Chapter 2

Fritz and I took charge of the planning. We raided the army surplus store and stocked up on tents, tarps, and freeze-dried food. The plan was simple: hit the trail at Sam Houston by noon Saturday, find a secluded spot for the night, and then hike deeper the next morning. We would camp for four days, and as a comprise to the girls we would spend the back half of the week in Galveston, where I had managed to miraculously book two beach-front rooms despite the season.

As the day of departure approached, Leigh’s excitement was palpable. She was buzzing with anticipation, her mind filled with visions of long romantic walks, intimate conversations, and the thrill of exploring nature.

March weather in East Texas could be fickle, but the morning of our departure broke with a golden warmth that clung to everything like honey. The sky was cloudless and high; the kind of blue that made you squint and think of summer. We loaded our gear into the back of a battered beige station wagon Fritz had borrowed from his dad and hit the road with the windows down and ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” blaring on the radio.

When we reached the park entrance, it was pushing into the high seventies, promising a hot afternoon. We parked near the trailhead, the car groaning as we unloaded packs and other camping gear.

Laura looked every bit the prepared camper, her practical white T-shirt tucked into long khaki walking shorts, thick hiking socks rolled above her sturdy leather boots. Her thin, dirty blond hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her wire-rimmed glasses gave her the look of a stuffy librarian ready to catalog the flora and fauna.

By contrast Leigh was a vision of casual allure. Her cut-off jean shorts clung scandalously high, offering tantalizing glimpses of her firm, rounded ass cheeks. A red halter-top hugged her torso, drawing the eye to the effortless sway of her large natural breasts as she moved. And those black jump boots ... combat sexy ... left no doubt that she had chosen fashion over function. Her silky black hair had been fashioned into a long single braid that stretched down her back between her shoulder blades almost reaching her waist. She looked like an “edgy” Daisy Duke

Leigh shouldered her heavy knapsack and bounced on her toes, testing the weight with a sharp inhale through her nose. Fritz, noticing her strain a bit, whistled low and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you going to be able to handle that?”

“I’ll manage,” Leigh snapped, her green eyes flashing with irritation. She spun on her heel with precision, the long braid down her back whipping dramatically over her shoulder and strode toward the trail without waiting for a response.

“Just makin’ sure you’ll be okay, mon chéri,” Fritz called after her with his easy Cajun drawl, half teasing, half sincere.

“Worry about yourself!” she fired back without turning, her voice taut with annoyance. “But we better get a move on! We’re burnin’ daylight.”

The three of us exchanged quick glances, shouldered our packs, and hustled to catch up, but Leigh was already striding ahead, her boots kicking up leaves with every determined step. Her hips swayed with purpose, spine ramrod straight under the weight, not a hint of strain showing in her pace.

What Fritz did not realize was that his offhand comment, meant as nothing more than a gentle concern, had landed with the subtlety of a thrown gauntlet. Leigh did not hear concern in his voice. She heard doubt. And doubt, to Leigh, was a kind of war cry.

She did not merely bristle at being challenged, she annihilated the notion. In her world, questions were not answered, they were elegantly shut down, without appeal. Leigh had grown up in a legacy-laden household where strength was expected, not applauded. Where women smiled with perfect poise while commanding entire rooms. Where a soft-spoken condemnation could unravel a carefully curated reputation.

Leigh had been taught that hesitation was weakness, and weakness was unforgivable. Her family did not raise daughters, they sculpted them ... molded from expectation, polished in charm, hardened with pride. From country club tennis matches to debutante balls, from the saddle to afternoon tea, Leigh excelled because she had no choice. Failure simply was not in her vocabulary.

Dares were her weakness. She could not let one pass. Her pride made them irresistible. If someone said she could not do something, it was as good as done. It struck her like a personal insult. She had to respond. It was not about showing off. It was about vindication. About ensuring no one, especially a man, could ever think they had the upper hand.