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

“That would explain the state of your backside,” she said, and she brushed the dirt off the back of my pants.

I looked over my shoulder and down. “Did you get it all?”

“Good enough.”

I stuck my butt out. “Are you sure?”

She slapped me on the butt—and not lightly. “Get moving. It’s too cold to stand still.”

I obliged, and she kept pace at my side.

“So, what brought you from California to the trail?” I asked.

She chuckled. “It’s a long story.”

I smiled at her. “We’re not short on time. And I’m a good listener.”

“Well, I’m here mainly to document charity work.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Yep. Volunteer doctors and nurses from around the country come to Appalachia. I’m documenting some of the work they’re doing.”

I stopped. “Wait. What?” I tilted my head to the side. “You’re not with—” The coincidence was too extraordinary that I didn’t finish my sentence.

Though I’d stopped, she continued walking and continued talking, too. “I stop off at towns and villages along the trail, visit the clinics, talk to doctors and nurses, take photos, write about them. It’s to raise money for the charity.”

She was well ahead of me now. I ran after her, stumbling over my feet.

“You okay back there?”

She paused long enough for me to catch up. “That’s crazy,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m always off doing crazy things.”

“No, I mean, the coincidence, it’s crazy. You… you’re.…” I stammered.

She stopped again and looked back at me. “What?”

“You’re—” I caught myself before repeating what Doctor Raskin had told me: You’re the eccentric wealthy socialite married to a politician who’s always off on adventures to raise money for charities.

“You’re here to do charity,” I said.

“To document the charity,” she corrected. “I’m just writing about it.” Then she looked at me. “And you? What’s your story?”9HollyI had been hiking for three days straight. Already I’d found my “hiker’s legs”; I wasn’t sore but invigorated. I’d slept two nights in a tent—and surprisingly well. I still had one more night of sleeping in a tent and another day’s hike before I was scheduled to stop off in Franklin, North Carolina. Though I enjoyed the workout and the opportunity to think and let my imagination wander, I was itching to get to my next stop and see the reaction my first blog entry had garnered. I was equally anxious to meet the people in Franklin and post my second entry.

I still maintained a quiet hope that Ryker would be in Franklin and that I would get to meet him. It was a fantasy, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. And hiking alone in the mountains gave fuel to my fantasies. They were mostly what kept me company. I had even formed a picture of Ryker in my mind: tall, rugged, blond with blue eyes, not unlike the photo of Devon that Mrs. Fieldman had shown me back in my office.

I told myself that what was most important was the bond that we shared: two fish out of water, looking to connect with people in need, looking to connect with our roots. I told myself that it didn’t matter much what he looked like. And sometimes, I even believed it.

The temperature had dropped considerably. And I suspected that would continue as evening approached; even light snow was expected. Though I was making great time, I allowed myself a little detour off the main path, letting myself be tempted by the side trails and dips into the hidden brush below. I heard the running of river water and went to have a look. Better satisfy my curiosity now, before the weather makes that inadvisable if not impossible.

I wasn’t alone. About a hundred feet upstream, a man was sunbathing on a rock. I would have gone to him and introduced myself but for the fact that he was completely naked. I didn’t mind, of course. He was fit and bronzed. I stared at him a while from a distance.

It took him a few minutes to notice that I was there. When he did, he put on a pair of boxers. He waved to me. I waved back to him.

Normally, I don’t approach strange men in the wild wearing nothing but boxers, but normally, I don’t sleep in a tent and hike through the Appalachian Mountains. So, I embraced the new normal and walked over to him.

He looked to be about my age—mid-twenties—with dark hair and a dark complexion, physically fit, but more muscular than I’d expect from a hiker with broad shoulders and slated abs, smooth with sharp cuts not unlike the slab of rock he was lying on.

Though he tried to play it cool, I could tell he was embarrassed at being caught without his clothes on. Instead of putting him at ease, like a normal person might, by shifting my attention to the surrounding landscape, I checked him out from head to foot and back again with no effort to hide my wandering eyes. This also was not something I normally did.