Sometime past noon, the Prius rolled to a stop on a gravel shoulder, deep in the woods.
Ryker turned off the engine and rested his forehead against the wheel. For a long while, he said nothing, so I reached over and traced a small crescent scar behind his ear. It was at that moment that I realized I was suddenly terrified I might lose him.
At last, he looked up, blinking into the daylight, a smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Let’s hike,” he said.
We got out and he popped the trunk. Everything was already set to go, but he did a quick inspection of the contents. When he was satisfied, we shouldered the packs and headed up an abandoned trail, the silence between us now thick with anticipation instead of fear. It was a good silence. A hopeful one, maybe. After an hour, we crested a ridge, and beyond it was a black, glassy lake cupped by pines and snow-mottled peaks. “I knew a guy who had a place up here,” Ryker said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward a battered A-frame, half-hidden in the trees. “We did covert drills. Off-grid, unmarked.”
“Are you sure there are no bears?” I asked, scanning the trees.
“Let’s hope not. But if there are,” He patted his pack, “we have bear spray this time.”
We tromped through brambles and found it unlocked. Inside was bare—no running water, a single cot, shelves lined with canned beans, and a lonely box of red wine. There was a wood stove, a pile of logs, and a deck facing the water that made the whole world go still.
“Rustic,” I said, only half joking.
He laughed—a full-body sound I hadn’t heard in days. “Better than a motel, right?”
I dropped the pack on the floor and walked to the deck, breathing in the scent of the lake and pine. The loons calling to one another over the crystal-clear lake soothed away my tension. When he stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, I was no longer on edge. I leaned into him and let the hush of the wilderness settle over me.
We spent the rest of the day in each other’s arms on the cot, sleeping it away.
∞∞∞
Over the next few days, Ryker taught me how to start a fire with flint and dryer lint he’d stuffed in his bag from the motel laundry room. He showed me how to catch catfish with a hook and a single kernel of corn. We roasted the fish on sticks and ate with our fingers, and some primal part of me thrilled at the simplicity. For the first time since the aquarium field trip, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder for enemies I couldn’t name.
As the sun dipped pink across the lake, I noticed Ryker sitting by the water’s edge, legs pulled up, staring out at the reflection of the sky. I found a clean, empty bottle and filled itwith wine from the wine box, then grabbed a sleeping bag, and I left the house behind as I padded through the pine needles to the deck and sat beside him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I asked as I handed him the wine.
He took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and handed it back. “I’m thinking I like it here. With you.” He paused. “Even if the whole world is chasing us.”
I sipped from the bottle “Do you think they’ll come?”
“These men aren’t the type to give up,” Ryker said, his eyes steady on the horizon. “But we’ll outlast them.”
I set down the bottle and pressed my shoulder into his. “I can’t shoot worth shit,” I admitted, “but if you give me a pair of scissors, I might be able to take out a kneecap or two.”
He laughed, and the sound was pure sunlight. “Duly noted,” he said, and then he turned and kissed me, soft and slow, like we had all the time in the world. My heart raced when I realized that maybe I hadn’t been running from danger, not exactly. Maybe I was running toward something I’d never let myself have.
We made love on the rough deck, his hands careful and worshipful. His lips were traveling every inch over my skin like he was memorising it with all his senses. After, we curled up in the sleeping bag, and I trailed my finger along his chest. “Do you ever regret it? Regret meeting me?”
He closed his hand over mine and held it to his heart. “Never,” he whispered. And in the morning, we were still there, still together, with nothing but the crash of wind in the trees and the lap of water against the shore. I sensed that the world was still hunting us. But for now, in this little pocket of borrowed time, it didn’t matter.
We made pancakes on a campfire and ate on the little stoop. And when he spotted a rabbit in the brush, he pointed it out to me, grinning with such pride you'd think he'd discovered electricity.
It was past noon when the clouds rolled in, and Ryker started a fire in the wood stove. Rain came down in sheets as I sat across from him, knees drawn to my chest, wrapped in his faded flannel shirt. There were questions I carried like splinters in my heart, but the thought of asking them always felt like betraying some fragile peace between us. Still, after supper—a meal made of rice, the last of a can of black beans, and a fistful of jerky—I watched him as he meticulously rinsed out the bowls, his hands steady and sure, and felt the urge to know the truth.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice barely rose above the pop of pine resin in the stove.
Ryker stilled bowl in mid-air. He didn’t look up, just kept his attention on the water. “You can ask me anything your heart desires, darlin’”
I hugged my knees tighter. “Why do you do it? The mercenary stuff. Was it—was it just about the money?”
He finished rinsing and set the bowl in the rack, then braced his arms against the counter and leaned forward, his head down, like he was listening to some faraway sound only he could hear. The pause stretched until I worried, he might not answer.
Then, without turning, he said, “You ever spend a night hiding under your bed because the person who’s supposed to love you, can’t decide if she wants to hug you or break your arm?”
The question stunned me.
