Ready for Wild Page 3

“It’s already ten. If we take Hagerman, we’ll be lucky to hit the ridge by one. Weather’s supposed to come in this afternoon, which means we need to be back to the trucks well before dark, and that doesn’t leave us much time. I think the straight shot is a better plan. He’s right.”

  Amber groans. Actually full-on groans. Colin ignores it and starts toward Teagan, taking the water bottle she has in one hand and strapping it to his already-full pack. She sort of waves her hands around helplessly until he bats them down gently.

  “You two can set your own pace. Teagan and I will bring up the rear. If we drop off and disappear, don’t worry about it, just keep going. We’ll catch up.”

  Amber drags her own pack out from the backseat of the truck, muttering, “If I worried every time you two disappear on me, I’d have an ulcer.”

  Ten minutes later, I have my own pack on and we’re all assembled at the trailhead. Teagan has nothing but a pair of walking sticks, while Colin looks like a weighted packhorse. Either being a cameraman requires way more gear than I assumed or he’s one of those guys who spends the off-season walking around with a fully loaded pack, just to be sure he’s conditioned when it comes to hunt big game in the fall.

  I point from the trailhead toward the narrow path that ascends.

  “The grade is pretty unforgiving, so it’s a hump. But the trail is clean; there isn’t much to trip you up.” I direct my eyes to Amber. “Just holler if you need me to stop or slow down. No shame in needing to catch your breath.”

  She grinds her jaw together hard enough I can see her cheeks flex under the strain.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Her brows tick up and a wry light flashes in her eyes. “I love a challenge.”

  (Amber Regan)

  “So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you.”

  —JACK LONDON, THE CALL OF THE WILD

  Braden Montgomery is a beast.

  A huge, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed beast who can eat up a trail with a ten percent grade in the same way normal people take a midday stroll in a city park. While we’ve been in Colorado long enough that my body has acclimated to the altitude and my VO2 max is nothing to scoff at, Braden evidently operates on another level.

  Honestly, I don’t think I’ve heard the man take a single unsteady breath this entire time, let alone huff or wheeze as if he was feeling anything but easy-peasy about scaling this trail. But my endorsement deals with performance gear companies, muscle recovery supplements, and protein powders did not come by way of the sort of luck Braden claims not to believe in. Those companies came calling because I’m in damn good shape.

  Braden though, is built like a power lifter while performing like a triathlete—showing off an enviable combo of brawny strength and nimble agility with every step he takes. Even when he should stomp about from his sheer size alone, he doesn’t. And, after much visual examination, I’ve determined his glutes do most of the work to drag that beast of a body around.

  In my defense, I had no choice but to notice. You try spending an hour and a half hiking behind that behind while it flexes away, right in front of you. Good luck trying to keep from noticing—or appreciating—it.

  Unfortunately, he’s also a complete pain in my ass.

  The moment we crest the top of the ridge, he pauses for all of ten seconds, enough time to glance back and verify I’m still alive. And seeing that I am, I’m not sure he views it as a success. He starts to loosen the waist belt on his pack, motioning toward the east.

  “I’m going to set up over on that rock outcropping. You do what you want. Try not to fall off the mesa or anything.”

  Fall? Off of what? This top is huge. Compared to the damn ice-covered scree fields I picked my way over while hunting stone sheep in British Columbia and the razor-edged ridgeline I tiptoed over while chasing ibex in Kyrgyzstan, this mesa is the equivalent of an empty football field.

  I go to work on my own pack, pulling it off and setting it on the ground to retrieve my water bottle, taking a slug before replying.

  “Like I said before we started up this trail, don’t you worry your pretty head about me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

  He strides off. “I’ve seen you try to put on your socks.”

  Re-capping the water bottle, I slam it to the dirt and resist the urge to lob it at his head. But he and those glutes of his are already a good twenty yards away, deftly scaling the rocks to sit atop the tallest boulder.

  In the last ten days I have been introduced to no fewer than twenty different Colorado Parks and Wildlife staff members. Twenty. And Braden is the only one who didn’t act like I was interesting, important, or exciting—or some combination of the three.

