Free Linda Needham by The Pleasure of Her Kiss Page A

the fly rod firmly in one hand, and the line itself lightly with the index finger of the other, raise the rod nearly vertically, to the, uh!’”—Jared adjusted the line in his left hand and then peered closer at his scribbled notes he’d balanced on the rock beside him—“‘to the half-eleven position…’”
    He took the prescribed stance exactly, for the hundredth time that morning, pointed the fly rod at right angles to the stream, and raised it vertically to what he damn well hoped was exactly half-eleven.
    And as he did so, the long, airy line, and then the olive dun fly, went sailing gracefully behind him, over his head. He then flicked his wrist to send the fly forward and out and, damnation, if the fly didn’t plop right into the middle of the stream.
    “Well, I’ll be damned! Ha!”
    That wasn’t so difficult! Fly fishing! Hardly worth the worry of an entire night. It had only taken a bit of study, some practical application, and, once again he’d perfected a skill that had confounded others before him.
    He watched the fly travel lightly atop the eddies, pleased with himself, with the day, and the dappled sunlight on the crystalline river.
    His bride would have no reason not to believe that he was a flyfisher of great—
    Suddenly the line stiffened. “What the devil?”
    The long pole arched sharply and nearly shot forward out of his grip.
    A fish? The water churned like a volcano, bubbled midstream.
    Bloody hell, he’d caught a fish! A bloody Mako shark, by the thrashing power of it!
    He yanked hard on the grip and the fish rocketed out of the water, whipped and wriggled as though offering up a direct challenge to him, then it dove again, already taking a hard, silver flashing course downstream.
    Heading straight for a sharp bend of boulders and a thick stand of reeds.
    Where he would surely lose the bloody thing.
    “Oh, hell!” Jared stepped gingerly along the bank, following his catch as it shot over rocks and mossy lumps, yanking on the madly arching pole, amazed that it didn’t snap.
    Blast it all! He had to at least bring in one decent sized fish; his reputation and his cover story depended on it. These flyfishers were damn serious about their sport.
    His bride seemed just as serious.
    And oddly knowledgeable about fishing.
    He could see the fish just a few inches beneath the clear water, speckled and rainbow-sleek and enormous.
    He played it for a while, moving closer to it. But just when he was sure that it was tiring, the damned thing took off again, belying its size and dragging him off the bank and into the stream, right up to his calves.
    “You’ve hooked a big one, sir!” A boy appeared out of the reeds ahead of him, standing astride a boulder overhanging the sharply bending waters.
    “Away from here, boy!” Jared suddenly felt the complete fool, wrestling with a fish that was dragging him deeper into the middle of the stream.
    “I c’n net him for ya, sir!” The boy looked ready to go in after it, headfirst.
    Hell, he didn’t need that kind of help. “Leave it be, boy. I’ll bring him in myself.”
    “Who you talkin’ to, Grady?” A much younger girl scrambled through the reeds and the water toward the field of boulders, flashing Jared a toothless smile.
    “Go away, Dori!”
    “Uh-oh, Grady! I think you found one of those fish men we’re not s’pose to bother!”
    “Shhhh, Dori!” the boy bellowed. “You’re not supposed to shout.”
    “What kinda fish is it?” came another voice from somewhere behind him.
    Jared grunted and stumbled forward even faster over the moss-slick stones that lined the stream bed, trying to at least keep the fish in place. “I’ll thank you to leave here, boy.”
    “Hey, what’s the matter, Lucas?”
    His audience was multiplying by the second, with children popping out from behind willow bogs and fallen trunks, a full half dozen of them, and then the biggest damned dog he’d ever seen.
    “There ’e is! Get ’im now, sir!”