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‘Comfy?’
‘Very. Thank you for the gift.’ Her weak smile switched to a frown when he unhooked the rucksack from her shoulder. ‘I am capable of carrying my own bag,’ she said, sounding exasperated.
‘I’m sure you are,’ he said, stuffing the picnic blanket inside and hoisting the rucksack onto his back. ‘Shall we head onto the moor?’
After a few seconds spent glaring at him, she sighed and walked off. ‘Fine.’
Matt had no idea what the etiquette was these days with regards to female empowerment, and although he’d lived with two strong women who’d demanded his respect and busted his balls when he’d inadvertently underestimated them, he also had his own sensibilities to consider. Sensibilities that wouldn’t allow him to watch a woman half his size carrying a heavy rucksack over rural terrain when he was built like a carthorse. It just wasn’t right.
His size didn’t have many uses, but when it did, he was keen to capitalise. Like at work, where his strength proved an asset when lifting a motorbike off a fallen rider or retrieving someone from the window of a burning building. Being called upon to use his size for good helped to compensate for the jobs where his smaller colleagues were needed to squeeze through tight gaps and use their agility to navigate their way inside a crushed vehicle. Something he couldn’t do, not unless it was an artic lorry. Of course, the downside of being built like a Sherman tank was that he was perpetually hungry.
‘What did you get us for lunch?’ he asked when his stomach rumbled. Even as he said it, he was dreading opening the rucksack and discovering Cornish pastries, crisps, sugary drinks, chocolate cake – all the delicious things on offer in the farm shop that he shouldn’t have but desperately wanted.
‘Smoked salmon salad, a selection of dips and crudités, and a fruit medley for pudding.’
He stopped walking.
‘And fresh mango juice to drink,’ she said, pausing when she saw his expression. ‘What? Did I buy something you don’t like?’
‘No, it sounds great.’
‘Good.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘We had a big dinner last night, and we’re bound to indulge again tonight, so I figured I’d keep lunch light.’ She said it like it was no big deal and continued walking.
Except it was a big deal. To him, anyway. He would have eaten whatever she’d bought, because it would have been rude to refuse, and because when presented with temptation, his resolve would have cracked, but she’d saved him from the inevitable guilt. Was it a fluke? Her own personal choice? Or was she being a kind and sensitive soul, saving him from his own weakness?
They crossed the lane and jumped over one of the ditches created to prevent the sheep from wandering onto the road. As they ventured onto the moor, he felt the tension leave his body. It was good to be outside.
‘Look over there,’ Beth said, pointing to a group of wild ponies in the distance, grazing on the long grass. The wind caught her hair and she pushed it away from her face, studying a nearby stack of boulders. ‘You don’t get that on Chobham Common.’
‘Some of the stacks are thought to be prehistoric.’
She glanced at him. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Tour guide pamphlet in the hotel room.’
‘And I was thinking you were cultured.’
He grinned. ‘Nope, just curious.’
They continued walking.
Bodmin Moor proved to be more than just an attractive landscape. The outer area was filled with soft grasses, rambling heathers and low drystone walls made from local cobbles. It was only as they headed further away from the inn that walking became more challenging. Marshy soft ground created a deceptive cover for the soggy soil beneath, making progress slower and less stable. Random boulders stubbed your toes if you weren’t paying attention, and large tree roots threatened to topple you without warning.
He was about to warn Beth about one such hazard, when she said, ‘Mind, it’s slippery,’ and deftly hopped over the offending stream like a mountain goat. She was surprisingly more at home amongst nature than he’d expected. Not for the first time, he’d underestimated her.
Their approach to tackling the terrain differed as much as their personalities. Beth avoided the tricky areas, swerving around the wet marshes and switching paths to steer clear of the bogs. No wonder her trainers remained so pristine, she was clearly an expert in dirt-avoidance. In contrast, he marched through the mud, not even trying to avoid getting splattered. Partly because his bulk didn’t allow for sharp changes in direction, but mostly because he didn’t mind getting dirty. A rugby trait, no doubt. Outdoor winter sports were not suited to anyone averse to getting caked in mud.
‘Shall we head up there?’ Beth pointed to a mound with the ruins of an ancient crumbling church on top.
He caught up with her as she reached a thicket of brambles. ‘Wait up,’ he said, causing her to glower at him as he overtook her. ‘I’m thinking of your white shoes.’ He stamped on the brambles to create a flatter pathway.
‘I don’t need a man to help me.’ She sounded put out as she followed him.
‘I know you don’t.’ He carried on walking, amused by her indignation.
‘I am more than capable of walking by myself.’
‘Agreed.’