  While being fawned over can sometimes be overwhelming, for the most part, it’s pretty damn gratifying. The fact that anyone recognizes me at all is a triumph over the tomboy I once was, trying to find my way in a tiny Texas dust town. That little girl couldn’t have dreamed of this life, the one where I have my own television show and enough social media followers that companies pay me to endorse their products. Not to mention they keep me in all the right swag. I haven’t purchased a single piece of hunting equipment, outdoor clothing, optics, or a freaking energy bar, in years. Back in the day, I was turning in aluminum cans at the recycler for six months just to earn enough to buy my first fishing pole. These days I take a selfie with an aluminum beer can and a couple thousand people will comment on it.

  So running into the brick wall that is Braden Montgomery is unexpected—and it’s also throwing me off my game.

  First, I almost fell into him, or very nearly onto him. But I was bent over, perched on one foot, hair in my face, and trying to extend the courtesy of looking him in the eye, and when I did, the sight was more than I’d planned on. I expected another game warden like those I’d already met: middle-aged, a little doughy, and not my type. Instead, I looked up to find six foot five and two hundred plus pounds of brawn. Along with a pair of terribly pretty green eyes, messy dark brown hair, and a scruffy beard with just a tinge of salt fleck to it. He was glowering and somehow eating me up with those eyes, and nothing about his intense gaze was off-putting. Braden was looking without leering, and I liked it so much I lost my balance.

  But I didn’t want him to know how much he was throwing me, so I bucked up and went into control mode. Braden responded with the same, along with an extra large side serving of surly.

  After unzipping my pack, I drag out my binoculars and scan the area to see where I’ll have the best view of the basin below. Time scouting in the field is what will make or break this hunt for me, because I won’t have the benefit of an outfitter like I usually do. It’s been a while since I’ve done my own scouting, because unfortunately, having a popular hunting show sometimes means you become a glorified shooter, not a hunter.

  By this last season, my fourth one on the air, every episode we filmed was a luxury hunt on a high-fence ranch, where we spent more time doing my makeup than we did outdoors. While it looked good on camera, it was also boring. For me and the viewers, it seems, because it showed in our ratings—enough that next season is in limbo.

  And that is why I’m here. To get back to the roots of how I was raised to hunt: no outfitter and no luxury digs, just me and my bow on the lookout for a nice bull elk in Colorado. My livelihood depends on making it happen, because I don’t have a fallback anything. I’ve got no college degree, no skills beyond what I’m already doing, and my body can’t be a meal ticket forever. Before I was Amber Regan of Record Racks, I was Amber Regan of the local Dollar General. Not exactly a life I want to go back to.

  So if Braden Montgomery wants to make my life difficult, fine. But I’m not just going to scuttle off somewhere. Despite being a glowering pain in the ass, Braden clearly knows what he’s doing, which means if he’s over there you can be damn sure that’s the best place to be.

  I grab my water bottle in one hand and pull on the harness for my binoculars. When I s
tart toward the rock outcropping, Braden’s head casts in my direction, and I swear I can hear him sigh all the way over here. God, he shouldn’t strain himself like that. All those overwrought noises can’t be good for a person.

  Up close, the boulders are taller than I expected. Watching Braden mount them with so little effort was deceptive, likely because his height and leg length give him the advantage. The rocks are also relatively smooth, and there are few places where my short legs might find their first foothold. I circle around to see if there’s a better access point on the other side but find nothing other than a rock face that goes straight up.

  Braden appears above me, face as stony as the rocks. “Come back around. I’ll give you a hand.”

  I set my hands on my hips and take another look at the rocks, mentally willing an obvious handhold to reveal itself so I can do this on my own.

  “I don’t need your help. It’s just that not all of us are built like the Jolly Green Giant.”

  “Well, Jolly Green Giants aren’t exactly built to outrun mountain sprites. But that didn’t stop you from basically running me over trying to get up this trail. You didn’t hear me complaining about you breathing down my neck the whole way, did you? So let my overgrown ass give you a hand up here.”

