He turned and grinned, his eyes bright, his smile, in the scruff of a beard he was trying to grow, widening. “Sorry.”
“Not, funny, Baylor.”
“Okay. Come on . . . no big cats, I promise.”
“And you know that how?”
“My uncle owns the property. We used to come up here before he died.”
“So he doesn’t own it anymore.”
“Technically, no. But my cousin does. Trouble is, he lives in Miami. Never gets up here anymore. At least that’s what Mom says.”
“Fine.” She trudged on, starting to sweat despite the cold air, breaking new tracks in the pristine wilderness. It was quiet up here, hushed in the snowfall, though she thought she could hear a creek gurgling in the distance. Her breath was a cloud as they turned and she realized they’d been following more than a trail—a path wide enough for a vehicle to pass through the stands of fir and pine. Also, the trek they were making seemed slightly lower than the surrounding drifts and she could feel the snow packing down, as if on a layer of tracks, ruts made by some vehicle before the last snowstorm.
“You said your cousin was in Miami?”
“Last I heard.”
“Like in Florida, you mean.”
Jeff tossed her a look, begging the question, Are you for real? “Of course. Florida. Is there any other?”
“Could be,” she muttered under her breath. She crossed the ruts and a shiver skittered down her spine, almost as if she’d walked across someone’s grave.
Jeff was ahead of her, striding quickly into the gathering gloom.
“Hey! Wait a second,” Becca called. “I don’t like this.” They were supposed to be on a trail that cross-country skiers used, one that cut through national parks or forests or something, but now they were on land owned by his cousin? Did he even know where he was going? “You said there was a cottage here somewhere?”
“More like a cabin. Rustic, y’know. With an outhouse.”
“Great.”
“My grandpa and uncle used it for hunting. Didn’t need indoor plumbing.”
“Everyone needs indoor plumbing.”
He grinned again, his face ruddy from the cold and exertion. He was cute with his blond hair and wide smile, but he wasn’t Jeremy Strand.
And you’re a damned idiot still thinking about him.
Jeff said, “Come on, it’s just around the next bend. Maybe we could warm up in the cabin. It’s got a wood stove, I think.”
That’s probably filled with birds’ nests or bats or squirrels or mice or raccoons . . .
“Hurry up.” He was moving faster now and she had redoubled her efforts as she struggled to keep up with him. As they trekked deeper into the woods she felt a need to stay close to him. Not that he would ever leave her out here. He was a jokester, right, big on pranks, but he wouldn’t. . . .
Her legs were beginning to ache as they rounded the bend. He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, and she almost ran into him.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
“What?”
“What is that doing there? No one is supposed to be up here.”
She followed his gaze and noticed a pickup, parked in a small clearing, the cab and bed covered in three or
four inches of snow. “It’s a truck. So what?” Didn’t it just mean someone else was up here either snowshoeing or skiing or maybe even hunting even if it wasn’t the season? Bad as it was, the fact was that poachers hunted in these hills year round.