She shrugged because she didn’t have an answer for him. She hadn’t done anything more athletic than marching band, but this hike didn’t feel as difficult as it looked. The few times she’d slipped as they climbed up wet rocks, she’d had no trouble catching herself. It felt like she’d suddenly turned into Spider-Man. But that made no sense.

If she’d been totally comfortable with him—and she felt bad that she wasn’t—she would have teased him about being slow. She didn’t know the elevation. Maybe it was lower than home and that was giving her an oxygen boost.

They emerged at last into an area that was a natural amphitheater, complete with seating that looked as though it had had some human help.

She stopped when she realized there were musical instruments scattered around the amphitheater.

Like sacrifices.

It went against every instinct she had to leave instruments to the mercy of the weather. Instruments were precious things. She broke away from Zander’s chosen path to see if she could rescue any of them.

Zander grabbed her arm again in a way that she was beginning to resent and tried to jerk her away. She stiffened, and when he pulled, she stayed where she was, skidding a little with the force he used when she did not yield.

He stopped, took a breath. “Come on,” he said, and she felt the effort he used to gentle his tone. “I’ve a dry place we can rest up in.”

That false gentle tone made her plant her feet like a Missouri mule.

“Stop trying to drag me,” she said. And then, with gritted teeth: “Get your hand off my arm before you lose it.”

He met her eyes and took a step back, frowning. “I thought your eyes were brown.”

They were. But she didn’t care what color he thought her eyes were.

“Look,” she said. “This has been a fun hike and all, but I think I am done. You go on.” She needed to go back to that hotel by the river, the one they’d driven by, so she could sit on the rock and watch the river, waiting for …

She pulled the flannel shirt up to her face, not wanting to bury her nose in it with Zander looking on. But the smell of musk and mint and home was still there, rising from the damp cloth.

“Sorry,” he said, and this time he meant it. “I am soaking wet, and even if you’re not cold, I am.”

There was a flash of lightning, and reflexively she started counting seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two … Thunder rumbled exactly at five. “That’s a mile off,” she said.