by Leslie Pike
The River In Spring
Leslie Pike
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Also by Leslie Pike
About the Author
Copyright 2021 Leslie Pike
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication, may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: Virginia Tesi Casey
Proofreading: Michele Ficht
Cover: Kari March Designs
For Cynthia,
I feel you in my soul. You are a spectacular woman.
1
Nobel
Can you be called a Peeping Tom if you’re on your own property? Either way I have no intention of looking away. Arrest seems a small price to pay. Besides, the stranger has to take some of the blame. Yesterday, even from a distance, I could see the woman’s part in my undoing as a lifelong introvert. What made her guilty couldn’t have been more obvious.
It was the honey colored skin-tone, forcing me to come up with descriptions like honey colored. The blonde hair, escaping from under the wide-brimmed hat as she fished. One long wavy strand, and how it made this man’s imagination swell. I become bold in my dreams. In bed last night I thought about the sun-kissed curl. How I would wrap it around my finger and give it a tuck under the brim. Yes, I’d like to tuck her.
That is why I’m heading back to the high spot at the edge of the spread, binoculars around my neck. That detail alone would prove premeditation. At times being an attorney is a buzzkill. Feigning ignorance is no defense. There is no hiding from the fact behaving like a stalker is wrong. As easy as it was to reach that ironclad conclusion, I am just as sure to ignore the inconvenient truth. In this case I will do what I want. Nobody will ever know.
For the first few yards, Maudie has been my shadow. I am surprised she’s made it that far from the house before taking a seat on the grass. Maybe there is a fear if I don’t see her, she’ll be forgotten. Never. The late morning air is still crisp, and it makes the pain worse. My hound is like an old woman with sagging jowls and sad eyes. Never far from the ache of arthritic joints.
The limp is getting more pronounced, but she pushes to keep up. I take it slow. A best friend deserves that mercy and anything else I can do to make her last months bearable. Fucking cancer. Dogs should be exempt from an illness so ravaging, just by virtue of the fact they love without conditions. Their loyalty seems purer than ours. Why didn’t a God reward that?
I give her a rub and a few kisses on the snout, then move alone across the field of newly blossomed wildflowers. The scent of that purple flower growing everywhere is heavy. Forget its name, but I have seen it bloom in springtime for twelve seasons now. It appears for just a short time. All the most beautiful ones are like that.
This is my spot. If man feels the call of one setting, this is mine. I have hidden from life here before when it was required. And now, I cannot picture living anywhere else. The only thing missing is a woman who can love a loner. A nearly middle-aged man set in his ways looking for the one. But the flaw in the plan is there is no plan. She would have to appear out of the mist or come knocking. And being able to live like this only works if you are of the same mind. Good luck with that.
Reaching the thicket of trees, I weave my way through. She accompanies my thoughts. Again. It keeps happening. As soon as my eyes opened this morning, images of the mountain girl came. It’s odd a stranger can occupy so much space in an already crowded mind. I haven’t even had a good look at her face yet. Maybe the fact we will never know each other has captured my attention and made this two day obsession explainable. There is no harm in looking. Appreciating.
Yesterday I spotted her camped on the river running through my land. Normally it might have pissed me off. But the laws of Montana, as they pertain to private property, are on the fisherman’s side. With the purchase of the property the realtor made sure it was known. If they can access a fishing hole by way of a public road, it’s theirs to use. That’s only half the story. There is only one way down from the road, and it is not an easy trek.
Got to give it to the girl. In the years I’ve owned this place, only one other person put in the hard work it takes to reach the fishing spot. That was seven, eight years ago at least. The white-bearded baldheaded man looked like he could fight a grizzly. The image fit the task.
The fact this woman carried supplies for at least a two day trip is impressive by virtue of her size alone. By the time I spotted her, a tent was pitched, a fire pit made, and a place to clean the fish organized. She’s got mad skills.
I come to the scene, and angle myself between two trees for a good view. Luckily, the sound of size thirteen footsteps doesn’t carry down the incline to the river’s bank. The rushing waters muffle any crunch of stones that might reach there anyway.
I am just high enough above and far enough away from where she stands in the shallows. A psycho killer would find this place perfect for hiding. Shit. Comparing my habits to a murderer isn’t a good sign. At the very least, if she turned and spotted me, I’d look a fool. But that unlikely scenario isn’t going to stop me. After all, my mother didn’t give me the nickname The Invisible Man for nothing.
I was a quiet, sneaky kid, who liked observing things without anyone knowing they were being watched. It was a superpower over my brothers who didn’t realize I was gathering evidence in case they tried to rat on me for something to take the heat off themselves. That happened regularly until my sneakiness caught up with their blame game.
