Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
I thought hiking the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim would be this magical, solitary experience, with eagles squawking and the whistling of the hot, but not overly oppressive air as my soundtrack.
I envisioned spending hours alone, with nothing but my pretty backpack and the odd longhorn goat for company.
I imagined I’d have unlimited space to think, and that the silence and lack of human contact might drive me mad, but I’d still end my hike with a sense of triumph and a sprinkle of an existential epiphany.
This…is not that.
It feels like I’ve wandered into a flight school with helicopters passing every ten minutes.
And then there’s all the foot traffic and the pervading smell of sunscreen, in addition to the many structures invading the once natural surroundings.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the man-made structures because they lessen the risk of having to pee anywhere besides a toilet, so long as I plan my stops correctly.
It’s just not what I expected. And I haven’t even spotted one goat.
Jack was quiet but attentive on the rest of our hike to Phantom Ranch, my campsite for the night. He walked ahead, peering over his shoulder every so often to check on me with one or two grunted words.
The things those grunts do to me, though.
Once we arrived, he left me beside a wooden signpost with a burnt-in 7.4-mile marker while he scoped out the best camping spot. I told him I was perfectly capable of doing that myself, but he replied that the one who hadn’t had his head rammed into the side of the mountain should go.
It was sweet.
I had to put up a tiny fight, though, for the diehard independent girlies.
And I know that at some point, I’ll need to regain control of this endeavor so that I can walk out of this canyon with a scrap of my dignity and the ability to be honest when I tell my parents I did it.
But I reckon an hour or two of handing over the reins won’t water down that achievement all that much.
Plus, I’m busy walking the fine line between poking the bear and being agreeable. I wouldn’t want to annoy Jack into greater suspicion, especially when I’m still carrying around that mystery item.
It’s a pity there’s no cell service down here, because the internet would be very helpful in figuring out what kind of arrowhead Marigold has hidden in her bottom.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Sue appears in front of me, hands on her hips, looking like she’s just found a wounded bird.
“Frank, come help Willow out here,” she calls over her shoulder before turning back to me.
“Frank’ll carry your backpack to your campsite.
” She smiles, and a flustered Frank puffs over to her side.
“Oh, that’s okay, really. I’m…uh, still deciding what site I’m gonna pick. That’s very kind of you, though.”
Frank nods in relief, a hand falling to his wife’s elbow to steer her away.
“Well, holler if you need anything! We’re in campsite three. Frank’ll be happy to help, won’t you, Frank?” She pats his chest affectionately as he mumbles an affirmation.
They bustle away, Sue chattering the entire time, Frank nodding so he can get her to move faster.
My cheeks lift as I watch them, their sand-toned shirts blending into the overexposed filter on the orange rockface. It makes everything appear an unimpressive brown, with hints of dirty plum in the shadows. Various cacti infuse washed greens into the earthy landscape.
Jack returns, without his backpack, and pulls me up to my feet before motioning for me to pivot so he can carry Marigold. It’s heavenly having the weight off my shoulders.
“You should hire your services out,” I tell him with a wistful sigh. “You smell better than a pack mule, too.”
A grunt is his only response as he continues walking. I guess I’m following.
Thirty-three campsites dotted in two rows lay beside the Colorado River’s calmer relative, the Bright Angel Creek. Each site has enough space for two to five tents and includes a picnic table and a food locker box, which I will be using because the bears and ravens need to know I’m not a feeder.
Wild, overgrown trees and parched bushes create natural boundaries between each space. We’re all playing house out in the wilderness, with tiny one-brick-high walls as property dividers.
Jack stops at campsite number twelve and hangs my bag on a metal pole beside his before scooting stray rocks away with his foot. He likes things neat.
“Um…not that I’m complaining…but why are we sharing a campsite? Didn’t you reserve one?”
“I can camp anywhere I need to, so, no. I’m only here for your safety.” He declares, avoiding eye contact while sorting food and unrolling a tent. The way his biceps work threatens to put me in a coma right here.
“See, but that’s not really valid.” I shake my head, trying to steer my thoughts away from his muscles. “Because I don’t need protection.”
I flop onto the bench of the picnic table, wishing my tent would assemble itself. It’s only two in the afternoon, and I’m aching to crawl onto my sleeping mat and pretend I’m on an island, napping in a hammock, awaiting the cabana boy on his way with a cold drink and a sexy smile.
