Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Rhodes had warned me about just how sketchy the drive up was since I was going to try to hike to the lake from a different starting point, but I should’ve known he didn’t blow things out of proportion or exaggerate. The road had been s-k-e-t-c-h-y. I’d been gripping the steering wheel for dear life for part of the route, the road was so rutted and littered with sharp rocks. I’d told myself to ask him when was the last time he’d been up because, even though I figured he trusted my driving skills enough to send me this way instead of the route I’d gone the last time, my gut said Mr. Overprotective would have been pushier about me not driving up alone if he’d known it was this level of shitty.
That or he really believed in me.
I’d only regretted being stubborn about doing this every thirty seconds.
I had a bad feeling in my stomach when my phone rang and CLARA flashed across the screen.
According to the text she’d sent me as I was leaving Rhodes’s, she had been about to leave her house. She should’ve been somewhere close by, behind me, if not already here. And I knew that wasn’t the case because there were two vehicles in the clearing that doubled as parking for the start of the hike, and neither of them were hers.
“Hey,” I greeted, leaning my head back against the headrest and sensing the unease pool in my stomach again.
“Aurora,” Clara answered. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the trailhead,” I confirmed, eyeing the very blue skies. “Where you at?”
She cursed.
“What happened?”
“I’ve been trying to call you, but it wasn’t going through. My car won’t start. I called my brother, but he’s still not here yet.” She cursed again. “You know what? Let me call the tow truck service and—”
I didn’t want her to spend money on a tow truck service. She’d been stressing enough about money when she thought I wasn’t looking or paying attention, but at-home care for her dad ate up a massive chunk of the store’s earnings.
Plus, we both also knew this was my last chance to do this hike this year, more than likely. October was knocking on the door. The drought had kept the summer warm and the start of fall warmer than normal, but Mother Nature was getting bored. The temperatures were going to start dropping soon and snow was going to start being a real thing in higher elevations. If I didn’t do it now, it’d be eight months before I could even think about doing this again. Maybe next week would still be fine, but it was a hard maybe.
“No, don’t do that,” I told her, trying to figure out what to say. “Wait for your brother. The drive here was rough anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the washboard”—that was crazy horizontal ruts that resembled a washboard on the road—“is unreal.” I paused and tried to think; it would easily be three hours before she got here, if she was even able to. By that point, it’d be late morning and we’d be cutting it too close to dark. And that damn drive back . . .
I wasn’t scared to do the hike alone. I worried more about other people than I did encountering animals. Plus, I was more prepared this time. I could handle it.
“I’m sorry. Damn it. I can’t believe this happened.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I hope your brother gets there soon and it’s not anything serious.”
“Me too.” She paused and said something away from the phone before coming back. “I’ll do it with you next week.”
I knew what I was going to do. I had to. This was why I’d come.
It was just a hike—a hard one, sure, but plenty of people did difficult ones. I wasn’t camping. And there were two cars parked here.
“It’s okay. I know you were just going to do it to keep me company, and I’m already here.”
I heard the caution in her tone. “Aurora—”
“The weather is good. The drive was shit. I’m early enough to knock this out in about seven hours. There are two cars here. I’m in peak condition to get this shit done. I might as well get it over with, Clara. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s a difficult hike.”
“And you told me that you have a friend that runs it by himself,” I reminded her. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be out of here while I still have hours of sunshine left. I got this.”
There was a pause. “Are you sure? I’m sorry. I feel bad I’m always bailing on you.”
“Don’t feel bad. It’s okay. You’ve got a life and so many responsibilities, Clara. I get it, I swear. And I’ve done other ones by myself. Start doing some jumping jacks or something so we can do an eleven-mile one-way hike next year.”