something. It gets the universal ball rolling. So get your phone and — ”
“Geena — ”
“Or I will.”
Rocky got her phone.
3:41 p.m.
“You’re hurt,” Ted said. “Here, sit.” He took her arm and guided her to a patch of weeds. His mind calculated all sorts of things as he did this.
I am helping somebody, he thought, really helping somebody. How long had it been since he could say that? But this was more than getting somebody’s desktop to function again. More than installing some new system across a network.
This was someone in physical trouble, out in the wild. If you could consider the back of Pack Canyon wild. It was where they used to shoot Westerns in the old black-and-white TV days. Ted knew that much.
Cowboys rescued ladies in distress on television shows. He was doing it for real.
What a moment this was. And the woman was nice looking. What had happened here? I wonder if I’ll see her again after this, he thought. I have to show her I know what to do here. Take command of the situation.
“I’m calling for help,” Ted said, whipping out his cell.
“My husband . . .”
Husband! Ted squeezed the phone. Just my luck. The good ones are always taken. All right , you’re still here , impress her anyway. “What about your husband?” Ted said.
“Down . . . there.” She waved her hand. “I think he’s dead.”
A chill ran the length of Ted’s sweaty body. Now this was serious. No more thinking about her and you or any other absurd fantasy of being some cowboy.
Take command.
“Wait here,” he said, surprised and pleased with his authoritative tone. His father used to tell him you had to lead, follow, or get out of the way. Ted had spent most of his career doing the last two. When he tried to lead, it ended in disaster. He was not a lead dog.
Right now he was.
He walked toward where she had pointed. As he did, he punched 911. He told dispatch, in a firm but calm voice — he was in control now, all would be well — where they were and that someone was injured and possibly dead.
Finishing the call, he found himself looking down a steep dropoff at the still body below.
He paused and thought about waiting for help to arrive. But he had come this far. He was at least doing something. This time he wasn’t going to blow it. “Fat, fired, and forty” was not going to be his epitaph.
Edging down the rocks slowly, almost stumbling once, Ted kept eyeing the body for movement. Nothing. The poor guy had to be dead. The woman’s husband. Tragic. He was participating in a real, honest-to- goodness tragedy here.
At least it was out of the ordinary. That alone made this an experience worth having. He felt alive in a strange and exhilarating way.
The blonde woman with the head gash was so vulnerable. If he could find a way to comfort her . . .
He didn’t get too close to the body. This was a crime scene. He’d seen enough TV to know you don’t mess with a crime scene. You don’t touch anything. You don’t want the cops chewing your rear because you blundered all over the evidence. He did look for a sign of breathing or movement. There was none. The sun had baked the blood around the man’s head into a dark gel.
He backed away, almost retracing his exact steps. Started up the hill.
She’ll need me, he thought. She’ll need someone to tell her everything will work out, to just stay calm.
He was glad he’d dropped three pounds over the last two months. What he lacked, he always knew, was motivation. She could be his motivation.
He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to think of her the way he was thinking of her, not yet anyway, but he just couldn’t help himself.
She wasn’t exactly beautiful, not in a movie-star way, but she had this kind of hot quality that just poured out of her. Even with that ugly gash on her head. Maybe because of it.
“They’ll be here soon, I know it,” Ted said.
The girl said nothing, just nodded. Her eyes looked dazed.
They both sat on
“Geena — ”
“Or I will.”
Rocky got her phone.
3:41 p.m.
“You’re hurt,” Ted said. “Here, sit.” He took her arm and guided her to a patch of weeds. His mind calculated all sorts of things as he did this.
I am helping somebody, he thought, really helping somebody. How long had it been since he could say that? But this was more than getting somebody’s desktop to function again. More than installing some new system across a network.
This was someone in physical trouble, out in the wild. If you could consider the back of Pack Canyon wild. It was where they used to shoot Westerns in the old black-and-white TV days. Ted knew that much.
Cowboys rescued ladies in distress on television shows. He was doing it for real.
What a moment this was. And the woman was nice looking. What had happened here? I wonder if I’ll see her again after this, he thought. I have to show her I know what to do here. Take command of the situation.
“I’m calling for help,” Ted said, whipping out his cell.
“My husband . . .”
Husband! Ted squeezed the phone. Just my luck. The good ones are always taken. All right , you’re still here , impress her anyway. “What about your husband?” Ted said.
“Down . . . there.” She waved her hand. “I think he’s dead.”
A chill ran the length of Ted’s sweaty body. Now this was serious. No more thinking about her and you or any other absurd fantasy of being some cowboy.
Take command.
“Wait here,” he said, surprised and pleased with his authoritative tone. His father used to tell him you had to lead, follow, or get out of the way. Ted had spent most of his career doing the last two. When he tried to lead, it ended in disaster. He was not a lead dog.
Right now he was.
He walked toward where she had pointed. As he did, he punched 911. He told dispatch, in a firm but calm voice — he was in control now, all would be well — where they were and that someone was injured and possibly dead.
Finishing the call, he found himself looking down a steep dropoff at the still body below.
He paused and thought about waiting for help to arrive. But he had come this far. He was at least doing something. This time he wasn’t going to blow it. “Fat, fired, and forty” was not going to be his epitaph.
Edging down the rocks slowly, almost stumbling once, Ted kept eyeing the body for movement. Nothing. The poor guy had to be dead. The woman’s husband. Tragic. He was participating in a real, honest-to- goodness tragedy here.
At least it was out of the ordinary. That alone made this an experience worth having. He felt alive in a strange and exhilarating way.
The blonde woman with the head gash was so vulnerable. If he could find a way to comfort her . . .
He didn’t get too close to the body. This was a crime scene. He’d seen enough TV to know you don’t mess with a crime scene. You don’t touch anything. You don’t want the cops chewing your rear because you blundered all over the evidence. He did look for a sign of breathing or movement. There was none. The sun had baked the blood around the man’s head into a dark gel.
He backed away, almost retracing his exact steps. Started up the hill.
She’ll need me, he thought. She’ll need someone to tell her everything will work out, to just stay calm.
He was glad he’d dropped three pounds over the last two months. What he lacked, he always knew, was motivation. She could be his motivation.
He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to think of her the way he was thinking of her, not yet anyway, but he just couldn’t help himself.
She wasn’t exactly beautiful, not in a movie-star way, but she had this kind of hot quality that just poured out of her. Even with that ugly gash on her head. Maybe because of it.
“They’ll be here soon, I know it,” Ted said.
The girl said nothing, just nodded. Her eyes looked dazed.
They both sat on
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