Charlie heard the noise of a vehicle approaching. A Dodge Durango, red. Oh, no. That wasn’t–surely not– Jake Braddock. Nooooooooo! Not again. Not here. Not now. Charlie realized the picture she must make at the moment: butt in the air, bootless, muddy socks, scraggly hair, filthy blackened hands and beet-red face because her head was hanging upside down. The Durango had pulled forward and stopped. A figure that looked an awful lot like Jake Braddock got out of it and shut the door. Tall, dark tousled hair, broad shoulders. T-shirt under a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. Arms so cut with muscle that they were even defined under the plaid. Charlie straightened, turned at the waist and with effort, unstuck one foot and set it down in front of her. Then with determination, with what she thought of as sheer brio, she unstuck the other one, slid on the first, lost her balance and pitched forward onto her face. Mortification had never smelled so much like weeds, wet earth and—ugh–deer dung. This-is-not-happening-this-is-not-happening-this-is-not-happening! She sang to herself. Nope-not-never-not-not-not-nope! I am dignity itself, shimmering in the wind, the very spirit of grace. This is so not happening. I am visualizing this…