An attendant announced his flight. Eli picked up his backpack and held it in front of him to conceal the swelling in his jeans. He tried to push thoughts of Giselle out of his head for the moment. This isn’t the time or place to get horny.
He found his seat and stowed his backpack. As he buckled up and pretended to listen to the flight attendant’s air safety speech, he contemplated his relationship with Miranda. I guess if we don’t have a commitment, she can do anything she likes, too. He imagined her in bed with another man, envisioned that man fondling her gorgeous breasts, eating her pussy, fucking her until she moaned with pleasure. He didn’t like the idea at all.
Eli rarely felt jealous. If a woman wasn’t available or preferred somebody else, he could always find plenty more to pick from. He’d never had to look far for female companionship. Like a bee flitting from flower to flower, he drank his fill and moved on.
For some reason, Miranda’s different. What am I going to do about her?
After dropping Eli at the airport, Miranda drove north through Mississippi.
This has to be the most boring state I’ve seen yet, she thought. I wish Eli were here to make the drive more fun. Western Tennessee held little appeal either.
If I liked country music, I might consider heading over to Nashville, but I can easily pass on The Grand Ole Opry. I think I’ll skip Graceland, too.
She spent the night near the intersection of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, and in the morning followed the Ohio east, hoping to find someplace that piqued her interest.
Finally she acknowledged that she wasn’t bored; she was lonely. When she delved a little deeper, she discovered sadness and apprehension just below the surface. What if Eli eases back into his old life in Napa and forgets all about me? Or worse, what if those French guys get him? He might not be so lucky next time.
A sign for Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area caught her eye.
Maybe communing with nature will improve my mood. She turned south and soon came to the inland peninsula sandwiched between Kentucky Lake and Lake Barkley. After renting a cabin for the night and picking up a site map at the visitors’ center, she set out to explore as much of the park’s 170,000 acres as possible.
First she drove through a grassy prairie where bison and long-horned elk roamed freely, much as they had before white men settled Kentucky. Next she hiked along one of the park’s less strenuous trails, part of an intricate network that crisscrossed the peninsula. Herons, egrets, Canadian geese, and other waterfowl populated the marshes.
Deer grazed along the shores. A pair of otters cavorted in a stream.
She recalled what Freeman had told her over tea in his tree house near the Atchafalaya swamp: “When an animal or bird appears to us, it could be bringing a message.” Everywhere she looked ,she saw wildlife of one sort or another. Surely they couldn’t all be messengers, could they? And if they were, how could she possibly decipher their language? Maybe they showed her the way to simply be, to live in the moment, trusting her instincts to guide and provide for her, instead of worrying about the future or analyzing the past. A hawk soaring overhead reminded her of the magician Lancelot Lucas.
What a strange assortment of people I’ve met on this journey.
In the afternoon, Miranda decided to join a trail ride. It sounded like a pleasant way to spend a couple of hours, but once she’d mounted the palomino gelding, she had second thoughts. I haven’t ridden a horse since high school. I hope I can keep from falling off. She gripped the reins with sweaty hands. I’ve heard horses can sense your fear.
As the group of horses and riders loped along the peaceful waterfront, she began to relax. The sun warmed her back and made the green lake sparkle like an emerald. To the west stretched rolling hills dappled with wildflowers.
They’d nearly reached an old iron furnace, abandoned now for more than a century, when she saw the snake coiled at the side of the trail. Her horse stopped short, reared, and bolted. Miranda let out a startled shriek and gripped the saddle horn, clenching the gelding’s sides with her legs. She yanked on the reins, but the horse kept running. Panic surged in her chest.
With her heart pounding hard and fast like the horse’s hooves, she suddenly recalled an incident years ago when a riptide swept her away while swimming in the icy waters off the Maine coast. Struggling against the powerful current only made things worse. When she relaxed, however, the ocean carried her back to shore. Go with the flow, don’t fight, a voice inside her advised. Miranda leaned forward, close to the palomino’s neck, and gave him his head. If I can just hang on, I’ll be okay. They galloped another half-mile before the horse seemed to decide he was out of harm’s way and slowed down.
The trail ride’s leader cantered up beside her. “Are you all right?”
Miranda nodded, trying to catch her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.
“What happened?” he asked.
“A snake… spooked him.”
He took the gelding’s reins from her, and led horse and rider back to the group. At the end of the trail Miranda slid down from the palomino, glad to be standing on firm ground again. Her legs felt sore and shaky. Her butt ached from bumping on the saddle.
A man with very broad shoulders and very narrow hips strolled over to her, his movements so fluid he seemed to be made of water. “You okay?” he asked. His Tennessee twang reminded her of a banjo. “That was quite a ride.”
“Seems like everything’s still in place,” she answered.
He looked her up and down, with deliberate slowness. “Seems like that to me, too.” He grinned, revealing a row of sparkling white teeth broken by a single, gold incisor. “Where you headed now?”
“Back to my cabin to relax.”
“You stayin’ at the Wranglers’ Camp?”
She nodded.
“Mind if I walk with you?”
He told her his name was Jeremy and that he was a professional bull rider.
Ordinarily, Miranda might’ve been intrigued and shown more enthusiasm, plying him with questions about his rodeo adventures. But as they walked toward the camp, her attention kept wandering.
“I got a couple steaks an’ some beer,” he said when they reached her cabin. “How ’bout sharing ’em with me t’night?”
“Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll pass.”
He looked disappointed, but not convinced. “Maybe once you get washed up and rested a bit, you’ll change your mind. If you do, my RV’s over there, the one with the flames painted on it.” He pointed toward a camping area. “Just gimme a holler.”
After a hot shower, Miranda felt better. Briefly she contemplated accepting Jeremy’s offer, but her heart wasn’t in it—and neither was the rest of her. She wished Eli were here. She tried his cell phone, but got his voice mail.
Sipping a Coke she’d bought from a vending machine, she stretched out on the bed, replaying erotic images of the two of them together on her mental monitor. What’s wrong with you, girl? You’re acting like a lovesick teenager, she chastised herself.
She got up and pulled a paperback novel from one of the pockets in her suitcase.
As she did, the crystal she’d found in Uncle Bright’s field fell out. Its planes and points sparkled when she picked it up, inviting her to look deeper. Holding it in her hand, she remembered the scenario she’d seen inside the crystal, more than a week before the attack in New Orleans occurred. I glimpsed the future once before. Can I do it again?