Hummingbird Lake (15 page)

“You’re very welcome.” He waited until she’d stepped out into the cold morning air to add, “Sage, in my job, I do a lot of listening. I’ve heard some seriously difficult stories. If you decide you want to talk, I’m here. If you don’t want to talk, I’m still here.”

She paused, looked up at a brilliant blue winter sky, and felt a wave of memory roll over her. She smelled the blood. Tasted the metallic flavor of fear. Terror and horror and grief all but brought her to her knees.

Sage swallowed the lump in her throat and fought her way back to the moment. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she met Colt Rafferty’s solemn gaze. “You’ve never heard a story like mine. Pray that you never will.”

Writers dream of making
The New York Times
bestseller list. Football players imagine how a Super Bowl championship ring would look on their hands. Poker players wait for the hand that draws a royal flush. Trout fishermen—serious trout fishermen—dream of landing a Taylor River rainbow.

The fish grew to record size and glorious color as a result of a steady diet of mysis shrimp flushed through the
Taylor Reservoir dam’s bottom-release tube and served up as easy prey to the trout below the dam. Seven summers ago, Colt had watched another angler pull a twenty-pound rainbow from the water, and he had vowed to land one himself. Despite numerous tries since then, he’d never managed to coax one of the monster rainbows into taking his hook, much less actually land one. His excuse had been the wall-to-wall fishermen at the catch-and-release section right below the dam.

Colt told himself that today, with the temperature gauge in his SUV reading right at eleven degrees, he’d be shocked to find another fisherman on the river. After all, only an idiot would voluntarily wade into water to fish under these conditions. When he arrived at the Taylor River tailwater and spied half a dozen cars, he sighed aloud and prepared to join the other idiots. Luckily, the temperature had risen to a balmy seventeen by the time he gathered his gear and exited his SUV. It was a beautiful day, without a breath of wind or cloud in the sky, and he paused a moment to get his bearings. Multiple sets of footprints in the snow led toward the water’s edge, but he recalled a particular pool a little farther downstream he wanted to try, so he struck off through the three-foot snowdrifts in the hope of finding an unoccupied spot.

The exercise, along with his cold-weather gear, kept him relatively warm despite the winter chill. He arrived at the riverbank and smiled to see that this stretch of the Taylor remained empty of fishermen. Excellent. Provided it wasn’t empty of fish, too.

Colt spread out a waterproof tarp, set down his gear, climbed into his waders, then mulled a moment over his tackle. On the advice of Randy at the outfitters shop, he’d laid in a supply of long leaders and small tippet. This time of year, the fish hung out in the long, deep runs, where they could conserve their energy, so he
planned to get down and dredge the bottom with nymphs such as midge patterns, worms, eggs, and other small beadheads.

Finally, with a grin on his face and hope in his heart, he waded into the river with his sights set on a flat-topped rock that rose out of knee-deep water. Randy had also advised that he’d last a lot longer on the river if he could keep his feet out of the water. Gore-Tex could only do so much.

Within minutes, he made his first cast and finally got his hook wet. By the fourth cast, a lingering tension flowed from his muscles, and as Colt relaxed, he started to think.

To be precise, he started to remember. He recalled fishing here with his dad and brother. As boys, he and Jason hadn’t had the patience for fly-fishing, so after half an hour or so of casting but not catching, he and his brother would set down their fishing poles and go exploring.

He’d never forget the time they stumbled across Bear while out in the woods. Upon seeing Eternity Springs’ own authentic mountain man—a tall, hairy bear of a man—they truly believed they had encountered Bigfoot. Colt laughed aloud at the memory.

“Now, that’s a lovely sound to hear on a winter morning,” came a feminine voice off to his right.

He turned to look, and his jaw dropped. “Celeste?”

She was dressed in white cold-weather gear but for a pair of gold waders. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her eyes shone a happy, brilliant blue, and her smile was the warmest thing in the county.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Her look went droll. “I’m baking cookies, of course.”

Colt winced. “Right. Dumb question. I’m surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

“I try not to be predictable. It’s one of my charms.”