So I raise the binoculars for a better look. With a confidence that must be born of experience, she casts her fly. Think that’s what they call it. My zero experience with fly-fishing makes this interesting. Out of my box. It’s not just her looks that appeal, it’s how well she’s navigating the river and the command of the rod. I’d like her to command my rod.
There’s no hesitation in her movements. It’s pure confidence. By the look of her body, I’d say she’s closer to twenty than thirty. But that could be because she’s so physically fit. Great ass, honey. Legs too. Thankfully, she doesn’t have waders or a boxy shirt on. Cut-off jean shorts, a sleeveless white t-shirt under a fishing vest, and sturdy boots ankle deep in the cold water complete the picture. Bet her nipples are hard. Nipples.
This sexy, sporty, just happens to be younger than me woman, can handle the wild outdoors. That’s fucking hot. And, what does age matter? She could be a hundred and twelve, and I’d still be looking. The fact I am forty-three doesn’t fa
ctor in the story. Damn hat. Take it off and turn around. Let me see your face.
The rod bends. Hard. She’s hooked one! I’ve never been so happy for a fisherman. Fisherwoman? Who cares? There’s a trout on the line. There’s no show of excitement. Only calmness, like it was expected. I’m more excited about the catch than she appears to be. In a flash of movements, the fish is reeled in squirming. What a beauty. She lifts it to the sun and appreciates the catch. The sky is a perfect blue. This would be a great photo for the good life in Montana.
Wading back to the shore, where the camp is, turns out to be a show. The muscles in her calves and thighs are awesome. Man. She squats on the riverbank. Doesn’t seem like it’s any effort to sit in that position. Fantasies of an uninhibited cowgirl riding atop me appear unannounced but welcome.
She unhooks the hapless fish and goes to toss it into a large bucket of water. But then a pause. Walking back to the shore, she returns the fish to the water. Interesting.
Then a prayer I wasn’t aware I was making is answered. The hat gets tossed to the blanket laying beside the tent, and golden hair comes tumbling down. Good God Goldilocks. I’d like to have a fistful of that as we fuck each other on the mountain. What is she doing? Damn. The binoculars are hardly helping. She climbs to the entry of the tent situated higher on the incline. All I can see are legs now. She turns. Fuck! I’ve lost the view just when things were getting interesting.
Then she’s gone, ducking into the tent, for who knows why or for how long. If only I could see inside. But at this angle it wouldn’t be anything more than legs anyway. Higher. I need to get higher, over the branches that block the show. How?
My sweater comes off and gets tossed on the stones bordering the trees. Pushing up the sleeves of my shirt, I study the way forward. What’s the next move? My best bet is to climb the tree leaning over the incline. It looks sturdy enough to support a hundred and seventy-three pounds. Maybe seventy-six after the ice cream I’ve had this week. And last week. Maybe the week before too. Now that I think about it, it’s a staple. My hand wraps around the nearest branch and gives it a shake to test the sturdiness.
Then the most unbelievable thing happens. Mountain Girl comes out from the tent, and although I can’t see above her thighs, I think she may be in a swimsuit. I always was able to see the edge of the shorts before.
Oh hell yeah! She starts stretching. She’s fucking stretching! And what my will is up against is revealed, like a golden nugget among a pan of grey pebbles. Her legs widen and she bends to touch her toes. Right side, left side. Just kill me now, because there’s never going to be a better sight than this. Naked as the day she was born. Neked.
She takes a step forward. I get a better look. Teases of her face, firm small boobs, and a full bush pussy like the bunnies in my grandfather’s old Playboys. My first masturbation prompts were full bushed women. Just sayin’. She could bring it back.
Then the universe decides to double-down on its gift. The remarkable becomes otherworldly. Squats. One. Two. Three. Four. If I remain conscious it will go down in my life as the most unexpectedly exciting moment. The binoculars get readjusted. That’s it. God Almighty, thank you for this remarkable gift. I will never lose appreciation for this moment. What did I do to deserve this? Obviously, I suffered a horrible death in a previous life and now I’m being rewarded with a glimpse of pussy heaven.
I’m frozen in place, maybe in the throes of an illusion. A fantasy. A lust filled dream. All three. One thing is real. My dick is getting harder by the moment. Fact. Never again will I see such an innocently erotic scene. Even if I live to be a hundred. I’d love to applaud and whistle my appreciation, but that would blow my cover.
So I climb, like an ape in the jungles of Africa who just picked up the scent of the female in a tree. Hand to limb, legs wrapped around branches, I rise. It’s not quite as easy as it was back in the day, but I’m getting the job done. This one’s a little out of my reach but I think I can grab on if I can stretch far enough. Shit! Ripped the shirt. So what? Keep going. I aim for a strong branch that angles to the right. There’s a good view from there.
