River Wild Read online

  I reach my back door and open it. Light floods out onto the deck along with Buddy, who comes barreling out of the door, sniffing around my legs, making shuffling noises, like he’s telling me he was worried.

  “I’m okay, Bud.” I reach down and stroke him.

  He gazes up at me. Then, he seems to register River’s presence, and his eyes dart to him. He eyes River for a good few seconds, like he’s coming to some decision about him. Then, seeming to make his decision, he wags his tail and wanders over to sniff around his feet.

  River ignores him.

  That irritates me.

  “You still have the mutt then.”

  That irritates me even more.

  “Of course I still have Buddy.” I highlight his name even though I know it’s pointless. He’ll call him whatever he wants.

  Realizing he isn’t getting anything from River, Buddy trots on back inside our house.

  “Well … good night,” I say.

  “Why did you come to my house?”

  I sigh again. I seem to do it a lot around this guy. “I already told you.”

  “I know what you said. What I meant was, why didn’t you just call someone?”

  “Like who?”

  He shoves his hand through his thick hair. “The cops.” His words are quieter. “If someone thought there was an intruder in a house, that something bad was happening … a person would normally call the cops. Not go in at their own risk. With a fucking gardening fork as their only weapon.”

  I can’t tell him all the reasons I didn’t call the police.

  I lift my shoulders on the lie. “I guess … I didn’t think.”

  His thick brows draw together. “No other reason?”

  “What other reason would there be?”

  He steps back out of the light of my doorway and into the dark of the night. “No reason.”

  He pushes his hands into his jeans pockets and walks toward the steps.

  “Carrie.” He stops me as I’m closing the door.

  That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.

  And it feels momentous for a reason I can’t put my finger on.

  I don’t answer, as my voice seems to have been stolen, but I know he knows I’m listening.

  “Thanks … for coming.”

  When no one else would.

  He doesn’t say those words out loud, but I somehow know that’s what he means.

  “You’re welcome,” I say to the darkness as he disappears into it.

  Carrie

  I don’t expect to see River today. I can usually go days or weeks without seeing my neighbor. And, especially after last night’s events, I figure it might be months before I see him next.

  I still can’t believe I broke into his house, thinking he was being attacked or something, and acted like a complete tool and embarrassed the heck out of myself and cut my toe open on his table, all with that garden fricking fork in my hand. Total doofus.

  And I’m definitely not thinking about the fact that I saw him naked.

  Very naked.

  Nope, definitely not thinking about that right now.

  Especially not when he’s walking straight toward me because that would be creepy and out of the ordinary. Creepy, me thinking of him naked. Out of the ordinary, him coming over to speak to me.

  Buddy and I pause on the sidewalk outside our house.

  River comes to a stop in front of me. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The same boots on his feet as he had on last night. A beanie on his head, covering that thick hair of his.

  It’s cooler today—thankfully. I’m wearing a long, chunky dark green sweater over black leggings with some walking boots I picked up the other day on discount, and a black-and-white-checkered scarf is knotted around my neck, my hair down and doing its own thing.

  “Red,” he says in that low, dark voice of his.

  “River.” I smile at him.

  He doesn’t smile back. Or say anything else.

  Just stands there, staring at me from beneath those lowered brows in that dark, brooding way of his. But I notice there’s something else in his expression. I can see it in the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. It looks like discomfort.

  He’s uncomfortable.

  I didn’t know he could feel the emotion.

  This is a guy who had no problem standing stark naked in front of me last night. Or saying whatever is in his head. So, I have to wonder what has him feeling uncomfortable.

  Maybe it’s because he thanked you last night, a voice in my head says.

  It could be that. I can’t imagine River is used to thanking anyone for anything.

  But he doesn’t need to feel uncomfortable about that.

  I want to ask him if that is it. Reassure him that he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable about it. But I’m not as straightforward as he is.

  So, instead, I opt to ask what he wants—in a non-rude way, of course—when I notice my gardening fork in his hand.

  “Is that mine?” I gesture to it.

  He looks down at my gardening fork in his hand, like just remembering it’s there. “Oh. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I found it on my living room floor. Thought you might need it. You know, for the next time you decide to do another breaking and entering.”

  “Funny.” I take the gardening fork from him. “And I don’t plan on doing any breaking and entering ever again.”

  “That so?”

  “Yep.”

  “Shame. The highlight of my week was seeing those pajamas of yours.”

  For some reason, his words make me flush.

  Maybe it’s because you’re thinking about the fact that, when you saw him, he wasn’t wearing any pajamas.

  I cough, clearing my throat, which turns into a bit of a choke when I breathe back my own spit.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yep.” I cough again, banging my hand to my chest to clear it.

  I’m definitely not thinking about him naked at all. Nope.

  “Is the baby okay?”

  “What?”

  “Your baby.” His eyes go down to my stomach.

  I’m still not showing. But then I am only ten weeks. I figure I’ll pop anytime soon.

