“Do you have any shares in that trade? Planning on swooping in and taking ownership? You could be the real boss.”
I scrub over the pressure brewing beneath my forehead. “Shit, that’s my parents greatest wish. Computers have always held my interest. Not sure I could do the open range justice. My brother feels the same way. That’s mostly why my mom and dad aren’t involved. Period.”
She winces. “That sounds vague, yet very complicated.”
“I’ll tell you all the messy details of growing up in Trixton Falls once we get out of this disaster. There’s only so much room for anarchy up here.” I tap my temple.
“Fair enough. But I’ll hold you to that.”
“I hope you do.” It’ll give me a reason to stay connected with her, if I don’t find one more significant in the meantime.
“All right, I’m going in.” I bend to grab the spear at my feet. The thin branch I found earlier makes a credible pole for these circumstances.
Blakey’s gaze widens on the sharp tip. “That’s a legit weapon.”
“I’ll make you one later, just in case.”
She crosses her arms with a snort. “I dare a moose to try getting through all these trees.”
“No jinxing us,” I remind.
“Knock on wood.” She thumps her fist on an abandoned stump.
“Okay, I’ll try to make this quick.” I tromp onto the wet dirt along the shore.
After trudging through the snow for hours, my feet are still dry. I glare at the reflective surface, my view zeroing in straight to the bottom. I wade into the shallow front with my spear poised and ready. The documentaries I’ve watched on Canadian wild always boasted about an abundant supply of fish. A passing glance shows over a dozen following the current.
It takes me five stabs to snare two. I can only hope my odds improve with practice. After flinging the trout onto land, I try for more. Another three jabs, I have two more on the line.
Blakely claps from her spot behind me. “Damn, Halder. I wish we had a camera to capture this moment.”
“Keep talking like that and my head won’t fit through this forest. I’ll be like a moose.”
She giggles and ducks her chin. “That would be a funny sight to see.”
I scoop up my haul and carry them to the flat slab. “Are you squeamish?”
“Is that a nice way of asking if I have a weak stomach?”
“I’m about to slice into these fish with nothing more than a hatchet and my fingers. It won’t be a pretty sight.”
Her nose scrunches, and she spins around. “I’ll leave you to handle the gore.”
“My butchering talents are subpar at best.”
“But that won’t impact their taste. It’s all about the effort.”
The mess I make with a few chops is fairly gruesome. Bits of flesh and scales decorate the snow. The putrid stench permeates my nostrils, and I chuck the remains into the river. Not a single twitch attacks my gut. The sights I’ve seen tip the scale on murderous. I skewer the hacked filets on a makeshift spit and hold them over a section of low flames. The aroma of cooked meat fills our camp within moments.
With a shrewd gaze, I inspect my handywork. “I could probably whip up a rotisserie stand. That would make this process easier.”
She plops onto a dry spot beside me. “Of course you can. I have no doubt.”
Once the trout have a decent char, I pull them off the fire to cool. I unpack our bowls and separate the portions, giving her more than half. Blakely raises a brow when I pass over the fuller dish.
“I don’t need all this.”
“Just enjoy what you can. After those protein bars, we need a good meal. There’s plenty more where that came from.” I nod toward the stream.
We eat in near silence, only the mutual humming of our appetites being fulfilled bounce between us. Then Blakely lets a moan loose that borders on indecent. The food in front of me is forgotten as I watch her lick pieces of fish from her slender fingers. She sucks on her thumb, devouring every morsel. The satisfaction pounding into me far outweighs that from yesterday. I will cook every hour of the day for her if this is the reaction I get. She doesn’t notice my piqued interest, or the puddle of drool slowly forming in the dirt.
Blakely smacks her lips together. “This is so freaking delicious. Way better than fake ice cream.”
“I’m glad you think so.” My voice is little more than a croak.