“How’s your head?” Jack asks gruffly, bringing me back to the margarita-deficient desert.
“You sure make a habit of ignoring my questions.” I scowl, standing up to unclip my tent from the bottom of Marigold, and he surprises me by turning to face me.
“That wasn’t a question, and I’m not arguing with you over this. Just ‘cause you don’t think you need protection doesn’t change the fact that you do. That ambush in the tunnel was no accident. Now, for whatever reason, you’re on someone’s radar.”
He’s so close—the heavy rise of his chest is within inches of my body. His eyebrows draw together, pinning me in place, and his next words come out gravelly and pained. “I’m not ignoring my gut, Willow.”
A look of regret flashes over his eyes, the words not again silently clinging to the end of his statement.
He may as well have revealed a giant dagger sticking out of his chest, because everything in me is screaming you can heal him!
“Okay.” I nod, unable to fight this man. There’s a reason he’s wrapped in such spiky barbs, why his default is set to snarl.
And I’m making it my mission to figure out why, so I can start unwrapping that armor. I might get hurt in the process, but I can’t ignore the pull to see him living his fullest life, and what are a few nicks here and there if it means I can help him? After all, he’s already managed to help me.
It’s the same reason I’m gripped by the power of color and style.
I can tell when someone is hiding in the wrong colors, too much makeup, or ill-fitting clothes, casting themselves in a role that doesn’t belong to them.
Every authentic outfit is a chance to step forward as the leading character in one’s own story in lieu of fading forgettably into the background.
I can already tell that Jack’s been wearing emotional armor for too long, and I need to help him swap it for something that actually lets the light in.
He can follow his gut and play the bodyguard, but I’ll be following my own convictions.
Who knows—maybe focusing on someone else’s wounds will help heal my own.
I just need to make sure his drive to solve that mystery and his compulsion to keep me safe don’t hijack this trip from me.
At least he seems to have abandoned the ridiculous notion that I’m involved in something illegal.
Jack finishes setting up his tent inhumanely fast and perches on a log, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded, watching me from under his brow. He lazily taps his hat on his thigh, a hint of a smirk dances on his lips while I wrestle my tent into submission.
“Need any help?”
“I need to do this by myself,” I growl.
That lady from the blog said to practice, but I laughed at her.
I have regrets.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sticky and ready to punch someone, but my tent is up.
The no-showering part of this whole thing wasn’t an issue when I thought I’d be doing this alone.
But now a stupidly hot man has made himself my bodyguard, and I’m thinking of a fundraiser to get showers installed within one of those rest areas.
“I’ll see what I can get us from the canteen for an early dinner. Stay here,” Jack commands.
“So bossy.” I narrow my eyes. “You were military, weren’t you?”
“Law enforcement,” he mutters and struts away.
I consider calling out an objection to being ordered to stay, like a dog, but I could actually use the reprieve to apply some deodorant. It’s also nice watching him walk away.
Unhooking Marigold from the anti-critter pole is a fun experience in which I ironically sound and look like an animal under attack.
If I survive the next few days, I’m buying dumbbells.
A suffocating, warm air hangs in the tent when I pull Marigold inside. The noise of the zipper is like a protest against shutting out the only hint of a breeze. Sweating has officially commenced. If Jack has even a smidgeon of attraction to me now or after this, there’s no way he’s getting away.
A man who can look past the disaster that is my hair and the lack of feminine fragrance should not be taken for granted.
Doesn’t hurt that he’s sexy as hell, too.
I’ve dated attractive guys, but something about Jack has awakened a part of me I assumed was broken.
I actually want to pursue a man for once.
Hayley would be thrilled.
I ignore the urge to unpack. It’s pointless to take out more than I need since we’ll only be here one night.
But I end up diving to the bottom of my bag, anyway, because those body wipes I packed are now my favorite item in the world.
I use them to freshen up before reapplying deodorant, and a groan escapes as I pull off my shoes and lie back on my sorry excuse for a sleep mat.
It’ll be a miracle if I get any rest tonight. Although, with how tired my body feels, it might not be an issue. The silence, the heat, and the lack of air are like a lullaby, coaxing my eyes closed.
Just for a few minutes.