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"Isabel Burche."
Packing away her things, she returned, "Well I know who you are, too."
"Is that a factf"
"John Wolcott."
He lifted his pillowcase. "Now that we've got each other's names out of the way, that's all we have to know about one another. That—and the fact that I'm going to win this contest."
"I agree about the name part. But it'll be me who wins."
"Don't think so."
"Why's that?"
"Because now I'm ahead of you." On that, he headed down the hillside with an easygoing stride, that pillowcase of his all knobby and filled to plumpness with berries.
Isabel fell in behind him and kept her distance. She hoped he'd trip—the arrogance of the man.
Shining her light on the ground as she walked, Isabel minded her steps. At first, she couldn't be sure, but then, not only one but three… then four… a half dozen, then one-two-five-ten… sixteen! Berries! Bright red berries! The rolling fruits were
littering the dirt trail!
She paused and shone the light ahead of her to John Wolcott's back. With each step, the pillow slip bounced against his right shoulder. And with each bounce, a sprinkle of berries fell through a hole on the bottom of his sack.
Isabel wanted to laugh. She quickly crouched down, scooped up the berries, and dumped them into her hamper. She scrambled a few feet ahead and did the same thing, cringing when the wicker hinge on her basket creaked.
Working with nimble fingers, she alternated her gaze between the strewn berries and John's retreating silhouette. Surely he'd feel his sack growing as flat as a pancake. She quickly stood, stepping on a twig and crunching it beneath her heel. The corner of her hamper crashed into a manzani-ta bush, making an awful rustling sound. Before she could rush ahead and collect the next batch of strays, John looked over his shoulder to glare at her.
She acted fast and knocked the light off the evidence-bearing trail. Aiming the beam on him, she saw a wide arc of berries fly out of his pillowcase as he swung around.
"What in the hell are you doing?" He brought a hand up to keep the bright light out of his eyes.
"Nothing," she said flatly.
"You're walking funny. I can hear it."
"I'm walking the way I always walk. You wouldn't know because you don't know me… How I walk, that is."
"Get that damn light out of my face. You're blinding me."
Isabel shot the reflecting lamp's bright shaft toward the hillside, purposefully avoiding the path.
"No wonder you're walking funny, you can't see where you're going." He took a step toward her. Her eyes widened. She couldn't let him come back up the trail. He might find the berries. She ran down to meet him and nearly crashed into his chest. She would have if he hadn't grabbed her wrist—the very hand that held the lantern. The beam swayed back and forth over the sage and mustard weed.
Isabel stared into his shadowed face, glad she couldn't see his expression clearly. Her heartbeat tripped against her ribs. She felt utterly foolish. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't have thrown herself at him.
John's fingers were warm and strong around her. She hoped he couldn't detect the erratic thrum of her pulse. His voice went through her with a husky grate. "What's the matter with you?"
She couldn't tell him. She needed a diversion. Turning her head toward the hillside, she exclaimed, "Oh—look! There's a rabbit."
"So what?"
Slowly she faced him once more. "I thought you might want to shoot it."
He released her, suspicion in his tone. "I'm not wearing a gun. Besides, why would I want to shoot a rabbit?"
"For your dinner."
