“Roses,” she said, smiling.

“Roses? I haven’t seen that many roses around.”

“Oh, you’re not looking hard enough,” she said, grinning.

“Hmm. Well, I’m looking for something that would draw deer,” Mel said.

“Like a doe call? But hunting season is months away.”

“God, I wouldn’t shoot at them! I like seeing them in my yard in the early morning. Can you tell me where to find that?”

“Um, if you want deer in your yard, you’re the only one. Just plant some lettuce or a couple of apple trees. With deer, if you don’t want them in your produce, you can hardly keep them away.”

“Oh. If I throw some lettuce out there, will that work? Because I don’t garden.”

The woman tilted her head and smiled with eyes that frowned. “Where you from?”

“Los Angeles. Concrete jungle.”

“I mean, now.”

“Up in Virgin River. Kind of back in the woods, you know…”

“Listen, don’t try the lettuce, okay. Because there are also bear. Just keep your food indoors and don’t press your luck. If you get deer, you get deer.” Then she looked down and said, “Nice boots. Where can I get a pair like that?”

Mel thought a second, then said, “Can’t really remember. Target, I think.”

Rather than going back to Doc’s, she drove out to the river. She saw that there were six anglers in the river, and that one of them was Jack. She pulled up, parked, and got out to lean against the front of her car to watch. He looked over his shoulder at her, smiled a hello, but went back to his sport. He’d pull out some line and let it slack, then gracefully cast out, the line reaching behind him in a large S before sailing smoothly out over the river, touching down on the top of the water as lightly as a leaf floating lazily down from a tree. And again, and again.

She loved to watch the arc of the lines, the whir of them going out, the clicking of them reeling in. They seemed almost synchronized, choreographed, the air above the water filled with flying lines. The men, in waders and vests, would walk around the swirling shallow waters while fish jumped now and then in the river. If there was a catch, the fish would either be released or go in the creel dangling from a shoulder strap.

After a peaceful interlude, Jack came out of the river with his rod and reel in hand.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just watching.”

“Want to try?”

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“It’s not very hard—let’s see if I can scrounge some boots or waders.” He went to his truck and dug around in the back. He came up with some huge rubber hip boots.

“This’ll keep you dry—but you won’t be able to wade too far out.”

She stepped into them. His legs were so much longer than hers that he had to fold them down twice at the top of her thighs, not an unpleasant sensation. They were so big that she had to shuffle rather than walk, dragging them along. “I won’t be able to run for my life, either,” she said. “Okay, what do I do?”

“It’s all in the wrist,” he said. “Don’t worry about aim so much as a nice clean arc and a little distance—getting you into the deeper part of the river where the fish are more plentiful.” He took her hand, led her to the water’s edge, and showed her his casting.

“Don’t snap it hard, just roll it off nice and easy. Give it a little arm, but don’t throw your body into it.”

He handed her the rod, showed her where to unlock the reel. She gave it a try and the fly plunked down right in front of her. “How’s that for distance?”

“We’re going to have to work on that,” he said. He stepped behind her and guiding her hand, helped her cast. Twenty-five feet, maybe. Probably a fourth of the distance he could achieve, and her fly came down hard, making a splash. “Hmm, better,” he said. “Reel her in, slowly.”

She brought it back and repeated the process, this time without his hand guiding hers.

“Good,” he said. “Watch your footing—there are spots where you can drop, trip, slip off a rock. You wouldn’t want to fall in.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” she said, casting again. That time she flicked her wrist too hard and the hook flew back behind them, whooshing past their heads. “Oops,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, but be careful. I’d hate to have that thing pulled out of the back of my head. Here,” he said. He stood behind her and put a hand on her hip. “Don’t throw your body into it—just use your arm and wrist—and go easy. You’ll get the distance. Eventually.”

She did it again, and it was good. A nice, graceful arc, a respectable distance into the river. A fish jumped out where her fly had landed. “Oh, he’s a big one.”

“Brown trout—a beauty. You get him today and you’ll show up all of us.”

Something slithered past her feet and she jumped with a gasp. “Lamprey eel,” he said.

“They like to suck the roe and fluids out of the salmon.”

“Ew. Charming.” She cast again. And again. This was fun. Now and then Jack would take her wrist and cast with her, reminding her of the wrist action. The other hand stayed on her hip, holding her still. “I like this,” she said. Then she had a hit and reeled in a fish. It wasn’t a very big fish, but it was a fish. And she’d caught him by herself.

“Not bad,” he said. “Take it off the hook carefully.”

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“I’ll show you, but then you have to do it. If you’re going to fish, you’re going to take the fish off the hook. Like this,” he demonstrated, sliding his hand from the fish’s head to his wriggling body, holding it firmly, disengaging the hook cautiously. “His mouth is okay. We’re going to let him grow into a civilized meal,” he said, tossing the fish back.