He nodded in acceptance, then asked the usual fisherman’s query. “Having any luck?”

“Well now, that depends on how one defines luck. I have yet to catch a fish, but I have seen an elk this morning, and I’ve been able to listen to the music of water rushing over rocks. That’s something I treasure, and I miss it this time of year when Angel Creek is frozen over. I’m here in this majestic place with a bright sun shining above, doing something that brings me pleasure, while my wool socks and waders have kept my feet relatively warm. I believe I’m having exceptional luck.”

“You make an excellent point,” Colt conceded.

They fished in companionable silence for a time. The sunshine warmed him, and Colt had a couple of nibbles, but he never managed to land a thing. In addition to being supersized, the Taylor River rainbows were smart, which made landing one all the more challenging.

As time passed, Colt’s thoughts drifted to the last summer he’d spent in Eternity Springs. If he’d known then that he wouldn’t make it back for three years, he’d have spent more time that summer fishing. He missed that particular perk of being a college professor.

What about the rest of it? As he pulled in his line to change flies, he considered the question. Did he regret leaving Georgia Tech? No. The academic world had its own brand of politics that he didn’t like any better than Washington’s. It certainly had its own overflowing supply of red tape, too.

He did miss the kids—well, some of them, anyway. Unfortunately for both students and professors, too often true learning was sacrificed to the work of making grades. What he’d enjoyed most was finding the occasional student whose mind was turned on to learning.

He’d recruited a few of those types of minds to the CSB over the past couple of years, and he had great teams working with him—smart, dedicated, compassionate
people. Not a slacker among them. With specialized work such as theirs, people made all the difference. They were a joy to work with, and he needed to remember them when the bureaucrats—or bureau-rats—dragged him down.

“I have a fishing tip for you,” Celeste said. “You can’t frown a fish onto your line.”

He glanced up to see that she’d moved to stand on a rock a few feet away. She fished in the opposite direction from him.

Colt grinned ruefully. “Maybe not, but nothing else seems to be working, either.” He hesitated a moment, then confessed, “I was thinking about my job.”

“Yes, I suspected as much.”

“Working in Washington is as frustrating as trying to land a Taylor River rainbow.”

“And yet you stand here in freezing water on a cold winter’s day.”

He sighed heavily. “I think I have a chance to catch a fish. I’m not so sure about getting the necessary safety regulations passed.”

“You thrive on challenge, Colt Rafferty. Therein lies your answer.”

Colt was about to ask her to elaborate when her line went taut. Over the next few minutes, he watched her pull in a huge, colorful Taylor River rainbow. It was so big, in fact, that she needed help holding it while she freed the hook.

“I swear these fish are on steroids,” Colt said. “I’ll bet this one weighs twenty-five pounds.”

“It’s certainly one of the heavier ones I’ve caught here.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “How many is that?”

“Hmm … I haven’t been able to get away as much as I like since Angel’s Rest opened. This is only my third
time up here in the past six months. I think I’ve caught seven fish, counting this one.”

“You average two a trip?” He didn’t know whether to congratulate her or whine. “Whoa. What do you fish with, Celeste?”

“I tie my own flies, and it’s my own special design. I call it an angel kiss.” She gestured to the tackle box at her feet. “Would you like to try one?”

“I absolutely would. Thanks.”

While Colt set about changing his tackle, he brought the conversation back to the question he’d been poised to ask before she hooked the monster. “What did you mean a few minutes ago about an answer?”

Satisfaction flickered in Celeste’s blue eyes. “You fish for answers. Perhaps you’ve landed red herrings and you should try your luck elsewhere.”

“Red herrings?” he repeated. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Think about it, dear.”

At that, her line again went tight, and after she landed an even bigger trout, she declared she’d had enough fishing for the day and took her leave. Determined not to be outdone by a woman twice his age, Colt redoubled his efforts to catch one of the wily rainbows and tried every type of tackle in his box. Still, the fish eluded him.

