling so many people. Photographing kids and cats is easier.”
He chuckles, but his gaze lingers on me longer, like he knows I’m not telling the total truth. Weddings used to be some of my favorite shoots. Until they weren’t.
I wanted him to open up to me, and here I am shutting him down. But exploring why I don’t like working weddings or family sessions would sound unhinged. Or so I’ve been told.
Time for a subject change. “Fun fact, I’m named after Prescott, Arizona.”
“Don’t tell me that’s where you were conceived.”
“Please don’t make me think about that.” I shudder. “I could’ve been, but the bull ride of Papa’s life is more significant to him.”
“Oh, damn. ”
Yep. “How about you? What are you named after?” Hopefully, his name won’t hold as much baggage as mine.
“We’re all last names. Iverson is my mom’s maiden name. Her mom’s maiden name was Durban, and my great-grandma’s was Haven.”
“That’s sweet. You all have some family history.”
His jaw goes rock hard, and the glint in his eyes is bright enough for me to see from the side. Ah. So there is baggage. “She wanted to have all the names for herself. Not my dad’s name. Not his middle name. Not his parents’ or grandparents’ names.”
“So that’s how she played it?”
“That’s how she’s still playing it.” He contemplates the trail in front of us. “It was her on the phone.”
I gently squeeze his forearm. “I didn’t want to pry, but it didn’t seem like it was going well.”
“It wasn’t.”
We continue walking. I won’t ask more. The slightly fishy odor of mud and the faint scent of wildflowers and grasses calm the air between us.
“She wants to know about the guys and their families, but they don’t want me to tell her.”
“They don’t talk to her?”