Reconsidering Riley (3 page)

"No point trampling over the past. It's over
with," was all he said.

"Hmmmph."

Stubborn to the core
, Riley thought,
giving his grandfather an affectionate—if aggravated—look. Those
weathered lines of his—and his shock of thick white hair—were the
only visible reminders of Bud Davis's advancing years. Past
retirement age now, he was nonetheless broad-shouldered, lean, and
as strong as the day he'd first ascended the more than
twelve-hundred-foot summit of nearby Humphrey's Peak.

On that day, though, he hadn't had two bum
knees, torn cartilage in his shoulder, ever-worsening arthritis,
and a trick ankle that threatened to send him careening down a
canyonside some day.

"I know you want to get back to your own
life," Bud said, resting his open palms on the knees that had
helped betray him. "Take some of them pictures, hike into some
godforsaken no man's land—" At this, he smiled. "—for that magazine
of yours. Didn't you say something about heading off to Antigua for
another
National Explorer
assignment?"

"I don't remember."

Riley's gut clenched, protesting the lie.
Ignoring it, he kept his gaze fixed on the two people he'd seen
strolling the roadside up ahead. He recognized them.

"It's not important," he added. What
was
important was keeping safe the ridiculously bullheaded
man who'd spent summer after summer watching over Riley.

Bud shook his head. "You're a piss-poor
liar. You still tap your foot whenever you're telling a
stretcher."

Frowning, Riley stilled his jittery brake
foot.

"It's a bunch of them New Age types, I
think," Bud warned further, "going on that trip you're so hot to
lead. Probably, they'll have crystals and crap. Want you to burn
incense on the trail and free the spirits in the red rocks."

His disgusted tone made his opinion of "New
Age types" plain. "The leader, she wrote one of those self-help
books. S'posed to help women get over the men who broke their
hearts."

A self-help guru
. Picturing the kind
of uptight, brainiac man-hater who'd be likely to write such a
book, Riley made a face, too. He didn't know why people couldn't
just help themselves. That's what he did. And he was perfectly
fine.

He slowed up just behind the walkers, who
were headed in the same direction he and Gramps were, but on the
opposite side of the road. Dust billowed from beneath the
Suburban's thick-treaded tires. Beside him, Bud squinted through
the windshield.

"Hey! Is that your Grandma? And Alexis,
right along with her?"

"Yep. Looks like Alexis is running away to
Phoenix again."

Bud shook his head, watching the two females
stride side-by-side. "Spittin' image of your brother, that girl is.
Leastwise, on the inside. She's got a stubborn streak a mile
wide."

"Wonder where the family gets that
from?"

"Damned if I know."

"Uh-huh." Riley grinned and gave the
Suburban a little gas. Once abreast of the pair, he let the vehicle
idle and rolled down his window all the way. He leaned out and
offered a wolf whistle. "Goin' my way, ladies?"

They turned. Recognized him. Blushing, his
grandmother shook her head. His thirteen-year-old niece
giggled—then remembered she was in the midst of her latest
adolescent angst, and put on a dramatic face instead.

"Only if you're going to Phoenix, Uncle
Riley. Then I'm
all
yours." Alexis cast an accusatory look
at her great-grandmother. "
Some
people around here don't
understand what life is like for a person who still has a
passion
for
living
."

Gwen Davis, sixty-six and still plenty
lively despite the challenges of caring for a newly-hatched
teenager for the duration of spring break, rolled her eyes. "What
you have is a passion for trouble, young lady. If I hadn't caught
up with you when I did, you'd have been on the back of that man's
Harley and halfway to God-knows-where by now."

"Phoenix." Alexis pouted. "That's where I'd
be. Phoenix, where my
life
is."

By "life," Riley assumed she meant "the
mall." It couldn't be easy to survive shopping withdrawal without
so much as a cherry-berry smoothie and a gigantic pretzel for
comfort.

"There's nothing wrong with a little
hitchhiking," Alexis went on. "He was
nice
. He had a Tweety
Bird tattoo." She issued the ultimate recommendation: "My
mom
would've let me."

"Your mother's a nincompoop," Bud offered,
leaning across the Suburban's gearshift. "Best thing she ever did
was divorce your dad."