When he reached the point of fearing frostbite on his toes, he admitted defeat and pulled in his line. He gathered up his gear and trudged back through the snow toward his car, cold, disappointed, but already thinking about the next time out. Arriving at the SUV, he spied something sitting on the center of the hood and he pulled up short. “What in the world?”

A hunk of wood—aspen—weighted down a piece of paper. He lifted it and removed the note, recognizing Celeste’s handwriting.

“Of course. Who else would it be?” he murmured. He
opened the driver’s-side door, slipped inside, and started the engine. As he waited for the vehicle to warm up, he studied the wood for a long moment, then read the note.

Dear Colt
,

Do you recall the conversation we had when I first spoke with you about creating the sign for Angel’s Rest? I asked you how you decided what to carve from any particular block of wood. You offered me a lovely explanation about how you’d hold a block of wood in your hands and open your mind to possibilities, and soon the image you were meant to carve would take shape
.

I spied this piece of aspen as I left the river, and it occurred to me that you might find the exercise beneficial in regard to your current dilemma. Consider that this piece of aspen represents your path, your dreams and desires, known and unknown. Open your mind and your heart to all the possibilities
.

Something wonderful is waiting for you, Colt. Open your eyes and see it
.

Your friend
,

Celeste

“Hmm,” he murmured, folding the note and tossing it on the dashboard.

He glanced at the aspen log and shook his head. Celeste Blessing was a sweetheart, but she was also one strange bird. See his path in a hunk of wood? Path to what?

“I could carve a club to beat up the nine-to-fivers with, I guess,” he muttered.

The auto heater began blowing warm air. Colt tugged off his gloves and held his half-frozen fingers up to the vent. Once he’d thawed out enough to feel again, he put the SUV into gear, pulled out onto the road, and headed
for Eternity Springs. While he drove, he reflected on the day. Life should be full of days like today. Beginning with sharing breakfast with a beauty, then communing with nature for the majority of the day—even if the trout whipped his ass. Topping it off with a fish dinner with Dr. Sage Anderson would have been nice, but hey, no sense being greedy.

Thoughts of his neighbor at Hummingbird Lake lingered in his mind as he drove toward Eternity. Sexy Sage. Brokenhearted beauty. He’d been shocked to find her at his door last night. Despite the fact that she’d cried in his arms on two separate occasions, something about her made him doubt that she indulged in tears all that often. She was a mystery, an enigma.

She’d screamed when he kissed her, but she’d cuddled against him and slept like a kitten.

He blew out a heavy sigh. Shoot, it might be easier to get all the safety measures he wanted adopted by the appropriate agencies than to piece together the puzzle that was Sage Anderson, physician and artist. The woman had DEFCON 1 defenses.

Colt’s route took him through Gunnison, and in the middle of town he stopped at a red light. As he waited for it to change, a display in the window of a flower shop caught his attention. He grinned. When the light changed, he claimed the parking spot in front of Columbine Flowers.

When he walked in, the woman behind the counter set down the paperback book she’d been reading and smiled. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. Could I get a flower arrangement made right away?”

“Absolutely. What would you like?”

“Something for a woman. Bright and cheerful. Friendly rather than romantic. And I’d like it in that
vase.” He pointed toward the ceramic vase in the window that had lured him into the shop.

The woman behind the counter blinked. “We usually send that to men.”

“I can see why you would, but it’s perfect for my purposes.”

“All right, then. I’ll have it ready for you in …” She glanced at the wall clock. “Twenty minutes?”

“Excellent.” Colt flashed a satisfied smile, then asked, “I missed lunch, and I noticed the café across the street. Food any good there?”

“It’s wonderful. I had today’s special for lunch and it was beyond excellent.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the special?”

“Fried trout.”

Colt laughed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I’ll be back for my flowers after lunch.”

“They’ll be ready.”

Colt gave the flower lady a quick salute, then exited the flower shop and crossed the street to the restaurant. Sometimes things simply fell into place.

Following a full and rewarding day at the easel, Sage fixed tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for supper, then sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, and was preparing to indulge in some University of Colorado basketball and their too-hot coach, Anthony Romano, when her phone rang.