Making It Up

This is really the last thing I need tonight. The list of things I don’t need is long, but this…she…is the last thing. I realize that’s not a very charitable point of view and I would never say it out loud, at least not to the woman sitting out in the middle of a field as a huge storm is rolling in on top of her, but I’d definitely say it to my co-workers or my brothers. It’s been a long fucking day. I’ve already had to deal with a handful of annoying people, I just dropped off a pissed-off mountain lion that I spent most of the day with, Mother Nature is gearing up to be a bitch tonight, and I have no patience left for one more stupid person who doesn’t take storm warnings seriously. But here I am. Doing my job. Being the good guy. I really just want a beer and a baseball game. But the storm’s going to ruin the TV reception anyway, so… I pull my truck in behind the silver Ford Fiesta. A fucking Fiesta. In a field of grass that comes up to the door handle and soon-to-be mud that could easily cover half the height of her tires. What the fuck is she doing out here? She’s seventeen miles from town, it’s nearly ten p.m., it’s dark, and the thunderstorm that’s bringing torrential rain, sixty-five mile per hour winds, and golf ball-sized hail, with possible tornadoes—because of course, will be here in about twenty minutes. And she’s not by the side of the road or somewhere logical. She’s in the middle of a goddamned field. On private property, but far enough away from the house that no one would see her or know she’s here for, possibly, days. Now that the mountain lion that’s been roaming lately and making Bill Carter’s horses twitchy, and Bill twitchy, has been relocated, I can pull all the traps. I’d love to let that wait until tomorrow, but because of the pending rain, wind, and hail, I have to ensure a fox, raccoon, or stray cat doesn’t accidentally spend a stormy night in one. So I’ve been out for the past two hours. Good thing for this woman. She’d be spending the stormy night out here alone if it wasn’t for how crappy my day has been. I pull in behind her and put my floodlights on. I swear to God, if she’s out here fishing or camping or something, I’m ticketing her and hauling her ass into town immediately. I’m not listening to explanations or excuses tonight. Nice Guy David signed off about six hours ago. She gets out of the car and turns toward the truck as I get out. She lifts her hand, shielding her eyes from the bright lights at the top of my truck, the wind whipping her long dark hair around under the ball cap she’s wearing. I take her in as I climb out. She’s in decent boots and blue jeans. At least she realized she needed sturdy footwear to walk around out here. But she’s only wearing a short-sleeved tee and that ball cap otherwise. It’s early August so a lack of layers makes sense. It was over ninety degrees today. Typical. But I hope to God she’s smart enough to use sunscreen and cover her arms if she’s messing around in tall grass and weeds. There’s poison ivy and poison oak, wild parsnip, sumac… I draw a breath. An allergic skin reaction on this woman is probably the least of my worries right now. We’re about fifty yards from the river to the east and about a mile off the access road that led her into this field. We’re four miles from the gravel road to the west and it’s another four miles to the paved highway beyond that. And north and south of us is nothing but rolling prairie dotted with trees here and there. We’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere. And it’s dark. Even darker than ten p.m. would typically be. The clouds have blocked out what had been a nearly full moon and there isn’t a streetlight, a house light, or even another headlight for fucking miles. I stomp toward her. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” “Wow,” she says, planting her hands on her hips as the wind continues to whip her hair around her face. “Hi. I’m fine. Well, maybe a little dehydrated. Starving. Definitely bored. But mostly fine. Thanks for asking.” Great. Dehydrated. Starving. She just put a couple of marks on the Things To Worry About and Things That Will Make Her My Problem lists. Yes, I have two different lists going. Things To Worry About and Things That Will Make Her My Problem. I was hoping to keep from putting anything on either of those. Other than the pending tornado of course. Fuck. The wind molds the T-shirt she’s wearing to her body and I note that she’s slim and her skin is pale—and not covered with red marks or rashes from poison plants—but her arms are muscular. Hey, I have to catalog if she’s injured or holding a weapon, seems to be having a medical incident, or is under the influence of any