“Aw,” she said.

“You got lucky. Come on,” he said, turning her back to the river. He stood behind her, holding her body straight and still with that large hand on her hip, his other hand guiding her wrist. She cast again, reeled in again.

“Jack, are there an awful lot of roses around here in summer?” she asked.

“Hmm? I don’t know. Sure, some.”

“I stopped by the hardware store this morning and they had this huge display of rose clippers. All sizes. I guess I’ve never noticed anything like that before…”

When she brought in her line, he turned her around slightly. He frowned. “Rose clippers?”

“Uh-huh. From little tiny ones to great big ones with curved blades and leather grips.”

“Where?”

“Clear River. I went over for gas and—”

“Mel, those aren’t rose clippers. Well, I guess you could use ’em for that. More likely, they’re for marijuana harvests. Little ones for manicuring buds, big ones for cutting down plants.”

“Naw. Come on.”

He turned her back toward the river. “There are towns around here that stock a lot of the stuff illegal growers need. Clear River’s one. What were you doing at the hardware store?”

“I thought I’d pick up something that would invite the deer to my yard, like a salt lick or feed or something, but—”

He turned her back to face him again. “Salt lick?”

“Well, cows like that, right? So I thought…”

He was shaking his head. “Mel, listen—don’t do anything to invite wildlife to your yard. You might get some unfriend-lies. Okay? Like maybe a buck who’s more interested in rutting than having his picture taken. Or a bear. Understand?”

“Rutting?” she frowned.

He smiled patiently and touched the end of her nose. “Making love.”

“Oh. Sure. Okay,” she said, turning back to the river. Casting again.

“Rose clippers.” He laughed. “I think you’re getting the hang of this,” he said.

“I like it. I’m not sure about that getting the fish off the hook part.”

“Come on, don’t be a sissy.”

“Well…”

“You have to catch one first,” he said.

“You just watch. I’m precocious.”

Mel lost all track of time as she worked the rod, sending the colorful fly out across the water, bringing it back slowly. Again and again she cast, noting, too, that Jack kept his hand on her hip and now and then ran his other hand down her arm to her hand to guide her. “Come on,” she kept telling the fly. “I’m ready!”

“Keep your voice down,” he said softly. “This is a peaceful sport.”

Again and again she would cast her line. She wasn’t skilled by any means, but she was getting it out there, and doing so prettily. At least, she thought so. She felt that hand that had been on her hip slide stealthily around her, holding her at her waist, pulling her just slightly back against him. “You’re distracting me,” she said, casting again.

“Good,” he said, lowering his lips to her head, inhaling.

“Jack, there are people!”

“They could care less,” he said, holding her against him.

She looked around and saw that what he said was true—the other fishermen didn’t even glance their way. Their lines were flying around in gentle, beautiful arcs. They didn’t even look at each other. Okay, she thought. This feels good. I like the hand, the arm around me. I can manage this.

Then she felt his lips on her neck. “Jack! I’m fishing!”

“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll try not to bother you too much.”

He pulled her just a little harder against him and began to nibble at her neck. “What are you doing?” she asked, laughter in her voice.

“Mel, please…Can’t we go somewhere and just make out for a while?”

“No!” she laughed. “I’m fishing!”

“If I promise to take you fishing after…?”

“No! Now behave yourself!” But she was smiling because it was pretty heady having this big tough guy turn weak and desperate just from the taste of her neck. She concentrated on her casting while he concentrated on her neck, his arm tight around her waist. Ahhh…Nice. Very nice.

After a few more minutes passed, he let go of her with a tortured moan, walked back to his truck and laid himself over the front, arms outstretched wide, head lying on the hood. She looked over her shoulder at him and chuckled. Brought him to his knees, she thought. Big tough marine. Hah!

She treated herself to a few more casts, then turned and shuffled in those great big boots back to Jack. She leaned the rod against the truck and pulled her feet out of the rubber boots. He lifted his head and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Thanks, Jack. I have to go. It’s time for my soap.” She treated him to a conciliatory peck on the cheek. “Maybe we can do this again sometime.”

As she drove back to town, she got to thinking—a few weeks ago, she was absolutely certain there was nothing in her that allowed her to respond to a man. To Jack. Now she wasn’t so sure. A little contact, a little kissing—deep kissing—it felt good. It made her forget sometimes that she had nothing to give. In fact, it made her wonder if maybe she was wrong about that. Going somewhere to make out for a while didn’t sound like a bad idea. She was going to give that more thought. She poked her head into Doc’s and found him on the computer and said, “Anything?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Okay, I’m going to the store. Need anything?”

“Nope,” he said again.