  I instinctively press my hand to my stomach. “Oh, yes. All fine. No problems at all.” So far, no morning sickness, and I think, if I were going to get it, I would’ve by now.

  An awkward silence ensues between us. You know, the type where you have no idea what to say next but no idea how to end the conversation either.

  And, for some inexplicable reason, I don’t want the conversation to end just yet.

  Weirdly, I do actually like talking with him. Well, verbally sparring with him. When I’m not making an ass out of myself in front of him, and he’s not being a mean jerk to me.

  But a part of me also wants him to do his River thing and just turn and walk away without another word.

  Confusing, to say the least.

  I guess one of us should say something. And it looks like that someone is going to be me.

  “So, uh … thanks for bringing this back.” I lift the fork in gesture. “I, um … I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “You and the mutt going somewhere?” he asks, stopping me before I get a chance to leave.

  I smile, ignoring the mutt comment. I know he only does it to get a rise out of me. And that oddly makes me happy, too.

  I bite down on the smile and turn back to him. “Yes. Buddy and I are going to buy a Christmas tree.”

  “Where are you getting it from?”

  “The hardware store in town.”

  “The trees are shit. They don’t last a week.”

  “Oh.” My built excitement at my Christmas tree shopping sinks down into the ground.

  “You need to go to Thistleberry Farm. They have the best Christmas trees,” he tells me.

  That has me perking up a little. “Where is Thistleberry Farm?”

  “New Braunfels
.”

  “And where’s New Braunfels?”

  A smile touches the edge of his lips. Not a full-on smile, but still the first time that I’ve seen his mouth resemble anything close.

  He did laugh last night. Not that I saw that. Only heard it. And it was at my expense.

  I notice he has nice lips. Lower lip is slightly fuller than the top.

  “It’s a thirty-minute drive from here.”

  And my little shred of hope disappears. “Oh.” Well, that’s out then because I still haven’t invested in a car. I really don’t want to use the money I took from Neil. I want to pay for it with my earnings from the diner, and so far, I’m nowhere near getting one, especially not with the money I had to pay out for Buddy’s vet bill. “Do they maybe deliver?” I guess I could call up and say what size tree I wanted. Then, I could pick up some decorations from town while I wait for it to come.

  He shakes his head.

  My lips turn down a little. “Oh. Well, never mind.” I force myself to perk up. “A rubbish tree is better than no tree. Right?”

  “Not really. It’s just a waste of money.”

  Well, thanks for that, River.

  So damn honest. It’s annoying.

  “Well, it’s my only option. So, I’m going with it and making the best of it.”

  The look on his face … it’s like he’s looking at a brand-new species. Something he’s never seen before.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Surprise flickers across his countenance. But it’s gone as quickly as it arrived.

  “Because you’re so fucking odd.”

  Well … okay. Guess I asked for that.

  He shifts on his feet and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “Look … Red, I’m heading out to Thistleberry Farm later. I have something to drop off there. I can take you with me.”

  That brightens me up.

  He’s being nice again. Mean one second. Nice the next.

  It’s whiplash city with this guy.

  And I do really want to take him up on his offer. But I don’t want to impose. I’ve done that once already—the night he took me and Buddy to the vet. Well, twice, if you count last night. Although his truck wasn’t involved in that. Just penises. Well, one penis—his—this garden fork, and my ridiculous pajamas.

  Why am I thinking about it again?

  Because, now, I’m looking at it again. Well, the bulge in his jeans.

  Christ almighty.

  Pregnancy hormones are wreaking havoc on me.

  I blink my eyes away and up. “Are you sure?” I brush my hair behind my ear. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” He’s already backing away from me. “Look, take the mutt for his walk, and when you get back, we can head out to the farm. You can pick a tree out, and we’ll bring it back in my truck.” He turns on his heel and heads back to his house without waiting for my response.

  I watch him walk away. Then, I look down at Buddy. “Well … that was unexpected.” I laugh softly. “Come on, Bud. Let’s get you walked, so I can go pick out our Christmas tree with the whiplash king.”

  Carrie

  “How’s your foot doing?”

  “Oh. My toe. Yes, it’s fine. Thanks again for fixing me up.”

  “I only put a Band-Aid on it.”

  And blew on it …

  Sweet Lord in heaven.

  I swallow down. “Yes, well, I appreciate it.”

  Silence.

  “Did the blood clean up okay?” I ask.

  “What?” His word is sharp, surprising me.

  “My blood that I got on your floor. I’m hoping it didn’t leave a stain.”

  “No. It cleaned up fine.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad.”

  Silence again. The low hum of the engine and the whoosh of noise from passing cars are all that can be heard while River drives us to Thistleberry Farm.

  “Do you mind if I put the radio on?” I ask him.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I reach over and press the On button, bringing the radio to life. “Last Christmas” by Wham! fills the car, and he groans.

  “You don’t like this song?” I ask him.

  “Does anyone?”

