LOST WITH YOU - Lisa Ann Verge Page 0,43
to the cool breeze as they shot close to the southern shore. Dylan hadn’t said a word, but she knew he was scanning the bank for tree blazes or trailheads in a last-ditch attempt to find another marker, or any further proof of Pops’ stories. They were so close to land that she could see the river’s bottom on the bank side of the canoe. With every stroke, her paddle churned up a cauliflower-cloud of silt.
As she felt a slight drag on the keel, she asked, “Should we cut away from the bank, Dylan?”
“Not yet. The canoe has a lighter draft. We’re riding high. We’ve eaten most of our food stores.”
She grimaced. They’d run out of powdered eggs days ago and were down to the goopy protein bars that Dylan had packed for his athletic friend Garrick.
They were awful.
She said, “Do you see any fish we could catch for lunch?”
“I saw a couple of rainbow trout a ways back.”
“Got the net?”
He laughed. Dylan’s laugh, deep and rumbling, set off vibrations inside her. “You overestimate my reflexes, darling.”
“I don’t think so.” Darling. “Should we keep an eye out? It’d be amazing to eat protein that isn’t dehydrated, or taste like it was manufactured in a lab.”
“What I wouldn’t do for a burger,” he groaned. “Dripping raw.”
Her stomach growled as she thought about it. “I’d go for pasta in Bolognese sauce. Piled high.”
“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
“A Caesar salad.”
“A beer,” he countered. “Ice cold.”
“Real coffee—piping hot.”
His laugh conceded the point. She’d thought she’d held up pretty well for three weeks in the wilderness, but she was bone-tired of eating dinner from a packet she had to rip open with her teeth. It’d be nice to drink French-press coffee mixed with real cream, offered to her across a counter in a paper cup with a heat-resistant sleeve.
The thought pumped the brakes on her inner stillness. To buy coffee over a counter meant this trip with Dylan would be over. They hadn’t talked about the coming end, hadn’t veered anywhere close to that topic, but she knew they’d be among other humans within a day or two. The expedition had already taken a few days extra.
“Speaking of mornings and caffeine,” Dylan said. Was that a fake light voice? “I meant to warn you this morning of what’s coming up, but I had my mind on other things.”
Her pulse jumped. She knew what he’d had on his mind. This morning, he’d gotten close behind her under the sleeping bags and slowly stroked her awake.
He said, “There’s whitewater ahead.”
“Oh?”
“Pops said the trail marker for the portage was ‘a ways’ upstream from the rapids.” Dylan knocked his paddle on the gunwale as he switched sides. “‘A ways’ isn’t exactly a technical term. But by the run of this current, I suspect we’ll be in some sort of rapids by day’s end. ”
“Thanks for the warning.” Hey, she could do the fake light voice, too. “I’ve rafted the Snake River, so no worries.”
“We’ll pull over in an hour or so, do some fishing, redistribute the weight in the canoe, and tighten the gear just in case. Wouldn’t want to be taken by surprise by a rough patch of water.”
She nodded, wondering if his family would be waiting to greet them at the end of all this, crowding at the landing point just like the launch. They’d be there to greet Dylan, but it would be lovely to bask in the shared limelight. She hardly remembered what it was like to have someone waiting for her to return after a long journey.
“Casey,” he said sharply. “Hold up.”
She lifted the paddle from the water, though she couldn’t see what had startled him. Nothing unusual stood in the path of the canoe. In the bow, she would be the first to glimpse any jutting rocks in the shallow water.
“Backstroke,” he said. “There’s a break in the trees back there. I want a better look.”
She stroked as he’d taught her on the lake by his cabin, all those weeks ago, so that the canoe inched back against the current. Dylan half rose from his seat to peer at something. Casey glimpsed an opening between the trees, partially obscured by overhanging brush. It looked wide enough for a moose or two, more like another watering hole than anything else.
“Ground the canoe,” he said. “Gently.”
She used the blade of the paddle to nudge the keel into the silty mud. The vessel wobbled as Dylan climbed over the gunwale. He splashed toward a vine-laden branch