Downriver, Malcolm shouted, voice excited.
Fox glanced to see the man fighting another salmon.
Histhirdsalmon.
Some men had the Midas touch.
Malcolm’s birch rod dipped low, bowing under the force of the struggling fish.
Fox tied off his line and started down the riverbank to help.
But Ethan was one step ahead. The youngest Penn-Leith hooted and snagged their only net, bounding through the shallow water, eyes on the taut line.
“Bring him closer, Malcolm,” Ethan called, leaning forward. “I can’t see the fish quite yet. It must be a monster tae dip your pole like this.”
Malcolm grunted and continued to keep tension on his line, slowly reeling. Ethan waded forward, net outstretched, but abruptly his foot caught. He wind-milled hilariously for a few precious seconds before tumbling sideways into the river, water mushrooming up and over him.
Ethan sat in the water, expression dumbfounded and gasping.
Fox laughed, even as he raced into the shallows himself, grabbing the net before it could float downstream.
Malcolm, of course, barely reacted. The Scot was an unmovable mountain of focused calm, his attention entirely on the fish still fighting on his line.
Net in hand, Fox waded to Ethan and held out a hand, pulling the younger man to his feet. Ethan shook his head, dripping wet and chuckling.
Fox stepped around Ethan and watched the salmon as it came closer, a ripple cutting perpendicular to the current.
“Itisa monster,” he said to Malcolm. The fish sparkled in the sunlight, twisting and fighting in the clear water.
Intent on the fish, Fox edged forward, feet stepping carefully, net at the ready.
For all the good it did.
He stooped to net the fish, only to have his front foot connect with a mossy rock and go flying out from under him. And just as Ethan had a few minutes earlier, Fox toppled sideways, the river engulfing him. The water was viciously cold, stealing his breath.
Unlike Ethan, Fox managed to hold on to the net.
Ethan pulled him up, laughing hysterically.
Fox couldn’t stop his own answering grin, even as he wiped the frigid water from his eyes.
“A pair of bawbags, the boths of ye.” Malcolm continued, shaking his head and reeling the fish into the shallows. “Have youse never been properly fishing before?”
Taking a few steps farther into the river, Malcolm pinched his line against his rod, the salmon flopping ineffectually at his feet. He leaned forward, motioning for Fox to give him the net.
Fox handed it over, shaking water off his dripping hands.
Malcolm bent, drawing the fish closer. But the salmon had fight in it yet. The fish raced between Malcolm’s legs, tangling them in the fishing line.
For the third time in as many minutes, another Penn-Leith brother tumbled into the river, water blooming upward.
Malcolm sat in the shallows, expression stunned, water dripping off his chin.
Ethan doubled over with laughter.
Fox snagged the net again as it floated past. This time when he stepped forward, he was able to scoop up the still-hooked fish.
“Gentleman,” he announced, holding the twisting salmon, “what say you to a fire?”
