Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  My contentment quickly fades when I look over at him, his face pinched and contemplative as he stares up at the pale pink sky.

  The stories I’ve heard about the jocks and their sexual appetites personify. My mind starts reeling and I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake—if I’ve misread something and been completely blind. “What’s wrong?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse and wobbly, but I try to brace myself for his reply, for his rejection.

  Reilly growls and rubs his face. “I’m sorry, Sam, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and my eyes begin to burn. I sit up, horrified and tugging my dress down as far as it will go. I want to run away. Reilly sits up and stares into my eyes, brushing an errant tear away. “There’s something I need to tell you.” His eyes search my face, but he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t reassure me. “Something you’re probably not going to like.”

  I shake my head, not wanting to hear any of it.

  “I’m leaving,” he whispers.

  All I can do is scream inside.

  What have I done?

  Eighteen

  Reilly

  Hickory-smoked bacon . . .

  The aroma revives me from sleep—that and Mac’s cursing in the tent next door. Peeling my eyelids open, I blink the world into focus. The memory of a faraway place, where my mission was to keep the upper hand by blending in and remaining silent—a place where men were brothers and every day was uncertain, but predictable, too—quickly dwindles from thought.

  “Shit!” Mac rasps.

  I tap on the nylon walls separating our tents. “Everything okay in there?” I ask, trying to keep my amusement to a minimum.

  “Yeah, sorry,” she breathes, and then I hear what sounds like her falling over.

  I can’t help but chuckle. “You sure? You need some help?”

  “Ha. Ha. As much as I know you want to see me in my skivvies, I think I can manage.”

  “Darn,” I say and sit up.

  “Hey, Reilly?”

  Flinging my sleeping bag off my bare legs, I stretch and reach for my duffel. “Yeah?”

  “Are you naked in there?”

  Again, I laugh, unable to resist. I look down at my boxer briefs. “Not exactly,” I say and reach for a rolled up clean t-shirt in my bag. I’m shaking it out when a thought occurs to me. “Why, are you naked?”

  “Of course,” she says lightly. “Sam and I always sleep naked together. Didn’t you know?”

  I grin at the thought. Hearing zippers and more rifling around, I assume she’s nearly dressed.

  After I pull my t-shirt over my head and don a pair of shorts, I stand, hunched over in the crux of the tent and off-kilter as my mind and muscles gradually awaken. Water. I need water.

  Grabbing my toothbrush and Titans baseball cap—my favorite cap I’d found in my room from when I was in high school—I unzip the tent and step outside into the warm morning. I’m momentarily blinded as my vision adjusts. The tan tent beside mine shakes like a wild animal is loose inside until Mac tumbles out and into my arms.

  “Shit!” she rasps again and looks up at me with eyes and skin devoid of make-up for the first time . . . ever. “Thanks,” she says, righting herself and pulling down her tank top. “My foot got caught up in the strap thingy.”

  “No problem.” I bend over to pick up the Ziploc bag containing my toothbrush and paste. As I straighten, my gaze meets Sam’s. She’s wearing her glasses. Though they were a Sam staple growing up, she rarely seems to wear them anymore. It brings me unexpected pleasure to see fragments of the old Sam as she stands over the large, cast-iron skillet, flipping bacon as she takes a sip from her mug.

  I nod a good-morning.

  “Morning,” she says before dipping her gaze back down to the frying pan.

  I walk past her to the spigot up against a redwood trunk. After splashing water on my face, I go through the motions of readying my toothbrush and brushing my teeth.

  There’s movement from Nick’s tent, and he gradually climbs out. “What’s all the damn noise about?” he grumbles, running his fingers through his hair. Within seconds he’s lighting a morning cigarette, yawning every few breaths as he tries to wake up. “It’s too early to be awake on my day off.”

  “It’s eight o’clock. Time for breakfast if you want to get on the river,” Sam says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, though I think she does it out of habit more than because she needs to.

  “At least you’re making bacon,” Nick mutters. He smashes his cigarette between his fingers, then saunters by me, a towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes are still foggy with sleep and a trail of smoke follows behind him as he exhales. “Off to the showers.”

