[2015] Just the Essentials

by Shari L. Tapscott

  I watched a television special once about a man who studied grizzly bears. He stocked a tent with food and set up a dummy. The bear leaped on the tent and smashed it down. Then, using her jaws, she grabbed hold of the fabric and ran off with the whole thing.

  Luckily, we don’t have grizzlies in Colorado. Or wolves. We have moose, though. And there was that other special—

  Enough.

  I take a deep breath, say a prayer, and remind myself that I am a grown woman. A strong, independent—what was that?

  Frozen, I lie here, straining to hear the noise again. At my feet, the tent moves. Snuffling noises join the movement, and then, to my horror, a huge shadow appears.

  “Sorry, Kinsley,” Sara calls. “It’s just Sadie.”

  My heart beats so loudly, I’m sure she can hear it. “No problem,” I yelp.

  “You okay in there?”

  “Fine,” I answer and choke out a laugh.

  Her shadow hesitates outside. “All right. Night.”

  I flop back and hit my head on the rock-solid ground. Irritated, I sit up and pull off my sweatshirt. I shiver as I scrunch it up to make a pillow. Satisfied it will be better than nothing, I slip back in my bag.

  The breeze dies down, and I finally feel sleep coming. Welcoming it, I let myself fall.

  I’m jolted awake by barking.

  The shadows have shifted. A bright moon shines down on the tent, illuminating the small space with gray light. It must be the middle of the night.

  Sadie barks again from Sara and Dan’s tent. My arm’s half asleep, and I shift. The movement lets in cold air, and I try to snuggle deeper into my sleeping bag.

  In the distance, some kind of bird calls out. Its chirp is like a repetitive alarm. What kind of bird is awake in the middle of the night? What if something woke it up?

  And what if that something is the thing Sadie’s barking at?

  As it is often inclined to do, my brain wanders to things that go bump in the night. Dark things. Scary things.

  The horses shift, making horsey noises, unsettled by the barking.

  I clench my eyes shut, refusing to let myself go there.

  At some point—five minutes, maybe three hours later—the bird shuts up. Sadie, too, settles down, and the woods are again peaceful.

  By this time, it’s got to be close to morning. I stare at the tent, waiting for the sun.

  Again, I begin to doze. When I do wake, soft pre-dawn light brightens the tent. Birds chirp from the trees. The vocal little things apparently slept through the awful night and are bright-eyed this morning.

  When I sit up, cold air embraces me. I don’t hear anyone stirring, but there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep now.

  Shivering, I touch my hair. It’s kind of damp.

  Did it rain?

  I peer at the top of my tent. There are no obvious holes, but dew droplets have formed on the outside. I feel the area of fabric my head was pressed against, and my fingers come back wet. The condensation must have soaked through.

  Why did my parents think I’d like this? I’m exhausted, wet, and sore. And whiny.

  I rub my hand over my face and roll my shoulders. I can make it through this. At the very least—as Mom so kindly stated—the experience will give me something to write about.

  My jeans are cold, but I strip off my yoga pants and yank them on. Steeling myself, I pull off my top layers and quickly slip on a new T-shirt. I shiver when I slide on my deodorant. It feels like it’s been in the freezer.

  After I wipe last night’s makeup off with a towelette, I reapply enough mascara and blush to make me look alive. Sighing, I toss my tiny mirror aside. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Once finished, I grab my brush and a can of dry shampoo and unzip the tent.

  The outside air hits me. I reach back for a heavy coat to slip on over my layers. It’s amazing how cold it is here in the morning.

  I walk a little way from the tents so I don’t disturb anyone, brush the knots out of my hair, and then toss it over my head. I spray, brush, and then spray again.

  “What are you doing?”

  Yelping, I whip around.

  Hudson studies me with his hands in his pockets. His eyes are unreadable.

  “You startled me.”

  “Sorry.”

  I brush my bangs out of my face, flip my hair back, and spray some more. Hudson’s always hated the smell of hair products…and nail polish…and scented candles. Maybe he’ll get the point and go away. Far away. Like off a cliff away.

