Close to You by Kara Isaac Page B

one. No one within yelling distance, anyway.
    She must look ridiculous. Short redhead stuck in mud up to her thighs. She patted her back pocket. Phone was still there, though probably destroyed after her little backside ski down the hill. Not that she had anyone to call—especially since she’d neglected to load the farm’s phone number into her contacts.
    Ten minutes passed. No sign of anyone. Or anything. Which was the only blessing in this exceptionally ugly disguise, since she’d developed a phobia of cows on a school trip when she wasfive years old and one sneezed on her. To date, the most disgusting experience of her life.
    Allie stared down at the mud settling around mid-thigh height. Might be time to consider relinquishing the boots and freeing them after all. Leaning down, she grabbed her right leg just above the mud line and tugged, trying to loosen her foot. Nothing. The nasty gooey mud now occupying the space between her leg and boots was as effective as a vacuum seal.
    Blowing her hair out of her face, she considered her predicament. Only one option came to mind, as hateful and unthinkable as it was, if she didn’t want to be stuck here for the foreseeable future.
    She pulled her phone out of her pocket, half hoping it would be broken so she wouldn’t have to go through with it. But sure enough, it was fully charged and one hundred percent functional.
    Scrolling through her contacts, she picked out the one she needed. The only reason she had it was the company policy requiring guides to have the mobile numbers for all customers, if they had them. Which only three had provided. The ­Germans—who were currently in Rotorua enjoying some cultural activities—and, of course, Jackson.
    Putting the phone to her ear, she listened as the line bounced to the States and back again, and prepared to eat some humble pie.
    * * *
    J ackson almost didn’t answer his phone, especially when he saw it was a blocked number. He maintained a general policy that if someone didn’t want him to know who was calling, he didn’t feel particularly obliged to talk to them.
    Besides, after spending an hour wandering around the farm, pretending to be interested in the native flora and fauna of New Zealand, he was relishing the silence of an empty room. Even if it did provide way too much space for his mind to work itself into knots about what he’d already done to lose character points in the Louis tally of life.
    The only reason he took the call was because it served as a valid distraction from his latest attempt at Hobbit cramming, which was proving to be a fruitless exercise, as the more he learned, the more he realized he didn’t know. Not even Stephen Hawking could have conquered learning, in a few hours, what many people spent their lifetimes obsessed with.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œJackson?”
    The voice was familiar. “Yes?”
    â€œIt’s Allison.”
    He knew the name should mean something to him, but all neurons were obviously not firing. “Allison, hi.” Hopefully whatever she said next would provide some clarity.
    â€œI’m kind of . . . stuck.”
    Well, that didn’t help at all—now so was he.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI was walking back to the house and I slipped down a bank and I’m in some mud and I can’t get out.”
    Things were starting to connect, but not fast enough to beat his mouth, which decided to bypass his brain. “Sorry. Who is this again? Are you sure you’ve got the right n—”
    An icy tone he was intimately acquainted with rang down the line. “Ha ha. Don’t worry about it. I knew calling you was a bad idea. I’ll find someone—”
    â€œNo, wait!” Finally, it all clicked together in a blaze of light and a choir of angels singing. “Where are you?”
    â€œIn the paddock behind the house. I can see the main barn from where I am.”
    â€œAnd