Left for Wild - Harloe Rae Page 0,40
walk next to each other?”
She coos a sweet tune. “Aww, is this a partnership or what? I’d love to take this journey beside you.”
Something warm and gooey spreads through my chest. I try to ignore the soothing sensation while schooling my features. “Great. Let’s, uh, go then.”
When she reaches for my hand, I almost topple sideways. The ease of her action is usually reserved for established couples, those who share more than a goal of escaping the most primitive of conditions. Or so I thought. With a quick glance, I find a grin twitching Blakely’s lips. Maybe this so-called team we’re forming will gain a deeper meaning. But a man can only expect to be granted so much.
She tugs me forward. “Are we going?”
I shake off the potential—or more likely fabricated—significance and match her stride. “Yeah, of course.”
“What’s distracting you?” She glances behind us, as if a trail of clues is waiting.
You. That’s the correct and only answer, but far too revealing. “Other than staying alive?”
Blakely huffs. “Yeah, okay. That was a stupid question.”
“There’s no such thing,” I joke. But speaking of. “Do you like winter?”
The glare she pins on me couldn’t pierce a leaf. “Right now? Not so much. I’m feeling a tad betrayed. That season has always been good to me. Minnesota weather can be a beast, but I’m realizing how spoiled we are down there. How about you?”
I shrug. Spending most of the last five years locked indoors has made me appreciate fresh air, regardless of temperature. “South Dakota is mild in comparison. Chicago, too. You won’t hear me complaining about being cold there.”
“Fall is just blooming back home. That’s my favorite time of year. The weather is just crisp enough to need a sweater and scarf.” Her tone is so full of mourning that the hollow loss resonates in my stomach.
I want to promise that she’ll be there again before the season is over. That’s not a guarantee, though. I settle for veering into a safer lane. “It’s very odd going from one extreme—”
Blakely’s steady pace slams to an alarming halt. She latches onto my arm with an iron grip. “What the hell is that?”
I track her frozen stare to a large lump several feet in front of us, mostly buried in snow and dirt. The rounded object isn’t moving and probably hasn’t for quite a while. It’s most likely a fallen tree, now rotten with decay, or some other natural phenomenon. Whatever the item is, it’s been long forgotten.
With concrete slowing my steps, I inch closer for a better inspection. Blakely is still chaining herself to my side, shuffling along with me. I squint against the harsh draft blowing off the river. Once the oblong shape comes into better view, a smile tips my lips. I straighten and ditch the hesitation in my gait.
“I think that’s a canoe.”
She peeks out from behind me. “What? That’s super random. Why would a boat be just laying around?”
The possibilities are mostly dark and unsettling for whoever used the vessel last. Unless they found a better option for travel. That doesn’t seem very likely in the center of this rustic capital. It’s odd to picture others traversing across these lands. How long ago did they pass by? “Maybe the owner didn’t need it anymore.”
“Because they were rescued?” Blakely looks skyward, the chance of our saviors hovering in the wings gaining her attention. “Or done with their mission?”
Or there wasn’t an option for continuing on, for morbid reasons. But why put a dimmer switch on her optimist perspective? “We‘ll never know, I guess. Consider this a prize for all of our hard work and dedication.”
She quirks a brow when we near the jackpot in disguise, overturned and mostly buried. “We must be doing a shitty job if this is our paycheck.”
“It’s better than another predator.”
Blakely swings her gaze in the direction we came from. “Um, yeah. Good call. I’ll reap this reward all day.”
I kick at the dented side, sending a layer of gunk and debris cracking from the surface. The canoe shudders from my abuse. With another swift strike, the old brute gives in and flips over. While resting on the rounded hull, its banged up interior is exposed to our ridicule. The metal is mostly unrecognizable, camouflaged in dull brown and flakes of corrosion. Tendrils of prickly vines try to strangle what little relief I’ve found. But I won’t mock a gift.
“This is a great solution. We can get farther a helluva lot faster.”
Blakely tilts her head, getting