“Jack, I don’t feel so good,” I announce, trying to be conversational but also praying he hasn’t left me alone to go after the ding-dong who pushed me.
“Hello?” I yell, unable to keep my voice from sounding frantic. Activate panic mode.
“I’m here, Willow.” Jack’s voice soothes me, as do his hands as he places them gently over my arms. He moves them up to grip my shoulders, then one hand continues to cup my jaw. My heart pounds heavily in my ears.
“S-someone shoved me,” I croak, feeling the need to defend myself.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
And then he pulls me into his chest, my ear fitting perfectly against his heart. The galloping thuds make my insides all gooey and warm. There’s no way a man of his profession, of his size and fitness, was frazzled by what just happened. This fast-paced thumping is a clue that he was worried about me. That knowledge is like catnip, and I’m devouring it.
Just as the thought of nuzzling closer hits, I recall his confession from earlier, making me straighten. His silhouette is barely visible as my eyes decide to function, but I still don’t let go. He may not like being touched, but I’m two seconds away from hyperventilating, so I settle for gripping the free-hanging strap of his backpack instead, needing the connection.
“Can you lead us out?” I ask meekly.
“Of course.” He begins to turn, but he pauses and reaches down to grasp my hand in his. My protest dies on the tip of my lips as he swings around and guides us through the tunnel. The entire thing is about ninety-feet long, but were it not for Jack’s steady hand holding mine, there is no doubt I would have turned right back around and hiked back to the South Rim.
Strike one, I guess. Or two, if you count almost falling off the ridge earlier. But this was an unexpected section of the trail, and the complete darkness triggered all my fight-or-flight reflexes, not to mention the jerk who tossed me into the wall.
The rays of sunshine visible at the end of the tunnel are a welcome sight, despite the pain they cause. Less than two feet from the exit, the four-hundred-and-forty-foot-long Black Bridgespans across the glassy green Colorado River that murmurs consistently despite the state of anyone’s nerves. The mid-morning sun beats down, bouncing harshly off the water, making me wince, increasing the dull ache behind my brow.
At the sound of my whimper, Jack cuts his eyes my way. He drops my hand, cautiously cupping my face again.
“You’re bleeding,” he grits out, tightness gripping his jaw. This dazed feeling isn’t from being slammed into a rock wall. It’s because of the man who confessed not too long ago that he doesn’t like being touched but is currently doing a whole lot of it…with me.
“There’s no place to sit here. We’ll cross the bridge, then I’ll have a closer look,” he says reassuringly. Then he inhales sharply, the pad of his thumb ghosting the curve of my cheek. “Give me your pack.”
“I’m good. I can carry it.”
“Willow.”
“Fine.” I give in, plopping Marigold on the floor. “But just ‘til we cross the bridge. And only because your muscles look a little bored.”
Those sharp cheekbones become more pronounced, a tiny glint in his eyes before he whips himself around, stomping across the bridge. He’s like a child, determined to stay mad, except his version of mad is being gruff and grumpy with a ten-foot spiked wall around his heart.
My feet are still slightly unsteady as we cross, but I don’t say a word, not wanting Jack to get any ideas about sending me home. I have to carry on.
Crossing the river feels like being led farther into an elaborate trap, the mountains inspecting all those who wander deeper. Even though the temperature is over one hundred degrees, a shudder runs through me at the thought of being out in the canyon at night, like a snack waiting to be feasted upon.
It’s so much easier walking without Marigold pulling my shoulders down. We reach the other side, and Jack leads me to a shaded area against the rockface, nestled among trees whose shriveled limbs appear as if they’re begging for a dip in the river.
“I’m going to refill our waters. Be back in a minute,” Jack declares while removing the hydration packs from each of our bags.
My head still aches, but thankfully, the dizziness has subsided enough to keep me from feeling nauseous. I lean back, closing my eyes while the warm wind puffs mercilessly across my face.
The stillness drags a replay of the tunnel encounter through my mind. What the heck was up with that? Surely, it wouldn’t have anything to do with what Jack is investigating...right?
I retrieve a protein bar from Marigold, closing my eyes as I chew and wondering whether I’m tired because of the physical exhaustion and my distant relationship with cardio, or if this is a concussion symptom. A rustling has me blinking my eyes open to find a squirrel perched on a rock two feet from where I’m reclining. It scratches around, then lifts its gaze my way.
“You don’t think the thing in my backpack is connected to Jack’s investigation, do you?”
The squirrel tilts its head before hopping off its rock to scurry up a tree, stopping to leer at me admonishingly.
I pout, turning away from those beady little eyes. “I’m not telling him about the weird thing I found inside Marigold earlier if that’s what you meant. He’ll only see it as evidence that I’m guilty. And I don’t even know if you can sew me a dress or mop my floors, so why should I listen to you?”
He jumps from his branch, making his way back to the spot beside me. I’m calling it ahe,because a woman would understand not offering up possibly incriminating information when trying to get on the good side of a hunky man.
His bushy little tail curls arrogantly. Ears that make him look like he’s been electrocuted turn my way, his smug eyes burrowing into mine again. My shoulders pivot so my body faces his, holding his gaze.
