Ten Mountain Men's Baby (Love by Numbers 9)

“Well, I—”

“Will you be home tonight at eight?”

“Yes, but—”

“Perfect. It’s settled then. All the material you’ll need will be delivered to your home at eight tonight.”

“Mrs. Freedman,” I finally managed to say.

“Yes?”

I looked at the plane tickets in my hand then back at her. “I can’t… I can’t just up and leave.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why on earth not?”

“Um,” I motioned to the empty waiting room and to the reception. “For one thing, I have my practice.”

She frowned and shook her head. “Your practice will be here when you get back and stronger than ever. Don’t you worry about that.”

“And also.…”

“Yes?”

I wracked my brain to think of another reason I couldn’t go: a boyfriend? No. Family ties? No. Upcoming engagements? No.

“What is it?” she asked. But before I could answer, she said, “You want to know about the charity. Of course.”

“Well—”

“You’ll be making eighteen stops along the trail. Everything’s been booked. It’s all in the itinerary that will be delivered to you tonight. You’ll be visiting some clinics. You’ll take some photos, interview some of the volunteers you’ll meet along the way.” She leaned in and whispered, “I hope you don’t have any objection to meeting young, adventurous, and eligible doctors.”

I said nothing, only looked at her wide-eyed.

“Good,” she said, “because you’ll post a little article and some photos of them and about the clinics. It’s the personal stories that bring in the donations.”

“Sure, but—”

“Oh, I almost forgot. I didn’t get you hiking boots because I didn’t know your size.” She looked at me, expectantly. I merely looked back at her, speechless. “What’s your shoe size, dear?”

I cleared my throat. “Um. Seven and a half, generally.”

She rubbed her chin then waved a hand dismissively in the air. “Never mind. I’ll have a few options delivered to you. Keep the ones you want, and we’ll return the others.” She turned to walk out the door.

“Mrs. Freedman,” I called after her.

She stopped at the doorway and turned to me.

I paused a long moment, tapping the plane tickets against my open hand. Finally, I touched the right side of my face and said, “How are you feeling? How’s the jaw?”

“I’m feeling much better, thanks to you. A little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.” She smiled, turned, and walked out, leaving me standing by the reception desk, my mouth half-open but no words coming out.Tuesday evening, I was on the beach in San Diego, looking out at the flat ocean rippling with waves. Thursday morning, I was hiking up a mountain in Georgia. And there was nothing at all flat about the view. I spent the first few miles wondering how I had gotten here. Is this real? Did I really pack up and fly off to Georgia on four-days’ notice?

I passed a few other hikers in the first few hours. Everyone was going at a much slower pace than I was. And though I’d consider myself an experienced hiker, this did have me wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Am I taking too fast of a pace?

Regardless, I had a target destination: Suches, nineteen miles. And a target hour: six pm. I made it there by five. As I left the trail and headed into town, I found myself walking behind a woman, seemingly headed in the same direction I was. She seemed to be struggling a bit from the hike. I caught up to her, partly out of concern, but also because I hadn’t spoken to a soul in over ten hours.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

Her pained expression immediately lightened. “Oh, hi there. I’m holding up just fine though I don’t know for how much longer.”

“Town’s only a mile ahead,” I said.

“Yeah,” she laughed. “What’s another mile, right?”

“I take it you don’t usually do much hiking?”

“What gave it away?” she said as she leaned on her walking stick like it was the only thing keeping her from keeling over.

“Just a hunch,” I said.

“Do I detect an East Coast accent?” she asked.

I laughed. “You shouldn’t. I’m from California.”

“So much for my detective skills.”

“Are you a detective?”

She bobbed her head from side to side, teetering between a yes and a no. “In a way, I consider myself a detective. Actually, I’m an investigative reporter.” She stopped and offered me her hand. “Wendy Spencer.”

I shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Holly Nestor.”

We walked into town together. While I did appreciate the company, I was not too thrilled by the slow pace she was keeping. I was anxious to check in to the hotel and maybe head over to the clinic to say hello. For an investigative reporter, Wendy didn’t ask many questions. Instead, she told me about the work she’d been doing, visiting the pockets of extreme poverty in the US. She said her liberal readers needed their social and economic injustice fix, and she was their dealer.