  “We should talk, Kins.”

  I toss my hair back. “About what? About the fact that you were cheating on me? Maybe you want to tell me how long? And who’s to say it was only Amber. Maybe you want to confess how many people you cheated on me with?”

  Hudson blanches, and his jaw works as he squirms in his expensive ski jacket. Part of me likes watching him like this. It must be what a cat feels like after she corners her mouse.

  The other part of me—the sane part—doesn’t care enough to play the game.

  I turn away. “Go back to Amber. She’s probably cold.”

  “This is so like you. You can’t even try to be reasonable.”

  “Yep.”

  He growls and turns, motioning to Jack’s tent. “You can’t be serious about that guy.”

  Not even bothering to answer him, I wave him away. He strides off, his shoulders tense. Once he’s gone, I watch him walk away, waiting for my heart to break. It doesn’t.

  After pulling my hair up, I make my way to the outhouse. It’s creepy and gross, but it’s better than going in the woods. Probably.

  I cringe as I open the door and then cautiously lift the seat to check for black widows. According to the survival book Jack made me buy, it’s one of their favorite spots to hang out. Of course, it’s usually men who are bitten…but I don’t want to think about that.

  Even when it’s all clear, I shudder and try to ignore the strange breeze that seems to come up from below.

  By the time I’ve trekked back to my tent for hand sanitizer—and what a fine purchase that was—more people are starting to rise.

  Greg’s starting a fire. He nods a friendly hello and promises coffee will be ready shortly.

  Raised voices come from Amber and Hudson’s tent. I try to ignore them, happy I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  Nicole crawls out of her tent looking like she had the best eight hours of sleep in her life.

  She joins me, accepting coffee from her uncle, and peers at me. “Rough night?”

  She doesn’t have to look so happy about it.

  “It wasn’t the best.”

  Peter comes up from behind us. “The first night’s always the worst. You’ll be fine tonight.”

  That’s right…I have to do this again. Thank goodness we’ll reach the lodge tomorrow.

  I take a tentative sip of the coffee. Both Peter and Nicole are drinking it black, and I don’t want to be the one to ask for cream and sugar.

  Sara and Dan join us. Sara looks about as rough as I feel. Her long blond hair has been hastily braided back, and there are circles under her eyes. She accepts coffee, but Dan goes straight for the cooler and digs out a soda.

  I shiver at the thought of rummaging through the ice.

  “Sorry about Sadie,” Sara says to no one in particular.

  The dog tags along behind her, not looking terribly remorseful.

  Glaring into the trees, I say, “It was that bird.”

  Jack’s tent opens. Not wanting to look too eager, I wait a few moments and then glance over my shoulder.

  My mouth goes dry. How does he look that good? Light stubble shadows his jaw, making him look more rugged than usual. He wears a thermal shirt layered with a vest and appears to be immune the chill in the air.

  Jack smiles like he can read my mind.

  “Morning,” he greets everyone, and then his eyes land solely on me. “Good morning, Kinsley.”

  Be still my heart.r />
  And then I’m completely undone because the smell of frying bacon wafts through the air. After that night, I think I could eat an entire pan full. I glance at Nicole, who’s looking cute in another pair of crazy tight jeans. Make that two pieces of bacon with three egg whites. And some kale.

  About twenty minutes later, Greg hands me a plate of campfire French toast slathered with butter and syrup and dusted with powdered sugar. I don’t turn it down.

  I’ve got to start running again. I’ll begin as soon as I get back.

  Amber and Hudson appear halfway through breakfast. She looks miffed.

  She fakes a smile for our party, but once she gets her breakfast, she chooses a spot across the campfire, alone.

  I twirl my fork. If we were friends, I would go over to her. But we’re not friends. She’s the woman my boyfriend cheated on me with. I take another bite, but it doesn’t taste quite as good as it did a moment ago.

  Hudson joins Mark and Claire. They discuss fly fishing, and Hudson listens, enraptured, as if he’s interested. Maybe he is; I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.