  “Showers?” Mac says, incredulous as she applies sunblock to her exposed arms and neck. “Did you somehow forget how drunk you get on the river and how many times you tip? Why are you going to shower?”

  “Not even Mac showers on canoe days,” Sam teases and chuckles softly.

  Nick flashes them a smirk over his shoulder. “If you want me to have half a brain this morning, I need a shower,” he says, his flip-flops dragging in the dirt as he plods away. “Don’t worry,” he calls, “I’ll shower after, too!”

  “Savannah will appreciate that,” Mac mutters. “And you owe me for canoeing with her!” she calls back. I’d forgotten Savannah was on her way up, having had to work late the night before.

  Nick waves and disappears into the trees.

  “Wait, you’re not canoeing with me?” Sam holds up her tongs, casting her gaze from Mac, to me, and then back.

  Mac shakes her head impishly.

  “Why not?”

  “Nick asked me to ride with her as a favor. He knows she’ll hate him by the end of the day if she doesn’t. How many times did he tip over last year, three? Four?” Mac glances at me as I spit out the remnants of my toothpaste, then she looks at Sam. “Reilly’s here, so I figured you guys could share a canoe.”

  “But . . .” Sam’s gaze skirts to me and then back to Mac. I can tell she’s trying not to make a scene, which leads me to believe Mac said it in front of me on purpose.

  “Well . . . ” Mac shrugs. “I can tell him no, I guess.”

  “It’s fine,” Sam says, though she’s obviously uncomfortable with the arrangement.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, wiping the excess water from my mouth. I don’t need to be anyone’s charity case today. “I’m perfectly capable of canoeing by myself or with Nick.”

  “No, it’s . . . it’s fine. I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam says. A twinge of guilt crumples her expression.

  “Great, then it’s settled,” Mac chirps. “This is good,” she adds as she glances between us. I wonder if it’s more of a self-reassurance than an accurate depiction of the situation. Mac grabs a little pink zip-up bag and heads in the direction Nick disappeared, toward the bathrooms, leaving Sam and me at camp alone.

  Sam focuses intently on the bacon, and I can’t help but fill the silence. “We don’t have to share a canoe,” I say. “I can get my own.”

  Sam fumbles around by the stove. “Really, it’s fine,” she says and smiles at me, but it’s not a real smile. I can tell her mind is somewhere else as she frantically searches inside the camping bins for something.

  Unzipping my tent, I toss my toothbrush and paste inside. “You forget how well I know you,” I say. “You’re full of crap—”

  “Dammit!”

  I look back to find Sam crouching over a broken mug. Blood smears her hand as she collects the pieces.

  I rush over to her and take her hand in mine, eyeing the cut on her palm. There are two, actually. The fresh one isn’t bad—a little deep, and there’s a lot of blood, but nothing requiring urgent care. The cut on her thumb looks a day or two old, so I don’t worry about it. The way Sam just sits there staring at the wound, though, at all the blood, alarms me. I wait for her to say something, to cry or curse again in pain, but she just stares at it.

  “Sam,” I say soft
ly, wondering if she’s going to pass out at the sight of crimson covering her hand.

  She doesn’t even blink.

  “Sam?” I say more forcefully.

  Finally, she looks at me, her expression open, then it narrows as she pulls her hand out of my grasp and bends to gather the remaining ceramic pieces.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to take her hand in mine, but she resists. “Sam.” I finally get her attention. She looks at me, her eyes distant. “Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clean it up.” I nod at the picnic table. “Sit down.”

  “I’m okay,” she says, brushing away the fact that she’s still bleeding.

  “I know you’re okay, but you need a bandage, and if you don’t want Mac fussing over you, then you better deal with it before she gets back from the bathroom.” This seems to get her attention.

  Sam nods once, and I pull her up to her feet. I point to the picnic bench again. “I’ll get the first aid kit. You—sit.”