  Well, I do. But I keep that nugget of information to myself. Don’t need to give him any more ammo to use against me.

  I select another radio station.

  The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl’s “Fairytale of New York” is playing.

  “I love this song,” I tell River.

  I know everyone is all about Mariah and the other upbeat Christmas songs, but for me, this tale of longing and melancholy is the best. I don’t know what that says about me. Probably nothing good.

  Neil always hated this song.

  That’s possibly one of the reasons I love it so much.

  “You love this song?” He’s skeptically looking at me.

  “Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t believe me.”

  “I’m just surprised. It’s not the most well-known Christmas song in the US. And it has some offensive words in it. Just doesn’t seem like your thing. I thought you’d be more of a ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ kind of girl.”

  Ugh.

  “How do you know the song?” I challenge.

  “It was my gran’s favorite,” he says low.

  Was? Does that mean his gran is no longer with us?

  “Oh. Well, first off, I’m hardly a girl. And, second, you don’t know me well enough to make those kinds of assumptions. And, third, it is exactly my kind of song.” Sad like me.

  “True. I don’t know you well. But I do know that you don’t curse and that you complain—very loudly—when I do.”

  “I do curse. Just not excessively like you. You say the F-word every other word.”

  “Not every other word. At least every third word. And, yeah, I forgot you do curse.” He mockingly taps his fingers to his forehead. “What was it? Oh, yeah. ‘You mother-fudging son of a C-U-Next-Tuesday.’” He mimics my voice—badly, might I add. “You’re a total badass, Red,” he adds drolly.

  I flip him off.

  Laughter bursts from him.

  The sound is wonderful. Just like I heard last night. Deep and husky. But, this time, I’m seeing it, and his face is all lit up. His eyes bright with humor.

  I feel a warmth in my chest. And like I just won something really special. I guess I did. Because I can’t imagine laughter is easily earned from River.

  But he’s laughed twice with you—okay, at you—in two days.

  And you know what? I’ll take it.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  I’m not offended this time because I’m starting to realize that, when River is doling out an insult, maybe it’s not an insult at all.

  “So, you did hear me then.”

  A quick glance. “When?”

  “When you drove over my groceries. That’s when I yelled that you were a mother-fudging son of a C-U-Next-Tuesday.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Well … I guess … it was a shitty thing to do.”

  A shitty thing to do? That’s putting it mildly.

  “Is that your version of an apology?”

  He glances at me, brow raised. “Best you’re gonna get.”

  “Hmm … I’ll take it, I suppose. For now.”

  “For now?”

  I know he’s looking at me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I lean back in the seat, folding my arms over my chest, and say, “Yes. For now.”

  My face is impassive. But I’m smiling inside.

  Standing up to River is … fun. The most fun I’ve had in ages.

  River turns his truck onto a track leading straight to Thistleberry Farm. He pulls up outside the farm store, a
nd my heart leaps with joy.

  Christmas trees are everywhere. And the store is decorated with the most amazing decorations. And there is an inflatable Santa and snowman bobbing about and fake reindeer attached to a sleigh, filled with presents.

  It looks awesome. I bet it looks even better at night when it’s all lit up.

  I wish I could see it at night.

  River’s already out of his truck. I climb out, too. He meets me around my side with a large box in his arms, which he got from the backseat.

  “It’s amazing,” I say with awe.

  He gives me a look. “It’s a store.”

  “I meant, the decorations and the trees. I bet it looks really pretty at night when it’s all lit up,” I voice my earlier thoughts.

  “You like all this Christmas stuff, huh?”

  I stare up at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He gives a shrug and shifts the box in his arms.

  “You need a hand with that?” I ask him.

  He gives me an amused look. “You’re funny, Red. Come on; let’s get this over with.”

  I follow him up the few steps to the store, stopping at the window when I spot the most beautiful glass tree ornaments. “Wow … look at these. They’re gorgeous.”

  There are intricate decorations—little Santas, penguins, stacked gifts, Christmas trees, snowmen and snowwomen, and even a Mrs. Claus. A silver star-shaped glass ornament. A clear glass angel with a gold halo. Standard glass baubles filled with white glitter that looks like a storm, small white feathers, sprigs of Christmas trees, ones that look like glitter galaxies in colors in varying shades of blues and purples. And they’re all made from glass and hand-painted. Or so the sign in the window says.

  “It says they’re made by a local artist.” I tap my finger against the window. “I wonder how much they are. I would love to get some for my tree. Gosh, look at this one …”

  I peer closer to the window. It’s a glass train. The detail on it is intricate. For some reason, I feel a little choked up, looking at it. It looks like so much time and effort went into this one little, tiny Christmas tree ornament. The artist must really love what they do and have so much patience to create something so lovely and delicate.

  “This is beautiful,” I whisper. “I would love to get this for my tree.”

  “They’re expensive. Especially that train. And, at this rate, you won’t get a tree. They’ll all be gone by the time I get you away from this window.”