Dipping a diaper, Jean said, “At the time I couldn't imagine it.” She sat back on her heels and pushed a loose strand of hair off her face. “I guess we'll be doing lots of things we didn't plan on.”
Laurel scrubbed, rinsed, and hung the blue jeans on a makeshift clothesline. Next she washed a pair of Justin's pants. After that she sat on the bank and gazed downstream. Trees hugged the bank and green grass blanketed the ground beneath them. She longed to sit in the shade and dip her feet in the creek. With a sigh, she returned to washing clothes. When only one dress and a blouse remained, she asked, “Mama, do you mind if I take a walk?”
“Where?”
“Down the creek a ways.”
“That's fine, but don't go far. I don't know how long we'll be here.”
“I'll listen for the whistle.” Feeling like a child just released from school, Laurel wanted to skip. But knowing it was undignified for a woman to do such a thing, she forced herself to walk. When the train was out of sight, she sat in the shade of a willow rooted in the bank, then laid back and stared up at the tree. Its branches reached nearly to the ground, and Laurel felt protected, almost as if she were home. Laurel sat up and removed her shoes and stockings. Dipping her feet into the cold water made her shiver.
A click disturbed her quiet mood. She looked into the face of the annoying, young reporter. “You again? Have you no manners?”
“Why? What did I do?”
“You should ask people if they want their photograph taken. It's rude to poke that camera into someone's face and snap a picture.”
“I'm just doing my job.” He placed a foot on a log, rested his arm on his thigh, and smiled down at Laurel. “It's just a photograph.”
Embarrassed that he'd found her barefooted and daydreaming, she quickly pulled on her stockings while trying to keep her skirt pulled down over her ankles. She pushed her feet into shoes, laced them, and stood. “Please take pictures of someone else.” Laurel walked away muttering, “All I wanted was a few minutes alone.”
The man followed. “I had to take the photograph. You looked so content and peaceful.” He pointed the camera at her.
The word content caught Laurel by surprise. She'd wanted contentment but thought it had eluded her. The man snapped another picture.
“Stop that!”
“All right.” He let the camera hang on a strap around his neck.
“Why are you following me?”
“It's my job. And … you're the prettiest thing in this God-forsaken place.”
No man had ever spoken to Laurel this way, not even David. Stumped for a response, she stared at the stream.
He said, “I'd like to live along a river some day.”
“We used to. Before things dried up, I'd fall asleep listening to the creek alongside our house.” She bent and plucked a piece of grass, sneaking a glance at the man. Tall and lean, he stood comfortably, staring at the stream. A shock of hair had fallen onto his forehead. He brushed it back unconsciously, but it immediately fell back to his brow. “It would feel wonderful to wash off some of this traveling dirt,” Laurel said.
“Why don't you?” he asked, looking at her with a grin and leaning against a tree.
Laurel could feel her face heat up.
“There are some bushes along the creek over there.” He pointed downstream. “No one would see you.”
That was it. Laurel turned and headed back toward the train.
The reporter gently captured her arm. “Walk with me? I promise not to take any more pictures.”
Laurel jerked her arm out of his grasp.
“I could use some company.”
Laurel didn't know how to respond. He was rude and arrogant, but at this moment his eyes and voice were gentle. He's most certainly a philanderer. I'd be a fool to give him the time of day.
“We can walk along the creek a ways. Just for a few minutes?”
While trying to find a gracious way to refuse, she brushed dirt and grass from her skirt.
“When I was a boy, I used to go fishing whenever I could. Sometimes I'd just walk along the river behind the … the river near where I lived.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
Before Laurel knew it, they were walking. “Shouldn't we go back? They'll be leaving soon.”
“They'll blow the whistle.”
For several moments silence hung between them. Finally Laurel said, “I don't know your name.”
“I know yours,” the man said in his usual arrogant tone. “Laurel Hasper.” He smiled.
“And yours?”
“Adam Dunnavant.” He held out a hand.
Laurel stopped, looked at his hand a moment, then shook it. It was callused. Unusual for a reporter, she thought and continued walking. “So, what do you do besides snap pictures and take notes?”
