Page 10 of Cowboy Mountain Man

Hope lowers her sandwich. I end the call. “No one there now,” I say.

“So I can get my tablet.”

“I’ll take you.”

“In your truck?”

“Yes.”

She looks out at it. Then back at me. “Does everyone here drive something you need a ladder to enter?”

“There’s a step.”

“How considerate.”

I stand. She starts gathering her things.

I pick up her camera bag before she can reach it. Her eyes come to mine.

“It’s heavy,” I say.

“I’m aware. I’ve been carrying it for three years,” she says snatching the strap too quickly from me.

Our fingers accidentally brush, and I’m at a loss for words all over again. I glance at my watch, already feeling the interminability of this job. I need it over. Fast. That way, whatever’s happening between us can stop.

“I’ll ask next time.”

“Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, Hope sits beside me as we climb the mountain. Her seat belt is fastened. Her phone is in her hand, and she checks the rear-view mirror every few minutes.

I keep an eye on it, too. Nothing follows us out of town.

“Do you live up here?” she asks.

“Farther west.”

“On the mountain?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

I glance at her. “With two horses.”

“That sounds like alone with extra chores.”

“It is.”

She looks out the window. The road narrows, trees crowding close on either side. Leaves skitter across the pavement.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Usually.”

“Was that supposed to be welcoming?”

“No.”