Alexis' lower lip pushed forward. She
crossed her skinny arms.

"Bud." Gwen shook her head. "Not now."

He subsided and settled for hunting down his
favorite Hank Williams song on the radio. Static crackled and
popped as he spun the SUV's pre-digital-age controls.

Riley gestured Alexis nearer.

"I don't have a Tweety Bird tattoo—" The
tattoo he
did
have was in a place he did not intend to share
with his impressionable niece. "—but what say you and Nana jump in
here and take a ride back to the lodge with me? You can help me
break in that new group that's coming today. I'm taking them
out—"

"Like hell you are," Bud grumbled.

"He is!" Gwen insisted.

"—tomorrow for training. Since we're already
late—" Riley shot a glance at his scratched-up sports watch. "—we'd
better hit it."

Morosely, Alexis schlumped to the Suburban
and got in. She sat in the back seat beside her great-grandmother,
who got in next, and chewed a lock of her long brown hair.

Riley glanced in the rear view mirror.
"Doesn't that ever get caught in your braces?"

His niece yanked her hair from her face. She
snapped her lips closed to hide her recently-installed purple
orthodontia and gave him a look that definitely plugged him into
the "lame
old
people who don't
understand
me"
category. Riley made a mental note to never mention her braces'
existence again. Even if he did think they made Alexis look cute,
in a gawky, tender, between-stages sort of way.

He redeemed himself by selecting a magazine
from the grocery store bag next to Bud's seat. He handed it over
his shoulder. "I got you something in town."

"
Cosmo
! Cool! Thanks." Glossy pages
ruffled as Alexis rapidly flipped through them. "'Fifty ways to
look smokin' hot!' Number one..."

"Wouldn't
Tiger Beat
have been more
appropriate?" Gwen asked. "I don't want to be a prude, but—"

"
Tiger Beat
is
so
fifth
grade," Alexis said, waving her half-bitten, glitter-polished
fingernails. "I'm a
woman
now."

Bud scoffed. "And I'm one of the Backstreet
Boys."

"Ha. Good one, Gramps."

Gwen frowned, her hand hovering over Alexis'
bent head as the girl went back to reading hottie tips. At the last
instant, she halted the caress she'd undoubtedly been about to give
and looked out the window instead. Riley put the Suburban into
motion again, having decided keeping his trap shut was the better
part of valor. After all, he'd been the one who'd handed over the
bone of contention.

They drove farther down the road. Navigating
the steep switch-backed climb during the final two-tenths of a mile
to the lodge required vigilance and a certain tolerance for dust.
It also required patience, Riley learned, since his grandfather was
hell-bent on resuming their argument.

"It's only a five-day trip," Bud said as
though they'd never quit talking. "With a gaggle of that how-to
woman's groupies. To the lodge in Catsclaw Canyon. I can—"

"I'm doing it. End of story."

"Damn it, Riley! I said I'll—"

"The publicist who booked the trip said
they'll need to stop frequently," Gwen chimed in, "to conduct some
sort of heartbreak workshops along the trail. You know you'll never
have the patience to settle for less than a twenty-miles-per-day
pace, Bud."

His grandfather scowled. Jouncing along in
the back seat, Alexis perked up. "Heartbreak workshops?"

Gwen nodded. "Yes. Apparently, that's why
the author came here. To test out her new theories in private."

Riley shook his head.
This just got
better and better
. His unwanted group was slow, new to the back
country, fond of New Age mumbo jumbo,
and
dead-set on using
the quiet canyon trails to conduct open-air therapy sessions.
Whoever the heartbreak book's author was, she must be a real piece
of work.

"What a bunch of hooey," he said beneath his
breath.

Bud heard. "See? I
knew
you didn't
want to do it! I'll just get out my gear as soon as we get to the
lodge, and—"

"I'll do it," Riley said quietly.
Firmly.

Angling his head to loosen the tight muscles
in his neck and shoulders, he pondered his future. The sooner he
finished this trail guiding job and completed the rest of the
repairs he'd begun on the lodge, the sooner he could get back to
the life he loved.

The vagabond's life.

