My day goes from daydream to nightmare in one heartbeat. I’ve spent the entire hike trying to start a conversation with the curvy tourist who flits around like a joyful butterfly and I’ve failed spectacularly.
The second I saw her lingering outside the tourist center in her cargo shorts and bright pink tank top I’ve been obsessed. All it took for my bachelor life to promptly crash and burn was sunshine hair pulled into a purple scrunchie, a friendly laugh, and the cutest spread of dark brown freckles I’ve ever seen. Her grin stretched her cheeks wide, highlighting her dimples, and I was hooked.
I tried not to go over the top. I kept the conversation casual, and tried like hell not to lose my mind when she blushed. I couldn’t pry more than five words out of Clover, but I’d be an idiot to miss the way she stares at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
Those pretty blue eyes drift down my body like a brand. She might be shy, but she can’t hide her attraction. The tensionsimmering between us is undeniable. I just needed to find a topic that would excite her enough to draw her into the conversation.
First comes flirting. Then comes marriage. With at least a few months of dating in-between. Relationships move fast in Crescent Ridge, but I doubt that my butterfly would say yes to a ring any faster.
I’d made Clover laugh and I was getting ready to ask her on a date when disaster struck.
“Are you a smokejumper?” One of the college kids in this tour group asked.
“No,” I replied.
Clover slipped away with her camera as the questions began to fly. She stayed within eyesight, so I was content.
“Do you really get calls to rescue cats out of trees?”
“All the time.” I laugh. “Betty Anderson’s calico thinks she’s a leopard.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Clover’s smile fade, and I was moving before I clocked what was wrong. She stumbles out of the tree line, every wobbly step adding to the panic building in my chest.
Her lips are swollen, one hand grabbing her throat and the other frantically patting her pockets. I zero in on the red dot on her arm just as she trips over a root.
Catching her before she hits the ground, her metallic bracelet catches the light. The blue six-pointed Star of Life jumps out at me, and I flip it over to read the engraving on the back.
ALLERGIC: BEE STINGS / ANAPHYLAXIS / USE EPIPEN
Using my radio I call dispatch, my voice remaining steady and calm, even as my entire being threatens to unravel.
Voices swarm around me, but I don’t listen as they slowly react to the emergency threatening the life of my woman.
“Please have it,” I mutter to myself as I start searching the pockets of her cargo shorts. “Please. Please. Please.”
I find the epinephrine injector in one of the thigh pockets and I could kiss it.
“Blue to the sky, orange to the thigh,” Toni, the tour group leader, recites as I administer the medicine.
Sirens blare in the distance, coming ever closer. The epinephrine will save Clover, but we’re not out of the woods yet. With one arm under her knees and the other under her back, I scoop her up and start heading for the closest access point.
“North side, campsite G,” I tell dispatch through the radio pinned to my shoulder.
“Is she going to be alright?” one student asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
The entire group follows me as I rush down a thin trail that leads to the campsite. I hear Toni trying to stop the group, but they remain hot on my heels.
“Is she breathing?” the teenage boy asks.
“Shut up, Dale!” his girlfriend yells.
“She’ll be fine,” Old Man Quincy reassures the group. He’s been a regular on these tours for years. “Simon has the situation handled.”
The ambulance beats us to the campsite. A shirtless man and a woman with mussed hair poke their heads out of a green tent as our motley crew marches past.
“We’ll check in with Gloria tomorrow,” Quincy adds, passing Clover’s backpack to me as Lola hops out the back of the ambulance. “Take good care of our girl.”