  After I finish breakfast, I go back to my tent and wrestle everything into the tiny bags they came in. Jack joins me after he gets his tent packed up.

  “Look at you, mountain girl,” he says.

  Feeling pretty proud of myself, I flash him a flirty smile. Somehow I managed to get it all. It wasn’t easy, and I had to re-roll the tent a few times to make it tight enough to slip in its bag, but I won.

  Jack eases the tent strap over his shoulder, and I pick up my sleeping bag and gear.

  I tap him in the chest. “You were wrong.”

  He looks amused. “About what?”

  “I would have gladly paid any price for that inflatable pillow.”

  “Such a city girl.”

  We join the group, and my eyes accidentally meet Amber’s. I give her a small smile. She returns it, but it’s a hollow imitation of the real thing. She turns away, and I watch her, perplexed.

  Ready to leave, I mount Petunia with the help of a large rock. Elated I was able to do it on my own, I look over to see if Jack was watching. My gaze falls on Hudson. He eyes me, his expression cryptic. I look away, but not before a small bead of worry knots in my stomach.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Amber and Hudson don’t appear to be talking, so at least I don’t have to watch her making doe eyes at him. She rides in the front with Peter and Henry, and he stays toward the back with Mark and Claire.

  Jack rides next to me. Nicole has been keeping her distance, mostly riding by herself toward the front.

  We cross more mountains and ride through more valleys. We’ve seen deer, squirrels, yellow-bellied marmots, and more birds than I can count. I wish I’d brought a camera.

  By the time we stop for lunch, I’m famished. We parted ways with Greg and his truck back at the campsite, so I don’t have any high hopes for lunch.

  “Go ahead and lead the horses into the corral,” Henry says.

  Mule, I think. Slow as she is, and despite having to coax her past patches of grass, Petunia and I have gotten along just fine. I suppose her questionable heritage isn’t her fault.

  Once she’s settled, I give her a pat and then crawl over the fence to join the others. Henry is dispersing what must be lunch.

  “Here you go, Kinsley.” He hands me a small wrapped package of summer sausage, butter crackers, and two chocolate chip cookies. “Just a light lunch today, but it should hold you until dinner.”

  Forget jogging when I get back, I’ll need to do laps around the corral once I finish this.

  I thank him and then eagerly wait for Hudson’s reaction to the meal. He walks up to Henry, takes one look at it, and shakes his head. Henry shrugs and hands a portion to Nicole. After he walks away, Hudson rummages in his pack and pulls out a protein bar.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn away.

  Jack’s helping Sara and Dan with their horses, so I wander away from the crowd to stretch my legs. Dark clouds build in the west, just over the mountains, but everywhere else the sky is blue and clear.

  I find a boulder that overlooks the clearing below and, for the first time, pull out one of my notebooks. Setting the remainder of my lunch aside—the warm summer sausage wasn’t that palatable—I cross my legs, flip to the first page, stick a cookie in my mouth, and begin to write.

  After a while, my hand starts to cramp. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here by the time Jack joins me.

  “Working?” he teases, joining me on my rock.

  The boulder isn’t very big, so he sits behind me, his back pressed against mine.

  “Are they ready to go?” I set the pen aside, reread the last few lines, and then rest my head against his shoulder.

  “Getting there.” He twists around. “What are you working on?”

  I close the notebook and give him a reprimanding stare. He only grins, knowing by now that I don’t like people reading my raw work.

  “Just a scene description,” I answer.

  He nods and then holds up a plastic bag. “I swiped Hudson’s cookies.” He swings his loot back and forth. “Want one?”

  “Why, Jack, are you sharing your cookies with me?” I poke his side. “Aren’t I a lucky girl.”

  I reach for the bag, but he pulls it back, a grin building on his lips. “You have to come get them.”

  Leaning back, I pretend to stretch for the bag, but when I’m close to his ear, I whisper, “You’re a horrible tease.”

  He drops the bag in his lap, and I grin, happy to have taken him by surprise.

  Slowly, he pivots toward me and says, his voice silky, “I’m a very good tease.”

