Page 30 of Hearts of Locke Hill

13 and 17

“You are horrible at fishing.”

Violet gasped, her mouth dropping open. “I am not.”

“We’ve been here for nearly three hours, and you’ve not had a single bite.” Cyril nudged his foot against the stake anchoring his string of catches in the shallows.

“You aresupposedto beteachingme,” she said with emphasis. “So who is the failure?”

“You are.”

She’d just pulled her line in and was reaching for the hook. The thing swayed in the air, eluding her grasp. “Maybeyouare a horrible teacher.” With an exhale ripe with frustration, she threw her pole onto the grassy bank. “Maybe you gave me the warped fishing rod. And my string is always in knots.”

“Line.”

“Whatever.”

Cyril chuckled. Then he felt a tug on his own line and his pulse leaped. “Come here.”

She must’ve sensed his urgency because she was immediately at his side.

“Here, take the rod here, like I’ve shown you. We’re going to set the hook.” He knew that look of determination as she followed his instruction. “Wait a second. There, feel that?”

She nodded, her gaze scanning the stream where his line met water. She stepped closer and he kept hold of the rod just above her hand.

“Just like I’ve shown you.”

The next tug came.

“Now,” he said.

She tugged in an effort to set the hook. Then tugged again. Then raised the entire fishing rod upward in an arc.

“No—you just—it’s a small move, like—”

She began reeling hard. “I’ve got it—”

“If you’d just—”

She pulled harder, the tip of the rod bending at a severe angle—

“Wait!” he cried, but in that instant the tension snapped and something broke free of the water’s surface, smacking Violet in the face as she shrieked.

He bent to examine the hook, which was completely embedded in a large clump of slimy moss.

Violet, still frantically swiping at her face, turned blindly in a circle and tripped backward over a rock. Too late, he lunged for her as she landed bottom first on his dozen neatly strung trout in the cool water.

His shoulders sagged, and he waited for her to realize what was trapped between her backside and the streambed.

A disgusted wail grew in its intensity, and he moved quickly to grasp her arm and pull her up, sopping wet and smeared with fish scales and bits. She stood, dripping, hair askew, breathing hard, holding her arms away from her body.

“That was my fault,” he said. “The hook was caught in some moss.”

“No,” she said, trembling from the icy water. “No. I am horrible at fishing. You …” She patted him on his chest. “You can do all the fishing.” She waved her hand at the mess in the shallow water without looking at it. “Just don’t make me clean that up.”

Somewhat dazedly, she began to take the path back to the house. “I really hope … we’re having chicken for dinner. Or beef. Cows … are not slimy. Here, cow.” She made kissy noises. “Here, sweet cow. Moo-oo.”

He grinned after her as she disappeared through the trees.