A weathered sign stapled to a tree identified it as walking trail on the west side of the eight-hundred acre lake. She didn’t have time to explore much, but decided to look around a little, anticipation of her lunch date with Coop uppermost in her mind.
His suggestion they become friends filled her with both trepidation and joy; as did the dream last night.
Did she dream the kiss? Even now, her lips tingled at the thought, and her fingers relished the coarse texture of chest hair as they pushed through it.
She gritted her teeth and concentrated on the narrow, rock-filled trail.
About a hundred yards in, gooseflesh pebbled her arms when a sudden chill enveloped her. Sounds of the forest ceased immediately, and the sudden silence became unnerving.
Jack growled low in his throat, ears thrust forward, listening.
The hairs on the back of her neck tingled, and she whirled around. Nobody there.
Despite temperatures near eighty, another cold breeze swept her face, followed by feelings of loss and sadness so acute, her knees buckled, and she grabbed the nearest tree for support. She flinched when something brushed against her ear, soft as a butterfly’s kiss. Not a voice, no words, but the sense of someone needing help overcame her.
Find me.
By the time she pulled into the gas station on the edge of town, the shaking ceased and Jack no longer whined. The whole experience left her unsettled and the sensation that something horrible had happened there still lingered.
Maybe I can ask Coop at lunch.
Even as the thought formed, she dismissed it. He would think she was crazy. She made a vow to return as soon as possible and…do what?
She inserted the nozzle in the tank, and looked up when a maroon pickup swerved into the spot behind her.
A young man in worn jeans and dark Stetson hat slid out. His smile faded to a scowl as he approached the Bronco.
No one had to tell her he belonged to Coop. The resemblance was uncanny.
“You must be Jason,” she said as the pumped kicked off.
He scowled and took another step. “And you are…?”
She waited for her receipt to print, then walked toward him, right hand extended. “Samantha Fowler. I’m a guest at The Grove.”
His grip was firm, his gaze steady. “That’s my dad’s Bronco.”
“He let me use it today.”
He blinked, eyebrows shooting upward. “What do you have on him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I can count on one hand the number of times he’s let me drive it. And he was usually in the seat beside me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His Coop-like grin made her stomach clinch.
“What do you have on him?”
“He said my car was too nice for a house call today down a dirt road. He insisted I use this.”
“Must be some car.”
“I guess you could say a fifty-six Chevy convertible qualifies.”
He stood up straighter. “You have a fifty-six? A convertible?”
“I do.”
“V6 or V8?”
“V8, three speed manual, dual exhaust, four barrel carburetor, blue and white.”
“Can I drive it?” A dimple appeared in his left cheek, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
She laughed. “Like father like son.”
His face settled into an unreadable mask. “I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”
She stuffed the receipt in her back pocket. “We’re not…seeing each other. I’m a guest at The Grove.”