  The sounds from our group fade away as I focus on his words, on his lips. He inches closer, the playful glint in his eyes softening. His lips part just slightly.

  My heart leaps. I lean in, close my eyes, and wait.

  “See?” he whispers, and my eyes fly open. “I’m a very, very good tease.”

  He grins, thoroughly pleased with himself. Though irritating, the expression is completely endearing.

  “You’ll pay for that,” I say.

  He sits back and rests his palms behind him on the rock. “I hope so.”

  Writing by lamplight in a freezing tent is no simple task. Lying on my stomach, I’m snuggled as far into my sleeping bag as I can get. My notebook sits in front of me, flipped open where a pillow should be.

  I didn’t bother to get undressed tonight. I just kicked off my boots and slipped into the sleeping bag. As much as I hate to admit it, Jack was right; it’s warmer than I expected.

  It doesn’t matter right now. I’m in a world of my own making. I’ve had a wonderful idea for a book, and I scratch away at my notes. I’ll go to sleep when I’ve finished brainstorming.

  I write and cross things out, draw lines to join ideas, and circle things I like. Before I know it, I’m spent. Satisfied with what I’ve accomplished, I rest my cheek against my notebook.

  I’m just dozing off when I realize I shouldn’t have had that extra cup of hot chocolate at the campfire tonight. The rest of the campers grew quiet a while ago. Everyone has gone to bed.

  I can hold it until morning. Closing my eyes, I focus on sleep.

  It can’t wait until morning.

  Being away from plumbing is getting old. I slip out of the comfort of my warm and toasty bag, pull on my heavy coat, and unzip the tent.

  No one is up and it’s dark. Thick clouds have rolled across the sky, covering the moon. A prickle of unease makes the hair on my arms stand on end. With no other choice, I unfasten the lantern from its loop and step into the night.

  The outhouse isn’t far away—at least it’s not far away in the daytime—but it’s still tucked in the brush. The little campsite we’re in is just like last night’s…primitive.

  There’s a fire pit, a corral for the horses (and mule), and several flat spots where tents are often pitched. It’s unlike any campground I’v
e ever stayed in. There’s no electricity or showers or coin-operated washing machines. Just nature.

  I tiptoe past the tents. When I pass Sara and Dan’s, Sadie growls.

  “It’s me,” I whisper.

  She pauses, growls one more time, and then falls silent. The only sound comes from the faint rustle of the leaves in the breeze.

  My skin pricks with goosebumps, and I lift my lantern high to get a better view of the path to the outhouse. Gangly tree limbs stretch toward each other, leaving little room between them. High contrast shadows are cast from my light.

  “Afraid something is going to get you?” a voice says from behind me.

  I squeak and whip around, the lantern swinging in my hand. Jack steps back, narrowly avoiding my light.

  My heart races. I set my free hand on my hip and take a deep breath. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” He offers to take the lantern. “I’ll walk you.”

  Normally I would protest Jack’s escorting me to the outhouse. But it’s dark and breezy, and I feel as if there are a thousand eyes watching, waiting for me to step in the dark embrace of the timber.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  I hesitate when we reach the outhouse. I won’t go in without the lantern, but I don’t want to leave Jack out here in the dark.

  Laughing at my expression, he hands me the light. “I’ll be fine.”

  He tucks his hands into his coat pockets and turns. I’m sure it’s to give me privacy, but it appears as if he’s standing guard.

  When I open the door, I shudder. Unsettling during the day, at night, it’s downright scary in here. Using a square of toilet paper, I check under the seat.

  No spiders.

  Yesterday, when I mentioned to Jack that I had been checking for black widows, he laughed at me, saying it was probably too cold for them. Still, there’s no reason to take chances.

  I step out and find Jack several yards away, gazing at the stars. As I join him, I pull hand sanitizer from my coat pocket and slather the cold goo on my hands.

  “Turn off the lantern,” he says.

  I laugh like it’s a joke.

  He turns to me, his expression warm. “No, really. Turn it off.”