Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(49)

Every time she went to one of the little surrounding towns she looked in particular at the women, wondering where Jack might have gone once in a while for “something a little basic.” It didn’t take her long to realize that he probably had his pick, and that there were plenty of attractive women around these towns.

She thought she might like to get something like a salt lick or some kind of feed for the edge of her property to draw the deer, so went to the very small strip mall on the main drag. As she passed the hardware store, she saw a window display of shears mounted on pegboard. They ranged in size from tiny scissors to clippers with six-inch, thick, curved blades. She stared at them, frowning, for a long time.

“Help you?” a young woman in a green store apron asked.

“Hmm. What do you do with those?”

“Roses,” she said, smiling.

“Roses? I haven’t seen that many roses around.”

“Oh, you’re not looking hard enough,” she said, grinning.

“Hmm. Well, I’m looking for something that would draw deer,” Mel said.

“Like a doe call? But hunting season is months away.”

“God, I wouldn’t shoot at them! I like seeing them in my yard in the early morning. Can you tell me where to find that?”

“Um, if you want deer in your yard, you’re the only one. Just plant some lettuce or a couple of apple trees. With deer, if you don’t want them in your produce, you can hardly keep them away.”

“Oh. If I throw some lettuce out there, will that work? Because I don’t garden.”

The woman tilted her head and smiled with eyes that frowned. “Where you from?”

“Los Angeles. Concrete jungle.”

“I mean, now.”

“Up in Virgin River. Kind of back in the woods, you know…”

“Listen, don’t try the lettuce, okay. Because there are also bear. Just keep your food indoors and don’t press your luck. If you get deer, you get deer.” Then she looked down and said, “Nice boots. Where can I get a pair like that?”

Mel thought a second, then said, “Can’t really remember. Target, I think.”

Rather than going back to Doc’s, she drove out to the river. She saw that there were six anglers in the river, and that one of them was Jack. She pulled up, parked, and got out to lean against the front of her car to watch. He looked over his shoulder at her, smiled a hello, but went back to his sport. He’d pull out some line and let it slack, then gracefully cast out, the line reaching behind him in a large S before sailing smoothly out over the river, touching down on the top of the water as lightly as a leaf floating lazily down from a tree. And again, and again.

She loved to watch the arc of the lines, the whir of them going out, the clicking of them reeling in. They seemed almost synchronized, choreographed, the air above the water filled with flying lines. The men, in waders and vests, would walk around the swirling shallow waters while fish jumped now and then in the river. If there was a catch, the fish would either be released or go in the creel dangling from a shoulder strap.

After a peaceful interlude, Jack came out of the river with his rod and reel in hand. “What are you doing out here?”

“Just watching.”

“Want to try?”

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“It’s not very hard—let’s see if I can scrounge some boots or waders.” He went to his truck and dug around in the back. He came up with some huge rubber hip boots. “This’ll keep you dry—but you won’t be able to wade too far out.”

She stepped into them. His legs were so much longer than hers that he had to fold them down twice at the top of her thighs, not an unpleasant sensation. They were so big that she had to shuffle rather than walk, dragging them along. “I won’t be able to run for my life, either,” she said. “Okay, what do I do?”

“It’s all in the wrist,” he said. “Don’t worry about aim so much as a nice clean arc and a little distance—getting you into the deeper part of the river where the fish are more plentiful.” He took her hand, led her to the water’s edge, and showed her his casting. “Don’t snap it hard, just roll it off nice and easy. Give it a little arm, but don’t throw your body into it.”

He handed her the rod, showed her where to unlock the reel. She gave it a try and the fly plunked down right in front of her. “How’s that for distance?”

“We’re going to have to work on that,” he said. He stepped behind her and guiding her hand, helped her cast. Twenty-five feet, maybe. Probably a fourth of the distance he could achieve, and her fly came down hard, making a splash. “Hmm, better,” he said. “Reel her in, slowly.”

She brought it back and repeated the process, this time without his hand guiding hers. “Good,” he said. “Watch your footing—there are spots where you can drop, trip, slip off a rock. You wouldn’t want to fall in.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” she said, casting again. That time she flicked her wrist too hard and the hook flew back behind them, whooshing past their heads. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, but be careful. I’d hate to have that thing pulled out of the back of my head. Here,” he said. He stood behind her and put a hand on her hip. “Don’t throw your body into it—just use your arm and wrist—and go easy. You’ll get the distance. Eventually.”