substances. I swear to God if she’s drunk or high… Deep breath. The fact that I also note her curves and that her hair has long, loose curls is secondary to all of that. We’re out in a fucking field in the middle of nowhere with an approaching storm. I’m not going to ask her out. Plus, she’s the type to be out in a fucking field in the middle of nowhere with an approaching storm. She’s not my type. Hell, as far as I know, she just robbed the bank or she’s a serial killer hiding out here to stay off the radar. Okay, I would have heard if the bank had been robbed or if there had been any suspicious deaths. Chances are she was out here fucking around and got stuck. So, she’s got a great shape and isn’t very bright. Which means now I need to worry about her rather than getting my ass back to town before I’m pelted by hail or swept up by a tornado. Or worse, my new truck is. “So you’re fine?” I ask dryly. She shrugs. “My naked moon dancing is completely ruined but hey, there will be another full moon, right?” “You were going to…” I sigh. I don’t care. She’s trespassing. And there’s a fucking tornado coming. That’s all that matters. “This is private property.” “Bob Sanders,” she says with a nod. “He knows I’m here.” “Bob is cool with naked moon dancing?” Bob Sanders is seventy-two, has farmed this land for sixty of those, starting back when he helped his father as a kid, and goes to church every Sunday. Bob’s raised five children and twelve grandchildren on this land, buried his parents and his wife of forty-eight years on this land, and has let many kids learn to hunt and fish on this land. I don’t think Bob’s down for naked moon dancing on this land. “Bob doesn’t ask me a lot of questions,” she says. “I’m going to have to talk to him about that.” I take a step forward. “After I lecture you about not coming out this far by yourself this late at night.” “Because I’m a woman? “she asks, stepping toward me. I frown. “Because you could get a flat tire.” I gesture toward her car. Now that I'm closer, I can see her back driver’s side tire is flat. There is a jack next to it and a spare tire lying on the grass, but it’s clear she didn’t have level ground and couldn’t get the car jacked up to change it. Still, it seems she tried. That’s something. “And…forget your phone?” I pose it as a question because I assume there’s a reason she hasn’t called anyone. She holds a phone up and wiggles it. “Died.” “Exactly. So you shouldn’t be this far out by yourself.” “I have to come this far out to get good prints.” I frown. “Prints?” “Animal footprints. Or pawprints. I’m doing a project.” I take another step forward, frowning. She was out wandering around by herself looking for animal prints? “What kind of animals?” “All kinds. Rabbits, raccoons, foxes, coyotes.” “Mountain lions?” Her eyes widen. “That would be amazing.” “That would not be amazing,” I say. “Mountain lion prints are made by mountain lions.” She waits a beat, as if waiting for me to go on. I don’t need to go on. “Well…” she finally says. “Yes. Obviously.” There’s a loud crack of thunder overhead just then and we both jump. I scowl up at the sky. She’s not at risk from a mountain lion right now thanks to me, but she is about ten minutes away from possibly being thunked in the head with a big piece of hail. “We need to get out of here,” I say, turning on my heel. “Wait, what? You’re not going to change my tire?” I turn back. “I am definitely not going to change your tire.” “Why not?” “I appreciate you thinking I’m some kind of super hero here, but the ground is too soft and uneven for me to use that jack too.” “So how am I going to get my car back to the road?” “I’m guessing by towing it.” “Are you going to tow it?” “I am not.” “Why not?” I sigh and stalk back to where she’s standing. “Because it’s late, I don’t have a chain with me, it’s about to get really fucking wet and windy, and, maybe most of all, I don’t want to.” Her eyes widen. Then she glances back at her car. “I can’t just leave it out here.” “You should have thought of that before you drove it out here.” “I didn’t mean to get a flat tire!” “You should still always prepare for anything. Does anyone even know you’re out here?” I ask, that suddenly occurring to me. “Why hasn’t anyone come out here looking for you?” “I…” She trails off and it’s clear she doesn’t want to answer me. Which is an answer all on its own. “You didn’t tell anyone,” I say flatly. “I didn’t think I needed to.” “Why didn’t you keep your phone charged?” Fine, so she could have hit something with her tire. I’ve had a flat or two—or four—being off-road in these fields and hills, and a couple of times just sticking to main roads. It happens. But I always had a phone and my radio with me.