Riley had sometimes joked he was one part
interpreter, two parts Gypsy, and one part daredevil...but given
his upbringing, it really wasn't much of a joke. He'd had to become
all those things to survive. Now, though, he accepted and
appreciated the life he'd built. However willing he was to
temporarily help out his grandparents, his intentions remained
clear to him.

He intended to see, to do, to conquer and to
enjoy. Not necessarily in that order.

He'd only once been tempted to alter his
plans. To settle down, to toe off his boots and hang up his
rappelling ropes and sample life the way a rare few did...with
someone they cared about. But although the temptation had felt
nearly irresistible, the urge to stay had felt so alien that Riley
had—

No point trampling over the past
, he
reminded himself savagely, feeling a familiar—and unwanted—sense of
loss wash over him.
It's over with
.

"You said the group's six women?" he asked,
taking refuge in the job to be done.

Gwen nodded. Bud glared. "Hmmph."

Riley knew his grandfather would understand.
Eventually. "Then I'll probably ask Mack and Bruce to come
along."

On a typical guided adventure travel trip, a
traveler-to-guide ratio of three-to-one, or even four-to-one, would
have been perfectly acceptable. Higher ratios were safe so long as
the guides knew their jobs, and meant better profits, too. But the
Hideaway Lodge was firmly in the black, and Riley wasn't leading
this trip for the money, anyway. In the midst of the "how-to
junkies 'do' the wilderness" craziness, a couple of extra guides
would help keep him sane. If a shortfall arose because of his
decision, he'd make up the difference himself.

"Good idea," Gwen volunteered, forced
cheerfulness evident in her voice. "Since we don't have any other
groups coming in this week, I'm sure Mack and Bruce would love to
help out."

"'Mack and Bruce would love to help out,'"
Bud mimicked, making a disgusted face. He shifted in his seat, the
safety belt chafing against his flannel work shirt. "I guess
I'll
be busy working on the water lines."

"The septic system needs work, too," Gwen
informed him.

Beside Riley, his grandfather put his head
in his hands and sighed. A string of muffled obscenities followed,
mostly relating to Bud's opinions of "goddamn plumbers" and his
fervent desire not to become one at this stage of his life. Riley
patted his shoulder in silent empathy.

"I'm trapped," Bud said, shifting his bleak
gaze to his grandson. "Trapped."

Riley didn't need to hear it twice.
Trapped
was exactly the way he felt right now, and he didn't
like it one damned bit.

Especially once he rounded the last corner
and the lodge came into view...along with the women waiting for
them.

Baby blue
. Riley would have
recognized that particular shade of his favorite color anywhere. It
was as recognizable as the McDonald's arches, as familiar as the
color of the sky, as memorable as...as the only woman he'd ever
known who'd actually possessed a "signature color."

Jayne
.

She was here.

Nah
, Riley told himself amid the
clatter and chatter of the rest of his family getting out of the
Suburban, gathering up packages, slamming their doors.
That was
crazy
.

Jayne Murphy was the least likeliest
candidate for a wilderness vacation he could think of. She wore
high heels exclusively, except when she was barefoot or in bed.
(And sometimes, he remembered with a grin and a stupidly fond
mental flashback involving a pair of red stilettos, even then.) She
"cooked" by nuking microwave popcorn, ripping open a packet of
margarita mix, or (occasionally), pouring some Cap'N Crunch. She
wore mini skirts.

Jayne's idea of wildlife was the abandoned
pets she rescued (she had a serious soft spot for mutts and strays
of any kind), then dressed up in petwear ensembles—complete with
hats—while looking for the best new owner. Her notion of "roughing
it" was a vacation spot with no ice machine and an unheated
swimming pool. She hiked only to the nearest Nordstrom's, so far as
Riley knew, loved nothing more than being indoors with a flute of
champagne and a happening band playing nearby, and avoided all
contact with anything that might make her dirty.

There was no
way
Jayne could be here.
She'd sooner chew up her Macy's card, he felt certain, than
voluntarily forgo her God-given right to room service.

And yet...somehow....

He peered closer. The bombshell with the
ready smile and the honey blonde hair, the "It" girl with the
va-va-voom baby blue dress and the legs up to there, the talking,
laughing, guilelessly generous woman who was at this very minute
sympathetically patting Bud's bum shoulder...
nah
.