Where The Heart Is. Kate Hardy
day, over a wide variety of terrains.
‘So we end up with…’
He paused, and Rowena almost fell into the trap. Almost listed the most common injuries—blisters, sprains, strains. And if the novice trekkers were unfit, overweight and not wearing proper shoes, probably a case of plantar fasciitis as well—damage to the tissue that stretched from the heel to the toe. Fascia tissue took months to heal, and plantar fasciitis often needed a steroid injection into the heel to cure it.
‘A problem for you,’ she finished.
Funny, she’d assumed the doctor changed with each trek, though it made sense to have someone permanent, someone who knew the terrain and was familiar with procedures out here. Still, it was an unusual career choice. No chance of progress—more like a sabbatical, taking time out of his career. Why? Had he, too, lost someone to leukaemia?
But that was private, his business, and she didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to get involved. ‘Your wife must miss you if you’ve been out here for a year.’
Hell and double hell. Why had she said that? Now he’d think she was fishing, trying to find out if he was free. He’d think she was trying to flirt with him. Anyway, if he was married—and she stood by her first impression, that he was a family man—his wife was probably out here with him. She could be one of the guides meeting them at Puerto Natales, for all Rowena knew. They probably worked together somehow.
His eyes were unreadable. ‘I’m not married.’
‘Oh.’ How to put both your size sevens in your mouth at once. Maybe his wife had died of leukaemia—maybe that was why he was out here, and Rowena had just managed to scrape the top layer off his scars. Or was that a slight trace of amusement in his voice? She was cringing inwardly to the point where she couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy,’ she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn.
‘No pasa nada.’
‘Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.’ Though it made her look at him.
And he was smiling. With an edge, admittedly, but he was smiling. ‘No worries,’ he translated. ‘Literally, it’s “nothing happens”, but it means more or less “no worries”.’
He had a point. She was over seven thousand miles away from Manchester. Away from the emergency department. Away from the red tape. All she had to do was walk through the Torres del Paine national park—in the shadow of the three huge towers of granite which gave the park its name—and come out the other side. Walk through her own pain, her loss, and start to heal.
No worries.
‘Right.’ She gave him a tight smile, and hoped he’d let the conversation drop for a bit.
It had definitely been a mistake, angling for a seat next to her, Luke thought. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d caught her eye at the airport—beautiful eyes, a deep slate blue you could drown in—and he’d felt that instant hot zing of attraction. She’d given the tiniest shake of her head, telling him that, no, she wasn’t interested. He should have respected that.
The fact he hadn’t…was worrying. He didn’t do relationships. Not any more. Not since Charlie.
Charlie. He forced down the gut-wrenching guilt. Hell. He was doing his penance, wasn’t he? A year spent in Patagonia, where Chile’s slender length broke up into hundreds of small islands. A land of glaciers, deep valleys and wooded mountains. The edge of the Andes, where condors flew and the winds tore through you.
Though it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. It couldn’t blow away the guilt, the feeling that the better half of him had died.
Not that he’d talk about it to anyone. It was still too raw. Which was why he’d stayed aloof for the last eighteen months. Split up with the woman he’d intended to marry—she deserved better, after all—and had turned down every offer since.
And there had been offers.
Most of the people on the charity treks had a special reason for raising money. They usually did it in memory of someone they’d lost, a tribute combined with a pilgrimage. But some did it just to keep a friend company. And those were usually the ones who noticed the guides and the trek doctor. The ones who let the southern hemisphere seduce their senses. The ones who sidled up to his tent under starlight. Offered.
Luke always, but always, said no. Even though he could hear Charlie’s voice so clearly in his head, asking him when he was going to stop wearing the hair shirt. It wasn’t just for penance: Luke hadn’t wanted to lose himself in mindless sex with someone he’d never see again. And he didn’t want a relationship either. No one-night stands, no for evers, and nothing in between. Staying apart had been his choice. The sensible thing to do.
And that was why Rowena Thompson was dangerous. This had been the first time in eighteen months that he’d felt desire coil hot in his belly.
Desire you can’t act upon, he reminded himself. You’re not going to get involved. Besides, she may not be wearing a wedding ring—he’d checked that out the second she’d sat next to him—but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have someone waiting for her at home. And she’s one of the trekkers, which means she’s under your care. Which means she’s off limits. Another week or so, and you’ll never see each other again.
He could manage a few measly days…couldn’t he?
He had to revise that before they reached Puerto Natales. He hadn’t even managed six hours. They’d had two rest breaks. That meant two chances to move, swap places with one of the regular guides. And Luke hadn’t done it. He’d spent his time sitting right next to Rowena. He hadn’t done the sensible thing and dragged himself away.
Admittedly, they hadn’t had a personal conversation. He’d kept it light, told her about the park’s flora and fauna, the history of the park he’d learned from the guides over the last year.
‘So it’s going to be cold and wet in the national park?’
‘About two or three degrees centigrade,’ he confirmed. ‘But then you have to add in the wind-chill factor. That’s why we recommend people wear a fleece and light layers—and breathable waterproofs. You’ll probably get drenched from rain or just the wind blowing water from the lakes…’ Mmm, he definitely wasn’t going to let his thoughts go any further along that route: the idea of Rowena Thompson in wet, clinging clothing was a bit too much of his self control. ‘But you’ll be able to shower at the end of the day.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I assume you’re going to be sleeping in the refugio?’
‘The hostel, you mean?’ At his nod, she gave him a scornful look. ‘No. I’m sleeping in a tent.’
Like he was.
Maybe next to him.
And that wasn’t going to be good for his peace of mind. Maybe he should try to put her off. ‘I hope you’re good at putting up a tent in the wind.’
She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘We get sixty-mile-an-hour winds in Patagonia,’ he clarified. Not constantly, but some of the gusts could be that harsh. ‘That’s why we use low-rise tents. Anything higher tends to break. And, of course, it’s winter here.’
‘I’ve camped out before.’ Her chin lifted.
Stubborn, as well as beautiful. ‘I’m just warning you. It can be a bit rough at night. No one will think any the less of you if you stay in the refugio.’
‘I’ll think less of me,’ she said simply.
He didn’t have an argument for that. Fine. He’d just make sure his tent was as far away from hers as he could get.
EXCEPT he didn’t. Luke pitched his tent right next to