Ready for Wild Page 2

  This road is surrounded by thick banks of spruce trees, which do great work of obscuring turnouts that snake down to basins littered with enormous aspen trees. Tobias is far enough away that next time his truck meets a curve in the road, I could make my move. I could drive down one, shut the truck off, and wait it out.

  I even have two books sitting on the passenger seat, a Thomas McGuane novel and a memoir of a smoke jumper based in the North Cascades, a range I knew well back when I was fighting wildfires as a hotshot crew member in Oregon. These alone would keep me busy for hours, but even if they don’t, I could grab the journal tucked away in the glove box and work on a letter to my parents.

  That’s right, a letter. And while I’m sure that sounds charming to some people, for us—a family with one eighteenth-century British lit professor (dad), one integrative biology professor (mom), and their happiest-outside-and-alone sole offspring (me)—letters are simply the way we communicate best. All the words, none of the talk.

  No matter how I while away my time, it would leave Tobias to coddle the blonde bombshell currently waiting at the end of the road. He has four grown daughters and an amazing wife, and he’s patient enough to put up with all of my crap, so he’s far better equipped for this situation than I am.

  Just as I spy one of those turnoffs I’ve been fantasizing about, the brake lights on Tobias’s truck come on and he slows to a stop. His driver’s window rolls down, and he flops his arm out the opening, gesturing up the road with a sharp jab of his index finger, indicating that he’s somehow cottoned onto my plan.

  So much for my disappearing act.

  We drive another mile or so, past a sign for the Grand Mesa National Forest, and pull into a small parking area. I yank a knit beanie on over my hair and tug on a pair of fingerless gloves, then take a deep breath before getting out of my truck. The cold midmorning air of early March means I can see my breath when I let out a resigned exhale.

  This trailhead offers a decent view of the Grand Mesa, a beautiful and distinctive ridge of lowlying buttes. Not to be confused with the town of Grand Mesa which is about thirty minutes away, nestled in what locals call the Grand Valley. You’d think the whole area was inhabited by egomaniacs, with all the grandness going on, but instead it’s mostly ranchers and farmers, with a few hippies and artists tossed into the mix, not unlike where I grew up in Oregon. The mountains might be bigger back home, but I could never claim they’re prettier. Big or small, covered in snow or sage, mountains remain the best sight I can imagine.

  Speaking of sights, the worst sight I can imagine is currently clouding my view of the mesa. At the other end of the parking lot sits a brand-new Dodge truck, jacked up with a lift kit, and decked out with brush guards and a roof-mounted LED light bar. I have no idea what color the truck is because it’s been wrapped from bumper-to-bumper in a camo-patterned vinyl decal, broken up only by the logo for the Afield Channel splashed across the truck’s doors. Hooked behind the truck is an enclosed trailer, also decaled to the hilt with the same terrible design. Behind that is another truck, same decals but no trailer—instead there’s a shiny fifth-wheel RV hooked to it.

  And behind that? A third truck. This one is black, absent of any Afield decals, but both of the crew-cab windows are plastered with stickers for various brands of hunting gear, archery equipment, and optics manufacturers. The back glass has a large Lone Star State decal on it, which means this is more than likely Amber Regan’s personal rig. She’s a Texas girl to the bone, something I couldn’t miss the first time I looked up her social media—and every other time since when I’ve found myself pointlessly scrolling through her posts.

  It should be noted that each time I do, I clear my search history afterward. In the unlikely event I go missing, when the local Keystone Kops comb my laptop trying to piece together my last days, it’s possible that cookies from certain not-for–prime time videos I’ve streamed will pop up like dirty little whack-a-moles—which I’m fine with. But a digital footprint that leads to images of Amber Regan sunbathing on a boat or sweating it out in her workout gear? Please don’t let some potbellied detective discover that. I’d probably stay missing just to avoid explaining why I’d wasted so much time in the last month Googling her, mostly because I can’t quite figure it out for myself.