  I train my eyes up to where he’s standing in the glare of the noonday sun, casting a shadow with the breadth of his body. In the distance, voices and laughter carry our way, growing louder. Braden turns and points his binoculars toward the trail.

  “Teagan and Colin. About fifteen minutes away.” His head tips forward a few inches, as if he’s squinting their way. “Maybe more, because unless my ’nocs are screwed up, I think Colin is carrying her. Jesus. That kid’s an animal, isn’t he?”

  I roll my eyes. Colin is an animal, freakishly strong for a guy his size and build, with the endurance of a Wyoming antelope—so there’s no question that with one peep of discomfort from Teagan, the Prince Charming of Pig Farmers probably gathered her up before she could protest. It might also explain how they ended up twenty minutes behind us. Either that or they kept pace just fine but found themselves off trail with certain parts of their clothing strategically unbuttoned. It wouldn’t be the first time their weird-ass mating rituals delayed their arrival somewhere. What’s wild is that the second we cross the state line into Texas, they’ll act like strangers. But when we’re on the road? They can’t keep away from each other. I love them both like family, but why two people who are that into each other work so hard to keep from being together is beyond me.

  After making my way around the rock cropping, I stick my arm straight up and wait for Braden to extend his. Almost before I can get my footing, he’s pulling me toward him. I let out a surprised yelp and scramble to find my balance, nearly toppling into him—again. His hands are suddenly at my waist, spanning the width with his grip, his body pressed to mine, and my face buried in his chest. Without thinking, I draw in a long, steadying breath, and … well, shit.

  This in an unfortunate discovery.

  He smells good. Really good. Like the strangest combination of nutmeg and sweat. And, because the world isn’t already unfair enough, he feels better than good.

  “Got it?” Braden’s voice is a cautious rumble, spoken near the crown of my head.

  I pull my hands back from his chest, hovering over the wall of muscle I just groped, my eyes fixed on the space between my fingers.

  “Yes. I’ve got it. All of it.”

  His fingers grip my waist a touch harder. “You sure?”

  I have no idea if he’s goading me or groping me now, but either one is a bad idea. The first would piss me off, and the second might turn me on, so I need to clear some space between us. I wriggle my hips a bit as a prompt.

  Bad choice. Bad, bad choice. Because his fingers dig in. He grunts. And my heart starts to thump—in the best way.

  Finally, he loosens each of his fingers and steps back, quickly dropping into a crouch on the rock. I steel my nerves, watching as he shimmies out of his coat and tosses it next to him, then points at it.

  “You can use that to cushion your mountain-sprite ass.”

  I flop down on it without protest, because I’m already tired of the bickering. Plus, I know how much your butt hurts after a few hours sitting on a rock. Braden brings up his binos and aims them off to the east.

  “There are a couple of cows in this draw to the east. See the cluster of dead pines? Go straight down from there. They’re bedded in that opening.”

  Immediately, I draw my binos up, working to find the dead pines he mentioned. “How many?” I ask.

  “Four. Maybe five. There’s something off to the left, but I can’t tell what.”

  I find the cow elk, four ladies sunning themselves leisurely and noshing on grasses occasionally. After working my focus to the left, the dark brown clump he can’t identify comes clearly into view for me. Another cow.

  “Five. And this last one, she’s big.”

  “How can you see that? All I get is a blob.”

  He leans back and stares at me. I tug my arms free from the harness strap that holds my binoculars and hand it all his way.

  “Swarovskis. From their EL line, new this year. The built-in range finder is top-notch, and you can’t beat the angle adjustment features. Might burn your freaking retinas out if you use them too much, but you can see everything.”

  Braden brings them up to his face, adjusts the fit, and then I see his jaw drop.

  “Holy shit.”

  I tamp down a snort. Welcome to the world of free swag, Braden.