But when I swing my leg over and take a seat, it’s blocked by the foliage of another branch. It’s not quite as thick as the one I’m sitting on now, but it looks strong enough. Think so. Shit! She’s walking into deeper water. Seventy-five percent of her rocking body is on display, and nothing of the face. Need to get on the other limb. Very carefully, I move from one to the other, making sure to keep quiet as I do. This is an undercover job worthy of the sneakiest fictional detective. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to uncover the truth. It is a job for The Invisible Man.
I make it across, one rough limb to another, just as she enters the river. Now I see it all. Wow. For a mountain girl she’s very feminine in her movements. She relaxes into deeper water. Perfectly muscled arms and graceful fingers take easy strokes. As she turns over to float I see all of her. Great face. All American natural beauty. She’s young and sexy and I’m a pervert sitting in a tree.
There’s an expression of contentment on her face that can’t be faked. Even from here it’s obvious. If I can just edge out a little further, I would have an unobstructed view. No matter how far she swims. Inch by inch, leaf by leaf, it takes a full minute to get in place. Ah. That’s perfect. I’m a genius.
The sharp cracking sound of the branch, about to give way, is the unmistakable clue. I freeze, hoping stillness will save the day. It doesn’t. The branch and I fall in one unit, as if I’m part of the tree.
The fifteen foot drop is cushioned by the incline. But on the way down my body connects with every lower branch and outgrowth. And for some stupid reason it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Face, ribs, shoulder, ass. No body part is left untouched, and I feel the jabs and stab of the sharp edges.
Slamming into the earth is harder than I remember from my football days in high school. It comes at me in real time now, and the sound of man versus hill gives me away. Slowed by the impact and soft mud, I slowly slide headfirst to the shore. Peripherally, I see movement in the water.
“What the hell?” she yells over the river’s voice.
It’s not fear I hear, but anger. Don’t blame her. Shit, am I in one piece?
“Sorry. I’m really so sorry,” I call from face-plant position.
I’m too embarrassed to raise my head and look at the girl. Close ups of stones in mud are a better choice. Maybe if I just lay here contemplating the pebble poking against my nose it will all be a dream. I try becoming invisible. It’s not working.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay down till I’m out of the water. I’ve got a rifle and I’m not afraid to use it on a guy who gets his jollies hiding in a tree looking at naked women.”
It’s a command. The sound of water splashing as she moves quickly to the shore gives me a few seconds to form a story. Let’s see. What can I say? The binoculars lay a few feet away. There’s just one shot at selling the lie. I come up on my elbows but stare straight ahead.
“I’m a bird-watcher. Thought I could get a better look at the Yellow-Tailed Warbler I caught sight of. It was a rare sighting this far North.”
That sounds feasible, right? I point to the binoculars, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I’m acutely aware of how pathetic they sound. Like I made up a bird name. Which I did. God, I’m screwed.
She calls from the tent. “For a bad liar and a deviant, you don’t look like a pervert.”
“All men are perverts,” I admit.
Footsteps on the shore.
Her unexpected laughter fills the space and echoes off the canyon. I turn my head to see Mountain Girl with a hand covering her mouth. Jean shorts and a boxy checkered shirt cover all the good parts. She closes the top button.
“Yellow-Tailed Warbler. Good try.”
When we lock eyes it’s impossible to ignore the humor in the situation. Laughter rises in me. It’s pretty funny. And I’m one lucky guy. She’s
taking the whole thing really well. There’s not one mention of arrest.
“Come on. Admit it. There was no bird. You were sneaking a peek and you fell out of the tree. I’ll go easy on you if you just tell the truth.”
There’s a smile on that sweet face, not an accusatory frown. Interesting. Your honor, I’d like to enter into evidence the plaintiff’s expression.
“Okay,” I say, relaxing for the first time. “I was taking a walk, and I saw you. Can you really blame a man?”
There’s no reason to tell her it’s my property. Instead, I give my best forgive me smile. She’s not charmed.
“Yes I can. And I do.” The expression and tone have suddenly turned serious. The laughter has stopped.
“Oh. I’m really sorry. I mean, I‘ll get out of your way.”
I regroup and attempt to stand, but my fucking ankle is shooting lightning bolts.
“Not so fast, Mr. Peepers. I’m going to need your name.”
The reality of the situation settles. Oh shit. I’m screwed. I’d run if it was a possibility. Just hightail it along the river and double back to my place. But she’s got me. Fuck!
I stop trying to get up on my own and make the case for forgiveness.
“Wait. Let’s not go there. I know you have every right, but if you’d just bring me that chair over there, I’ll get up and leave you to your fishing. Please. I’m really sorry. It was stupid of me.”
I sit up straight and run a hand through my hair. A twig with one leaf falls to my shoulder. She’s watching and deciding the next move.
“What’s your name?” She says it with a frown.