  But no matter how diverting her posts and pics may be, all those trucks simply reinforce every notion I have about people like Amber. Instead of venturing into the woods with one iota of humility, they bully their way there with big trucks, too much gear, and a conquer-and-destroy mentality. Zero respect for the natural world and their teeny-tiny place in it.

  Tobias makes his way over to the camo carnival, greeting a tall, willowy woman who’s bundled up in a down coat with a fur-lined hood. Her dark, almost black hair has bright pink and purple hunks dyed into it, contrasting dramatically with her porcelain complexion. She and Tobias share a few words before he sends a glare my way that’s enough to get my feet moving.

  “Braden, this is Teagan King, Amber’s producer.” Tobias waves me forward. “I think you two have talked on the phone over the last few weeks.”

  Teagan offers a look that says she remembers all of our phone conversations and exactly how one-sided they were. She slips off a mitten to extend a hand, and I spy the tattoos on the back of her hand, a riot of color that runs nearly to the tips of her fingers. Add in the tease of ink I can see on her neckline and the dime-sized onyx earrings that have distended her ears unnaturally, and you have someone I can’t picture doing a lot of hunting.

  Like it or not, there is a type when it comes to hunting—and Teagan isn’t it. The demographics might be evolving away from exclusively white, male, and middle-aged, but it’s a slow tide. We’re still a long way from filling the forest with women who would look more at home in a dive bar nursing a pint of oatmeal stout while watching some singer-songwriter do his best impression of Johnny Cash.

  “Braden. So nice to put a face with a voice. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for your time and expertise.”

  I take her hand while casting a look around for someone more … blonde.

  Huh. Maybe Amber stayed home to shoot her bow in heels.

  “Nice to meet you.” I drop Teagan’s hand. “Are you ready to get going? The climb isn’t long, but it’s tough, so it’s smart to start up the hill sooner rather than later.”

  Teagan laughs. “You are to the point, aren’t you? I like that.” She drops her head to the right and calls out behind her, directing her voice to the other side of the trailer. “Amber?”

  “Yeah?”

  Out of nowhere, my entire body starts to hum. The sound of Amber’s voice, entirely feminine but with a faint whiskey-smoke edge, turns my usual buzz of impatience into something anticipatory and eager—like I’m one syllable away from barreling toward the sound. It all feels base and irrational, trumping how I can’t stand what Amber Regan represents. Brought on by her uttering one word. Great. My brain and my body are already at odds with each other, which I’m sure does not bode well for whatever comes next.

  “You decent?”

  A short laugh from Amber. “Pretty much.”

  The inference that she was naked or sort of naked, or somehow indecent, just a few feet away drives my thoughts straight into the gutter. I ball my hands into fists and drag my mind back where it belongs.

  Teagan tips her head to invite us around the trailer. When I fall in line behind her, Tobias locks his eyes on mine with an evil gleam, like he is convinced he’s about to watch the beginning of the world’s most fucked-up blind date.

  Between him and my buddy Garrett, I’m at no loss for people who think the situation I’ve found myself in is hilarious. Garrett is a redneck with no filter for his mouth, who always defaults to a joke when he can. He’s done nothing but yell, “Rolling!” and, “Cut!” when I walk into a room for the last three weeks, and that’s only when he’s not calling me George Clooney. Last week, I came out of the local grocery store in Hotchkiss
to find a torn-out article from some women’s magazine stuffed under the windshield wiper on my truck.

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  Fucking kid needs a hobby.

  When we round the corner, my first real-life glimpse of Amber Regan is almost more than I can take. It’s also not of her face.

  Instead, I’m greeted with her bent over at the waist, her perfectly rounded backside pointed our way, hopping around on one foot as she tugs on a wool sock. She’s dressed in formfitting base layer gear, black pants, and a long-sleeve top. Her blonde hair is spilling down around her face, and when she turns her downcast head so she can see us, she blows out a sharp exhale to urge a few stray pieces out of the way. Her blue eyes pick me out and don’t shift, even as she continues to hop, then loses her balance, careening directly toward me.

