Page 58 of Born to be Wilder

All three mouths opened, but before they could answer, I said, “Don’t answer that. Just eat your biscuits.”

They closed their mouths. Three suspicious sets of eyes stared at me, but I just smiled and shoved a biscuit in my mouth. We were going on our next adventure.

Chapter Twelve

I gripped the wheel tight, guiding Bertha even farther from civilization as we followed Bayou Bill in his giant camouflage truck jacked up so high I’d need a ladder to climb in. Part of me wondered what he was compensating for, but I supposed for a gator boat captain in Louisiana, where the terrain went from gravel to mud to water with no warning, a truck like that was just practical.

I loved it immediately and made a note to put going mudding in monster trucks on my wish list.

“If we end up as a true crime podcast episode, I’m going to haunt you for eternity,” Alice called out from behind me.

“Why is he driving us out so far? This doesn’t feel right,” Doris added.

I glanced at them in my rearview. “Well, it’s not like the bayou is downtown, ladies. He’s taking us to his boat, alright? Stop acting like he’s a serial killer.”

“And you would know he’s not a serial killer… how?” Alice asked.

“The man has a business logo on his hat. He’s the real deal!”

“Oh, right,” Sylvie chimed in from the passenger seat, her phone held high as she desperately searched for a signal. “Because no psychopath has ever used a clever ruse to lure four women into the wilderness.”

“He’s legit. A bona fide airboat captain. You’ll see.”

I ignored her side-eye.

“Oh, we’ll see alright. We’ll have a great view when we’re ghosts floating above our mangled corpses.” Alice groaned.

“I don’t like this!” Doris whimpered.

Sylvie’s face lit up. “Oh! A signal! I’m texting Tom a photo of that truck’s license plate and dropping a pin where we are so he’ll know where to send the authorities if we don’t report in within a couple hours.”

“Smart girl,” Alice said.

“Relax! This isn’t whitewater rafting in the jungle. It’s a boat. With a professional guide. What could possibly go wrong?”

The three of them groaned in unison. Apparently, “What could go wrong?” was the official trigger question for Wilder Widows PTSD.

The dirt track opened into a clearing at the water’s edge—a weathered dock jutting into the murky water of the bayou, and tied to the dock, rocking gently, was an airboat. Flat-bottomed, low to the water, with a massive, caged fan mounted at the back that had my heart pitter-pattering with excitement about how fast it could go. Bayou Bill was already out of his truck by the time I cut Bertha’s engine, pulling gear from the back with the unhurried efficiency of someone who’d done this ten thousand times.

“See! Airboat! Told you that logo on his hat was legit.” I turned in my seat and pointed at Alice. “Ha! I was right and you were wrong. Admit it.”

She crossed her arms, answering with an unconvinced, “Because he can’t serial kill us on the airboat. You’re right, Marge. Thank you for that confirmation.”

I closed a fist, showing it to the three concerned widows. “You see this baby? This is called self-defense. If Bayou Bill even thinks about getting funny with us, he’s gonna be dancing with gators. And by dancing, I mean screaming while they tear off his limbs.”

Doris’s eyes widened. “There are gators here?”

“Of course there are gators here. This is the bayou, and half the fun of airboat tours is to see the gators.”

“I didn’t know that! I don’t want to go by the gators!” She clutched her rosary hanging around her neck.

“We’ll be in that boat. We’ll be fine.”

Alice pointed at it. “That boat? The weird one with no sides? What if we fall off?”

“Or a gator jumps on!” Doris squealed, pulling her rosary from her neck and holding it in her hands as she started her first Hail Mary.

I showed them my fist again. “That isn’t gonna happen, but if it does, I’ve got you gals.”