The Bodyguard (40)

“I have to follow you.”

“I’m taking a walk.”

“I can tell.”

“I need a moment. To myself.”

“That’s not really relevant.”

“Do you really think you’re my girlfriend or something? Don’t follow me.”

“Do you really think I’m your girlfriend? I’m not following you because I want to. You are my job.”

At that, Jack started down the gravel road again—heading very purposely toward nowhere, as far as I could tell.

I let him get about a hundred feet ahead, and then I took a deep breath and followed.

When Jack said he was taking a walk, he wasn’t kidding. We followed the tire ruts in the road through a cow pasture, over a cattle guard, past a rusty metal barn, and down a long, slow hill into a wooded lowland overgrown with vines.

Was I dressed for an excursion like that—in my embroidered sundress with bare ankles?

I was not.

Every hundred feet or so, I had to shake the rocks out of my sandals.

Really wishing I’d changed into those boots now.

Did Jack know I was following him?

He did.

Whenever we came to a gate, he’d unlatch the chain and wait for me. Then, wordlessly, once I was through, he’d relatch it, and take off walking, and I’d wait politely until he’d reestablished our distance.

I even walked in the opposite rut from the one he was using, out of courtesy.

The road descended deeper into the woods, and the grass got taller, and the path got more overgrown, and just as I was trying to remember what poison ivy looked like, we came to a tumbledown, rusty, barbed-wire gate.

Past it, the forest opened up clear to a wide, blue sky, and I realized we’d made it to the riverbank.

As I got closer, Jack was looking me up and down. “Are you kidding me with that outfit?”

I looked down at my bare legs. “I have boots back at the house.”

“You should be wearing them.”

“Noted.”

Jack shook his head. “Never come down to the river with naked ankles.”

“To be fair,” I said, “I didn’t know that rule. I also didn’t know we were coming to the river.”

Jack turned and looked at the distance ahead. The road stopped at the gate. From here to the riverbank was just tall grass—and weeds and brambles and thistle bushes. And let’s not forget poison ivy.

Jack squatted down and turned his back toward me. “Climb on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Staying crouched down, Jack started counting off all the things in that grass that could come after me: “Sticker burrs, armadillos, stinging nettles, red ants, black ants, fire ants, poison ivy, blackberry brambles, black widows, brown recluses, copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins…”

He waited for me to revise my answer.

I hesitated.

So he added, “Not to mention feral hogs, bobcats, and coyotes.”

Honestly, he’d had me at “armadillos.”

“Fine,” I said, and climbed on.

Jack hooked his arms under my legs and stood up fast enough to make me dizzy—so I clutched him tight. Then he launched back into that patented Jack Stapleton walking pace I now suddenly knew so well.

Riding was nicer. Maybe he’d carry me back.

At the riverbank, the forest dropped away, and so did the earth. Jack stood at the crest of the bank for a minute as we both took in the sight of the river down below and its endless sandy beach.

“That’s the Brazos River?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“It’s wider than I thought. And … browner.”

But Jack didn’t respond. Just launched us down the bank until we made it to the shore.

There, he dropped me pretty fast, and walked off toward the water.

He was heading vaguely north, so I decided to head vaguely south and give us both some space.

It was probably two hundred feet to the water itself, and I let my head tilt down as I walked and marveled at all the different kinds of rocks peppering the sand: brown ones, black ones, stripy ones, bits of animal bones, petrified wood, even fossils. Not to mention driftwood, an occasional tangle of rusty barbed wire, and a notable number of old beer cans. I could see why Jack wanted to come here. Across from us was a high bank with nothing but grass and sky, and all around us was the endless breeze that flowing water makes, making it feel like we were miles and miles from anywhere.

Which, of course, we were.

At the river’s edge, I kicked off my sandals. It was a warm day, and all that jogging to keep up had left me a little hot. The water was clearer up close—and, as I dipped my feet, it felt great. Cool and swirly with refreshing eddies. It felt so good around my ankles that soon I was sloshing out a little further.

I lifted the hem of my sundress. I really wasn’t planning to go past my knees. I was just going to cool off for a minute and enjoy it, honestly. Another few steps, and I was going to turn around. But then, a few things happened all at once.

As I took my next step, I heard a sound like maybe Jack was calling my name, but it was so muffled by the wind, I couldn’t be sure. I turned to look, but as I did … the floor of the river disappeared.

There was just … nothing for my foot to land on. And so I lost my balance and splashed down into the water.