Autumn Skies (Bluebell Inn Romance #3) - Denise Hunter Page 0,20

the small, primitive campground they just reached. “It’ll get chilly tonight.”

“I’ll get out our supper.”

“Sounds good.” He grabbed his pack and headed up a path through the woods. They’d made decent progress today until they came to the deer path. It had been slow going, cutting through the underbrush.

He’d started to doubt his sanity. What if this was all a big waste of time? They wouldn’t be able to go much farther tomorrow before they had to head back. What if he never found the spot? Or what if he did and it didn’t bring the healing he sought? What if he was just as broken when his leave was finished? He couldn’t entertain that thought. Not when he was about to be promoted to PPD.

Wyatt didn’t bother looking for firewood as he walked. He was headed first to the creek. He had a day’s worth of sweat, dirt, and cobwebs coating him, and he couldn’t wait to shed it. He was pretty sure Grace had already bathed when she disappeared for a bit after they’d set up the tents.

She was in good shape, he’d give her that. They’d hiked, mostly uphill, for hours and not a word of complaint. She was a good traveling companion—chatty when he was, quiet when he wasn’t. It went back to that good intuition he’d noticed before. She hadn’t even pried him for information about this place he was searching for.

Did she even know about the murder that had happened somewhere in these mountains fourteen years ago? Probably not. She’d only been a child at the time, not likely to be scanning newspaper headlines or watching the eleven o’clock news.

When he reached the creek, he ditched his pack and took a few minutes to stretch out his shoulder. The creek was deep enough here for a swim. And no one was around, even at the campground, so he stripped off his clothes and went in.

* * *

Grace set out some of the food Miss Della had packed for them—peanut butter sandwiches, chips, granola bars, and bananas. The old campground had grills, but Grace hadn’t been sure of that, so she played it safe. There were napkins, paper plates, even instant coffee and coffee cups. God bless Miss Della.

The sound of a thumping bass hit her ears just before the rumbling of an engine. A pickup truck approached from the dirt road, turning into the campground. Looked like they had company. There was still plenty of light, but the shade of the trees made it seem later. She couldn’t make out who was inside the extended cab.

The truck slowly wound around the dirt lane, then stopped and parked two sites away from theirs. There were at least a dozen spots, all of them open, so the proximity seemed overclose. But maybe they fancied the idea of company.

When the doors opened, three guys spilled out, wearing jeans and T-shirts, mid- to late twenties, she guessed. They greeted her with waves and smiles before they got down to the business of unloading things.

She couldn’t make out their quiet chatter, but judging by a glance or two, and some guffawing, she got the feeling they were talking about her. A prickle of unease squirmed down her spine. Maybe this would be a good time to check in with Molly. She pulled out her phone, but of course, there was no service.

Might be time to go after some firewood herself, and if she stumbled upon Wyatt, all the better. She slipped away, glancing back to make sure no one was following. Adrenaline had shot into her bloodstream, making her heart beat obnoxiously fast. Her breaths quick and shallow, she heard every snap of the twigs beneath her feet, every rustle of underbrush.

She was being ridiculous. But she was glad Wyatt was here. She was strong, but that wouldn’t amount to much against three grown men. And she’d left her bear spray at the campsite.

She picked up sticks as she walked, scanning the woods for Wyatt. But she didn’t glimpse his white T-shirt anywhere. She heard the rippling of the creek and went toward the sound. She’d washed up earlier, best she could. Maybe Wyatt had decided to do the same.

She came through the clearing and found him right there on the bank, facing the creek, wearing only jeans. His short hair was damp against his neck, and droplets of water peppered his skin.

The rushing water had covered the sound of her approach, so she took the opportunity to appreciate

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