  My arms shoot out on instinct, but she rights herself before I have to touch her, which feels like the best possible turn of events. Because no matter what I imagined or what I ogled of her on the internet, I’m not prepared for the entirety of her. Her shape, those blue eyes, the tumble of shiny hair—or how she’s a little thing, nowhere near as tall as I thought. Whether it was the heels or the larger-than-life persona, I expected someone who might at least clear my shoulders. Instead, when she unfolds upright, I realize the top of her head would just barely meet my bicep.

  “Sorry about that. Great first impression, right? I’m Amber. And I swear my balance is generally better than that.”

  Her eyes are still on mine, sheepish as she acknowledges her near tumble, and I’m caught off guard enough to counter her embarrassment by offering up my own.

  “Braden Montgomery. Once I fell on my face trying to crawl out of a layout blind. No real reason why, just hit the ground.”

  My random confession surprises us both, and Amber lets out a chuckle, sticking her hand out when she does. I take it, and her tiny hand clasped in my boorishly big one means I reflexively loosen my grip. She responds by firming up her own, making it known that, petite packaging or not, she’s not interested in being seen as fragile. I give my full strength back and catch a slip of approval in her expression before she drops my hand. I step back to give her some room, watching as she walks toward the rear door on her truck while working valiantly to keep my eyes aboveboard.

  Because all that time I spent researching her also revealed something about Amber’s fans. Mostly that lots of them think about Amber Regan naked, and more than a few of them post fucked-up and inappropriate comments about it, too. Whether it’s on a hunting forum, the message boards on the Afield website, or her Instagram account, the contingent of asshole guys who think they can say anything on the internet is strong. It’s as if their one-dimensional experience of her—on television and laptop screens—means they can’t understand that she is real. Flesh and blood, three-dimensional, and, perhaps, not OK with some creeper declaring she’s bang-worthy. So no matter how much my body reacts to hers, the last thing I want is to be anything like those guys.

  Amber opens the truck door and pulls out a pair of camo brush pants and a matching pullover. She puts the top on, draws her long hair out from underneath the collar, and starts to braid it to hang over one shoulder.

  “So the Hagerman Draw looks like it’s the best way to access the high ridges,” she says. “We can glass a bit, plus get some nice footage for our cameraman, Colin, to work with while we’re at it.”

  Once she pulls on her brush pants, she dusts off the bottoms of her feet before slipping them into a pair of boots. Then she cuts her gaze to me, rolls her shoulders back as if she’s intent on adding a few inches to her height, and her expression changes, becoming all business.

  “Hopefully, you’ll be able to show us what we need to see. I’m not here for a nature hike. And I hate having my time wasted.”

  Behind me, I swear I can hear Tobias snicker under his breath. She’s not here for a nature walk? She expects me to show her what she needs to see? And she’s implying I might not be up to the task? Try again, Amber. This is my unit, and I’ve spent more time here than she’s spent getting her hair done. I grind my jaw together, using the time to temper my words.

  “Good. I’m only here because I drew the short straw.”

  Her lips twist into a smug sneer. “Sounds like you have shit for luck, then, Braden Montgomery.”

  “Luck is for suckers,” I volley back. “Hard work gets you what you want, even when bad odds get in the way. You just have to work for it.”

  We fix each other with narrowed eyes, and around us there’s nothing but slow breathing from Teagan and Tobias, prime viewers of our little showdown at the O.K. Corral. Tobias breaks in before either one of us draws a sidearm.

  “OK. I think everyone here is good to go, so I’ll head out.” He and Teagan exchange goodbyes, then Tobias calls my name.

  I drag my eyes from Amber, cutting over to Tobias, who mouths a caution before making for his truck. “Play nice.”

  Fuck that. He’s the one who threw me to the wolves in the first place. Might be a pint-sized wolf—one that my dick is all too interested in—but she’s a killer nonetheless. She doesn’t want her time wasted? I can help her with that. I return my focus to Amber, who is currently yanking a wool hat on over her hair a little forcefully.

