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“Um, okay?”
His chuckle fills the stillness. I have yet to see his face and imagine him any number of ways.
What does he look like?
Tall and handsome?
Or tall and fearsome?
Unlike me, he isn’t out of breath and looks like he could continue this pace all day long. He’s definitely comfortable outdoors. I’m dying, overexerted and huffing every breath. He looks like he’s out for an afternoon stroll.
I wish I could see his eyes.
We move across the field, scanning left and right. He keeps those odd goggles on the entire time, hiding his face and making it impossible to read his expressions. Other than the deep timbre of his voice, and his powerful frame, he remains a complete mystery.
“Llamas?” I ask.
Who is Bert, and why does he have llamas? My wilderness guide and savior speaks about Bert as if I should know him.
I’m used to horses, cattle, and sheep. Llamas are unexpected. Next thing my guide is going to tell me, there’s an ostrich farm nearby.
He speaks over his shoulder, leading the way down the hill. “Well, they aren’t like horses or cattle, that’s for sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“You really aren’t from around here, are you?” His voice echoes into the breach of wintery silence. All around us, the land slumbers, caressed to quiet by the rumble of his voice.
What does he look like under that mask and beneath those goggles? The mystery is killing me.
“City girl?” His voice holds a little more than a bit of scorn.
“I’m not from the city, but definitely not the country.”
“Suburbs then,” he says with distaste.
“Not sure Redlands is considered the suburbs. More like a little, big town.” I don’t want to continue that conversation, not when his tone is so disparaging. “Tell me about these llamas.”
He huffs another laugh. “They’re curious and alert creatures—related to camels, which means they spit. I’d keep your distance.”
“Well, I think I’m capable of staying out of range of llama spit.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Their necks are longer than you think. You’ve been warned.”
“I’ll stay back.”
“Well, if any of them are out, I’d suggest getting behind me.”
“Why?”
“This herd has been harried by the wolves. They’re a bit strung out. They’re likely to attack a stranger.”
Great. Don’t impale myself on the barbed wire. Avoid spitting llamas and don’t get trampled by one either.
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Nope.”
I can’t see his face but imagine a smile behind the mask. He’s probably having a good laugh at the poor city girl. Well, I can handle anything country thrown my way.