  Her gaze shifts from me to the direction of the bathrooms. It’s obvious she wants to argue with me, but decides against it. It’s like the day I fell off the ladder all over again, only Sam’s reaction isn’t what I would’ve expected. She’s not cool and calm like before, and she’s not queasy at the sight of all the blood—she seems indifferent, numb.

  Reluctantly, she sits on the edge of the bench, staring down at her blood-covered hand.

  “Our roles are reversed this time,” I say, making a bad joke, but at least it seems she’s paying more attention now. She makes an amused sound and watches me as I fold a stack of paper towels and place it over the wound to absorb the blood. Meanwhile, I fumble through the bins of eating utensils and cookware, searching for the medical kit. Finally, I find it. It’s smaller than I thought.

  “Hopefully there’s a cleaning pad or something in here.” I open the box and search its contents for something to clean the cut with. “Here,” I say, handing her an antiseptic pad. “We need to see how deep it is.”

  Sam just stares at me.

  I inch the cleaning pad closer until, finally, she takes it, her eyes still locked on me.

  “What?” I ask. I can tell she wants to say something, but she’s holding back.

  Sam opens her mouth to speak, but stops. She blinks and turns her attention to the small paper package in her hand.

  “Thanks,” she says, tearing it open.

  I’m desperate to know what she was going to say, but instead I nod and set a bandage on the bench beside her. “For when you’re ready,” I say, then set the medical kit aside and start picking up the bloodied ceramic shards. I drop them into the garbage bag. “I guess this means we’re even,” I joke. Sam smiles weakly and moves slowly at the picnic table, tending to her wound. When I’m finished with the broken glass, I remove the nearly-charred bacon from the flame. “Nick’s going to be heartbroken,” I say absently.

  Sam snorts softly this time in amusement. Good.

  “Why is the emergency kit out?”

  I glance up to find Mac standing at the edge of camp, taking in the scene before she rushes over to Sam. “What happened?” There’s a pitch of concern in Mac’s voice that puts me on edge, and I wonder why I’m on the receiving end of such a scathing glare.

  I don’t like her silent accusation, but I say nothing as I try to salvage the bacon.

  Sam shakes her head. “Nothing, I’m fine. I broke my coffee mug, and it cut me. I’ll live, ask Reilly.”

  Mac offers Sam a weak smile. “You know how I get with blood.”

  Sam smirks, then excuses herself to the bathrooms to clean up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mac nods dumbly and watches Sam disappear through the trees. “Nick’s still down there primping if you need him!” Mac lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I guess I’ll get started making sandwiches for lunch.” She walks over to the ice chest.

  “What was that all about?” I ask, still trying to figure out exactly what just happened. Whatever it was seemed important.

  Mac waves my questions away as she digs through the ice chest. “Nothing, I just worry about her sometimes.”

  There’s a big something she’s not saying, I can tell by how frazzled she suddenly is, and it forms a knot in my stomach. “Why would you need to worry about her, Mac?”

  She digs through the ice, grumbling that it’s freezing her fingers, but it doesn’t dissuade her. “Dammit, aren’t there any beers left?” It’s more of an aggravated screech than a question.

  I point toward my ice chest on the other side of the table, not bothering to remind her it’s only eight in the morning. “There are some cold ones in there,” I say, and she darts over. “I thought you were making sandwiches.” I cross my arms over my chest as I watch her fumbling to open the can with frozen fingers.

  Mac ignores me for a minute. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she says, and curses again as she looks at her fingernail. “Sam’s . . . different.”

  I grab the can and crack it open for her.

  “Thanks.” She takes a gulp, then another, and squeezes her eyes shut. “That’s so cold.” Mac lets out a pained breath, then looks at me. She licks her lips, and after she settles down a bit more, she continues, “It’s just that sometimes there’s this look in her eyes that worries me. That’s all.”

  “What sort of look?”

  “The sort that makes me worry,” she says impatiently. “Look, I’ve known Sam most of her life, and she’s been different since you left, especially after the accident. Sure, she laughs and puts on a show for me and Nick, but the way she avoids me . . . she still talks to me, but she doesn’t really say anything, at least not anything that’s real.”