  After a few minutes, he reluctantly hands them back and watches as I slip the harness back on, both arms and my chest pushed out like I’m pulling on a vest. With most guys, I’d consider the longing look on his face might be a reflection on the way my boobs are currently thrust forward, but with Braden, I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s all about the optics. Once everything is in place, I cast a look his way and he immediately flicks his eyes up to meet mine.

  “I hate hunting shows,” he blurts out.

  “No,” I scoff, drawing the word out. “Really? Because you’ve been so warm and welcoming, I just can’t imagine how that’s possible.”

  Braden gives up an exasperated sigh and turns away to scan the hillside below.

  “But here’s the question: Is it just my show? Is it seeing me and my ovaries out there that pisses you off?”

  Braden shakes his head. “I hate all of them. Your gender-specific organs have nothing to do with it. Although I really hate all those hot pink camo outfits with high heels that someone is sticking you in.”

  “No one sticks me in anything. I decide if I’m wearing heels, or hot pink, or whatever the hell I want.”

  He continues to peer out to the distance. I tilt my head, studying the side of his face.

  “So why do you hate them? Not the outfits—I don’t care what you think about that—but the hunting shows. You’re a game warden, so you probably aren’t morally opposed to hunting. I’m guessing you hunt yourself. Archery, right? Probably traditional. You give off that self-righteous vibe.”

  He ignores my jab about the superiority complex some archery hunters have and lazily gestures with one hand at the wide expanse ahead of us.

  “I hate hunting shows because of that.” His chin juts out to emphasize his point. “Going out there, with the express purpose of taking an animal’s life. That shit is sacred. It’s not entertainment, so you shouldn’t film it, package it, and broadcast it, then sell ads to go along with it. You should respect it.”

  A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and Braden jerks his head my way, eyes narrowed into slits that would pin me to the ground if possible.

  “That’s funny? Fucking unbelievable. I take it back. I hate all hunting shows, but yours is at the top of my list.”

  I let my laugh taper. “You sound exactly like my uncle Cal. Practically word for word. Only he usually ended his speech with some quote from Aldo Leopold.�
��

  A grunt from beside me. “Your uncle Cal and I would get along.”

  My uncle Cal has been gone for three years now. Aggressive lung cancer took him swiftly, but his odd hillbilly-meets-conservationist teachings are still with me. He was one of the few people in this world—although I wouldn’t be surprised if Braden might be counted among them—who believed a little moonshine and a little Muir made for a perfect night.

  “You probably would have.”

  Braden’s eyes soften, curious suddenly. When I note there’s no judgment in his expression, I let out a tired sigh.

  “Cal raised me after my parents died. Once he figured out I had a knack for staying quiet in the field and a good eye for targets, he had me out behind the house shooting arrows until I could land a group damn near with my eyes closed. And that’s when I wasn’t wading in the crick that ran through his property, working out how to cast a line just right. All of this before I had boobs.”

  Credit to Braden, his eyes don’t drop below mine. He keeps his face neutral and his tone flat. “And after?”

  I give up a quiet chuckle. “Same plan, different objective. He figured if I was in a tree stand, it made it a hell of a lot harder for the boys to find me. Only worked so well. Turns out lots of guys like girls in camo.”

  Braden looks perplexed. I shrug a shoulder and crack a half grin, wordlessly owning up to the obviousness of my brand. I know why the camo works, why advertisers want me showing skin. And my body is mine to do with what I choose, even if that means I’m sometimes the target of many a hateful shaming comment on my Twitter and Instagram. Add in the fact that I’m a hunter and it’s open season on me. Pun intended. Lots of folks believe in girl power, sure. But some of them also believe that feminism should look and sound only the way they want it to—meaning it doesn’t wear short shorts or carry a shotgun.

  When Braden’s brow crinkles just a bit, I consider how much I might be screwing with all his preconceived notions about me. That no, I’m not some dress-up doll or a mindless bimbo who is being pushed around or exploited by some moustache-twirling puppeteer who keeps me in line by making me feel worthless. Instead, I was raised by a true conservationist, I’ve been in the field since I was eight, and I wear the pink camo and the heels because I want to.