  “Since you’re so worried about your time being wasted, using the Hagerman Draw to access the high ridge points is the wrong choice. The Sawtooth Trail will get you there in half the time.”

  “It also bypasses at least three watering holes we saw on Google Earth.” She grabs a tablet off of the backseat of the truck and starts to poke at the face with the tip of her index finger. “Sawtooth gives us nothing in the way of spotting game on the way in, so we’ll be stuck with whatever we find at the top.”

  While I’m impressed that she’s done some research on the area, I’m not impressed that she thinks looking at some crap on a tablet replaces boots on the ground. When you spend time putting miles on your boots, you see what no satellite can. Scouting trips in advance of a hunt are invaluable because, excepting outside disruptions—human-or weather-related—big game animals like routines. The same watering holes, the same game trails, day after day after day. Effective scouting is about discerning those routines without creating a disturbance. And I’m damn good at both. I level my gaze on the smart-ass disturbance in front of me.

  “Those watering holes are nearly dry these days. I was in here a month ago, and I didn’t cut a single track down there. But I didn’t use Google Earth. I just used my eyeballs.”

  She shoots me a death glare. I launch the damn thing right back at her. Another round of her poking at the tablet while muttering under her breath. Teagan steps to the space between us, taking a referee-type stance.

  Amber’s eyes scan the tablet while she calls out behind her, “Hey, Colin?”

  A male voice replies from somewhere on the other side of the trucks, “One sec.”

  Amber keeps talking, ignoring his answer because she’s apparently too fucking impatient to even give him the “one sec” he asked for.

  “Can you come check out this map with me again? We might”—she shoots another death glare my way—“need to switch up our original plan.”

  A twentysomething kid saunters out from between the first two trucks, humping a full backpack onto his tall and lean frame, while holding a video camera in his right hand. He pauses to settle the pack on his shoulders and cinches down the pack’s waist belt. And while Teagan might not fit the type when it comes to the typical hunter, this kid does. He might not be middle-aged, but he’s white and male, and that backpack he’s carrying happens to be a custom brand preferred by hunters who value performance over everything else. It’s built to be lightweight and strong, using military-grade materials.

  Colin stops near Amber and tips his chin to me as a greeting, then squints down at the tablet. He pushes back the bill of his ball cap to scratch the top of his head, revealing a buzz cut o
n his blond hair, and then puts the hat back in place.

  “I heard some of what you two were saying, but not the details. What’s the problem with Hagerman Draw?”

  Amber and I start to talk over each other, then both clamp our jaws tight. Colin raises his brows, sending a what the hell look Teagan’s way. I wait to see if Amber’s going to grant me the distinct pleasure of being able to speak without her interrupting. She flicks a wrist my way.

  Fucking pint-sized pain in the ass.

  I turn to face Colin. “Hagerman will take at least three hours. The satellite images you saw those watering holes on must be out of date; drought conditions have dried up everything along that route. If we take Sawtooth, we can cut our hike time in half.”

  Colin nods then opens his palms for Amber to give up her tablet. She proceeds to cross her arms over her chest and kick her hip out, just like she did in that poster picture, except this time there’s certainly no smile on her face. Just her pink lips pressed into an angry pout.

  “Looks steep,” Colin offers absently, still studying.

  “It is. I didn’t say it was an easy climb, but it is efficient and direct. And the ridge leads to a prime spot to see the valley below. The game trails are heavy down in there.”

  Colin’s eyes move over to Teagan, assessing her. “How are your joints feeling today?”

  Teagan doesn’t return his gaze, just bends her knees a little and bounces lightly on the balls of her feet. “I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  She bounces again, seemingly to prove her point. “I’m fine, Colin. Stop babying me.”

  “I’m not babying you, I just give a shit if you …” He stops short when she snorts, grumbling a quiet curse under his breath. He hands the tablet back to Amber.