  Mac busies herself searching for sandwich fixings in the ice chests. “She’s having a hard time, and instead of dealing with life, she’s pushing it aside, medicating it and focusing on Alison and the ranch.”

  Even though Nick mentioned something similar, Mac’s concern is more urgent. “Medicating?”

  Mac continues pulling condiments out of the ice chest as if I’ve said nothing.

  “What does that mean, Mac?” My patience is thinning, and my mind is twisting its own unnerving story together. “You saw that med kit and freaked out . . . do you think she would hurt herself?” I think about the way Sam stared down at the blood.

  Mac straightens, butter knife in hand, and I can tell she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “I think that she’s broken and might do anything to make the pain go away,” she says quickly, quietly. “And the more I try to talk to her, the more distant she gets.”

  She finally looks at me, a frown etched on her features.

  “And?” I prompt. “I won’t let it go, Mac. You might as well tell me.”

  Her shoulders slump in surrender. She opens her mouth to answer when the sound of Nick and Sam bickering reaches us and we hear them coming through the trees. With a quick shake of her head, Mac commands me to leave it alone.

  I say no more, knowing it’s not the time or place to probe, but the conversation isn’t over.

  Nineteen

  Reilly

  My flip-flops crunch on the rocky shore as we walk to our canoe, Sam’s footsteps quicker and softer than mine. She carries her small ice chest in one hand, her petite arm straining, though she insisted on carrying her own stuff, and a beach bag is draped over her other shoulder. I bring an ice chest too, large enough to hold the lunch Mac tightly wrapped and double-bagged for me, and water and beer.

  “Are we sure we’re not forgetting anything?” Mac asks the group as we stop at the canoes lined up at the water’s edge.

  Other than the hat on my head, my towel draped over my shoulder, and my sunglasses, I can’t think of anything else I might need. “I’m sure whatever Nick and I don’t have, you ladies do.” I nod to her overstuffed beach bag.

  “Ha. Ha. Reilly is such a jokester,” Mac says dryly as she plops the bag inside the canoe behind ours.

  I’m not surprised when Sam has no response whatsoe
ver. We haven’t really spoken since the mishap at breakfast, and it’s clear that the incident triggered something. That or I’m being paranoid after Mac voiced her concerns and I just think she’s acting more withdrawn.

  “Do you want to row in the front or the back?” Sam asks, stopping beside our canoe.

  “Reilly wants the back,” Mac says as she gets inside her canoe. The aluminum frame rocked more with the weight of her stuff than it does as she steps inside. “That’s where the big strong men sit, anyway.” She winks at me, though I have no idea why.

  “Okay,” Sam says. She shrugs, then climbs into the canoe. It rocks as she steadies herself and situates her things, like she’s just going through the motions. I wonder if she’s looking forward to today, even a little bit.

  I sit down on the aluminum seat behind her.

  “Catch.” A sun-bleached, nylon life vest hits my lap.

  When I look up, Sam’s pulling another one out from the cubby in the stern. “Attach it,” she says, clipping her vest around the metal seat. “You’ll need the cushion later, I promise.”

  “A seasoned canoer?” I say, and lift an eyebrow.

  “You could say that.” As she straightens, her gaze lingers behind us, so I peer back. There’s a long line of people and a lot of commotion as everyone—probably in the whole campground—hurriedly piles into their rented canoes that line the beach and continue around the bend. Everyone’s anxious to get on the water, it seems.

  I spot Nick and Savannah halfway hidden in a thicket of redwoods. I hear giggling and can see arm movements, and I wonder how serious Nick is about this one.

  “Nick!” Mac shouts. “Hurry it up already. We gotta go!”

  “We have the whole day on the water,” he snips, and his head pokes out from behind the tree trunk. “Can I have two seconds with my girl? She only just got here.”

  Mac rolls her eyes, and Sam snickers in front of me. When I look over, she’s shaking her head with a fat smile on her face, applying sunblock on her arms and the back of her neck. “This is going to be an interesting day.”