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As if Cannon senses my subtle distress, he says, “We could walk to the trail, but we have to be on the road for at least a half mile.”
His neighbors each own as many acres of land as he does, and their houses are just as concealed by trees. But walking on the road where any passerby would get a clear visual of my face does make me uncomfortable. It seems absurd to drive a half mile just to go for a walk, but I don’t mind the car ride, no matter how short.
“Does the trail go near your house at all?” I stare into the trees lining the side of the road. “Can you make your own path to the trail?”
He pulls into a dirt lot that’s big enough to fit three vehicles. “It angles away, but it wouldn’t be hard to create my own path through the trees to link up to the trail. Any path that well worn would encourage strangers to take it. I don’t want anybody just popping into my backyard.”
He has only cameras; he doesn’t have fences. It makes sense the trail was created for the people who live in this area, but also to respect their privacy.
“If you like the hike, we can do it,” he offers. “That way we don’t have to drive if you don’t want to, but you won’t have to be on the road.”
“That’d be fun.” Nothing like my middle-of-the-night flight through Bel Air.
He takes out the backpack he brought along and slings it over his shoulder. I would offer to carry it, but I know he’ll say no.
Our surroundings are quiet. I can hear the distant drone of engines, a little louder than at the cabin. Birds are singing overhead, and the faint buzz of insects is all around me. The marked trail is a cleared dirt path a few feet wide.
Cannon lets me lead to set the pace. I walk at a comfortable speed. Being able to literally stretch my legs like this boosts my spirits. The walks I take around Cannon’s yard are pleasant, if limited. There’s nowhere to go except around the house unless I want to change out of my leggings and roam through the trees. And his little studio is the best gift I’ve ever gotten, but it’s nowhere near the size of a regulation dance floor.
Outside, on the trail, there’s no limit. It’s not that I need the exercise as much as I need to be boundless and free.
I glance over my shoulder. Cannon’s expression is the calmest I’ve ever seen. The lines of stress etched around his eyes and his mouth are gone. The peace of the trees has soaked into him. His body language is relaxed. He’s feeling the same as me. This is the reason he bought the cabin.
“Is there a destination, or are we just walking? I’m good either way.” And I am. Any place Cannon has to show me will be interesting, but if we both need to just hike, that’s fine too.
“It’s not big enough to call a lake, but when the terrain grows more rugged up ahead, there’s a little watering hole.”
I stop. Cannon comes to an abrupt halt before ramming into me. He hooks his thumbs around the straps of the pack. “What’s wrong?”
“What does the watering hole serve?” I’m as city as someone can get. I’m not New York City. A rat would scare the shit out of me. But there’re animals bigger than rats in the mountains.
His brows draw in before he chuckles. “Don’t worry, swan. There’re no animals that are going to eat you out here.” He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, maybe a mountain lion, but the coyotes should leave us alone.”
“Mountain lion?” Prickles burst across the backs of my shoulders, and I expect to turn around and see a hundred pairs of glowing eyes deep in the trees.
He grins, but it’s reassuring. “Mountain lion attacks are rare. They have plenty to eat this deep into the trees, and if we steer clear of them, they should steer clear of us.”
Hopefully, but I’m glad I’m not alone. I’m too much of a city girl to take these trails unaccompanied. Maybe one day I’ll be comfortable on them by myself. One of the few benefits of being sequestered for so long.
I suck in a deep breath of forest air, redolent of cedar and sugar pine. The smell of nature soothes me even if other parts of nature might want to eat me.
I keep going, and the trail trends upward. My legs are starting to burn, but it only makes me want to go harder. Muscles I don’t use enough are firing awake. It’s a good feeling.
To the right, a twinkle of blue becomes visible about fifty feet off the trail.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“That’s the one. It’s not large enough to swim in and there’s no visible source, but it’s perfect for the animals.” He swings his pack off and digs out one of the bottles of water. Handing me one, he says, “I think that’s why I like it. Some parts of these mountains aren’t meant to be used by us, but we’re lucky bastards to be able to see it anyway.”
I bet Jacobi and Kase don’t know Cannon’s artistic soul. Have they seen beyond the snarky, sometimes crabby veteran? It’s more than that he’s a dancer. His creativity is his core. Our time alone together has given me a glimpse of the Cannon few others have seen. The deeply reflective, artistic Cannon is a lot like this watering hole. Not meant for the public, and I’m privileged to be able to see it.
Several minutes tick by before restlessness sets in again. I’m cognizant that the trail doesn’t loop back to the parking area. To get back, I’ll need to double my exertion. “Is there more up ahead, or should we go back?”
“It’s up to you.” He takes my water bottle and tucks it back into the pack along with his. “There’s a pretty impressive drop-off in another quarter mile. It’s almost a shock after passing a little area like this. You keep expecting more of the same, and then boom, nothing but air.”
“Sounds like something I need to see.”
We share a smile. It’s something he wants to share, but he didn’t want to push me.
