Jack hummed thoughtfully and paused to inhale the sweet licorice smell.
We continued along, my eyes roaming the area around us, searching for changes from the last time we’d hiked this particular trail up to the peak last summer. When planning out the hikes Jack and I took, I usually stuck to lower-elevation trails during the cooler seasons, saving the higher elevations for the summer months.
After a curve in the trail, I stopped and squatted down. “Drummond’s rock cress. This one is on the endangered list, too.”
“Oh, right. I recognize this one. Pretty,” Jack said, admiring the white flowers.
“It is.” I glanced up at him. “Hard to think that a year from now, a trendy barrel sauna might be sitting here instead of this plant, huh?”
Jack nodded, frowning in concern, but it felt like that concern was more for me and my inevitable disappointment once the resort was approved than the fate of the plants themselves.
“They really don’t need to build so high up the mountain,” I said stubbornly, as though we hadn’t discussed this a dozen times before. “What if they kept the resort buildings clustered around the primary area of Coster’s Meadow? As much as I’d hate to lose the vistas from that little valley, at least it would make more sense than clear-cutting the ridge.”
“It’s analpineresort concept.” Jack’s voice was infuriatingly patient and oh-so-reasonable, as usual. “I think setting it among the trees on the ridge is sort of the point, Bird.”
“Well, then, they can change the concept. That’s what all these town meetings have been about, right? They’re supposedto listen to us. To give us a voice. We get to have the final say. But if no one speaks up, if no one seems to care, why would they?—”
Jack gripped the straps of his pack tighter. “Or maybe people in town care about more than one thing. I keep telling you, it’s not a black-and-white issue for most folks. There’s a huge financial benefit to the resort. There’s lots to consider.”
That phrase again.
“Assuming peopleareconsidering things and not dismissing it for all the wrong reasons,” I grumbled.
Financial security and stability were important—of course they were!—but it wasn’t as though the survival of Jack’s business depended on the resort. Panini Jack’s had become a local institution, and folks lined up for a table on a weekend morning, even in the off-season.
I was trying to look at the situation maturely. To not be selfish. To tell myself it was okay to disagree and not let my hurt over Jack’s rejection get all twisted up with his dismissal of my fears about Evola. To remind myself that Jack cared about melotsand that he’d proven it over the past seven years by treating me like an intelligent adult, by listening when I talked, by giving me a job at his diner, by asking my opinion on all the tiny details of his home renovation. But I was too emotional for this logic to really penetrate.
We walked further along the trail, passing old-growth hardwoods, familiar jagged outcrops, and the places where the other trails leading down all sides of the mountain—the Rock Cut, the Hunter, the Fox, the Shepherd, and bunches more too small to have names—converged into the Red Trail for the final push up to the Peak.
When we got to the Friendly Footbridge—the wooden structure that a century’s worth of Hollowans had crossed in order to reach the highest areas of the mountain without braving the rushing current of Glassy Creek—by unspoken agreement,we stopped for a moment to lean against the railing in silence. The Creek, which could run dangerously high during the spring, was running low now, thanks to a stretch of warm, dry weather, but was still beautiful. The crystal-clear water meandering over rocks and boulders on its way downhill was hypnotic and comforting. I was already working up a sweat from the incline, but thankfully, the air was comfortably cool under the tree canopy… at least until the clear-cutting began.
“They’re building this resort to lure tourists up to our unspoiled wilderness,” I murmured, “and don’t get the irony of how much they’re spoiling it. The glory of this land is that it’s self-sustaining, Jack. Every single thing impacts something else. You clear-cut the trees, there’s less shade, and the water in the lake gets hotter. You dig a huge foundation, and you’re disturbing the runoff patterns. The very shape of the lake changes. The fish die. Other plants take over. Now it’s not an upscale resort set in unspoiled wilderness anymore; it’s an overpriced motel on a piece of land that looks like a thousand other places on Earth. And by then, it’s too late. It’sruined.”
“Hawk, it’s not in anyone’s best interest to let it be ruined. That’s why Evola has people on their team who’ll be supervising?—”
“Do you honestly think Evola’s idea ofruinedis the same as ours? As long as they’re profiting, are they going to care that there are five—five—different types of bats that have been found in the Glassy cave system that are on the endangered list? Not to mention the Canadian lynx, the eastern mountain lion, and the American marten, all of which have been spotted on or around Fogg Peak in the last twenty years. All of them are endangered.All of them—” I cut myself off and blew out a breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m taking out my anger on you, and I don’t mean to.”
“It’s okay,” Jack soothed. “I meant what I said last week: you can talk to me about anything, whether I agree with you or not. If it makes you feel better to vent about bats, I’m all ears.”
An image of Jack as a bat, squeaking out theErk! Erk!noises he made when I flustered him, dropped into my brain unbidden.
“What’s funny?” he demanded as I snickered.
“Nothing. Just, the northern long-eared bat is one of the endangered bat species, and I was just kind of picturing you with…” I gestured to my own ears.
“Hawk Sunday,” Jack said, mock outraged. “First, you mock me because I’m talking like Mr. Darcy. Now I’ve been downgraded all the way tobat? Remind me never to really piss you off, or you’ll be comparing me to fungi.”
This was so accurate I laughed out loud. “If it makes you feel better, northern long-eared bats are adorable and extremely useful. They eat insects that could decimate agricultural and timber industries. And while they mate in the fall, the females store the sperm and don’t actually get pregnant until the spring. They’re all aboutdelayed gratification.”
He rolled his eyes, but his blue gaze met mine, and when he saw me grin, his lips twitched into that familiar smile I loved. The knots in my shoulders loosened a fraction.
Thisis why you love Jack Wyatt, Hawkins.
Jack got my humor. He smiled when I smiled. I knew the rhythm of his strong, confident stride on the trail, the sound of his regular breathing interspersed with his periodic inhales to “enjoy the smell of the fir trees,” the view of his chiseled calf muscles covered in wiry blond hair, and the clean scent of his sweat when we finally came out of the trees and into the summer sun. When things between us were calm, I was calmer, too… which was part of what had made this past week so hard.
Maybe it could be just as simple as that.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I whispered after a long moment. “Thanks for being with me today.”
