Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Personally … I’m in trouble.
Because the Wilder brothers aren’t just nice to look at. I’m also in awe of how they move through the mountains.
Rhett leads, and he doesn’t talk much because he doesn’t have to. He lifts two fingers, and Boone drifts left to check the slope. He tips his head toward a narrow cut between spruce and aspen, and Cade adjusts without a word. Even though they don’t often stay close to each other, they move as a unit, like one mind split across three bodies.
It’s incredibly distracting, because those bodies are six-plus feet of broad shoulders, hard muscle, dense dark beards, and identical features that keep catching me off guard.
Their builds are the same, and so is their thick brown hair, though Boone’s is more unruly because he frequently pushes his hand through it. The brothers share the same strong nose, same sharp bone structure, and the same mouth, though it looks too firm on Rhett, too still on Cade, and too amused on Boone.
It’s one of the many ways I can tell them apart, and only one hour into our trek, I realize I don’t even have to think about who’s who.
I’ve always been good at noticing details, even before it was part of my job, so it’s second nature to catalog what I observe about these three intriguing men.
Rhett moves with his shoulders squared and keeps his attention forward, though I have no doubt he knows exactly where I am behind him at all times. There’s even a commanding quality to him when he’s standing still. When he stops, everyone else does too, including me, which is irritating.
Cade’s movements are quieter than the forest surrounding us. One minute, he’s ten yards ahead, partially obscured in the shadows of a tall pine. Seemingly in an instant, he’ll appear on the other side of the trail, observing a broken branch with narrowed eyes and an admirably intense focus.
Boone stays closest to me. When the trail narrows near a steep drop-off, he’s at my shoulder. When we approach a fallen tree blocking the path, he gives me the easiest route around it before I have to think about it. As we walk, he tells me about interesting spots in the distance.
“That saddle runs down to Lost Creek.” He leans in close so we share the same vantage point, and points to the west, where jagged peaks rise beyond the trees. “It looks innocent when you approach it, but the shale can break loose under your feet when you’re halfway across.”
I try to follow along, but I get sidetracked watching his mouth.
It’s a nice mouth. Wide, warm, and far too expressive. The corner of it lifts higher when he notices me looking, and my stomach jolts like I’ve missed a step on a descent.
I immediately drop my attention to my GPS and check the coordinates with unnecessary focus. “Good to know.”
Boone’s smile deepens. “Happy to help.”
I don’t look at him again for a full three minutes, and I deserve a medal for my restraint.
A couple of hours later, we’re far enough from the main trail that the casual hikers have disappeared. Gradually, the forest closes in, and the air turns cooler beneath the trees. Patches of snow still linger in shady areas, even as wildflowers bloom in the sun. The invigorating scent of damp earth surrounds me, and I breathe it in deep.
For far too long, I’ve been stuck behind a desk, doing paperwork, attending budget meetings, and analyzing digital images instead of gathering data directly.
Today, the ache in my calves, the birdsong and the squirrel chatter, and the gorgeous spring color palette are all reminding me why I chose the career path I did.
I feel alive like I haven’t in years, and it isn’t only because three ruggedly handsome men are making my pulse race, though they’re definitely a factor.
By midmorning, we reach one of my target areas, a narrow wildlife corridor between a water source and a forested approach to the western ridgeline. It should be active, and according to older trail-cam data, elk, mule deer, coyotes, black bears, and smaller mammals all used to move through here.
The Wilders give me space as I take note of the browse pressure on young aspen, scat too dry to be recent, and a game trail that should show fresh elk movement but doesn’t. There are places where deer have passed through, but there are fewer signs than expected.
On paper, it had pointed to a disturbing pattern. Out here, standing in the quiet corridor that should show ample signs of movement, it feels wrong.
As I’m measuring old impressions in the soil, Cade materializes by my side. I manage not to startle, only because I feel him a half-second before I see him.
He crouches several feet away, giving me space. “You expected more.”