The bartender gives me a nod and holds up a finger, silently acknowledging me.
While I wait, I slowly spin the pitcher in lazy circles by its handle. Some country song plays on the speakers and I feel bad for the singer losing his truck, his dog, and his woman in the same weekend.
“Poor fella. At least he has his beer and whiskey, unlike some of us,” I mutter to myself as the bartender takes his sweet time. He’s chatting up waitresses and customers like he’s the host of a late-night show.
“How you doin’ today, Bubba? Catch any catfish lately?” I giggle at my terrible Southern accent. “Joanie Mae, did I hear you brought your baby in here last week? Startin’ ’em young.”
“Her name is Patty, and that other guy is named Mintor, but most folks call him Minty. Can’t say I’ve ever heard him referred to as Bubba.” The voice is familiar and a wall of shoulder blocks my view of the rest of the bar as a man slides between me and the random man in a trucker hat.
Sweet peas in a pod, it’s the god of vegetables.
I lift my eyes and tilt my head back to confirm his identity. He’s close, a little too close for polite company. And if he doesn’t smell like sweet earth and fresh grass, like a recently mowed field of alfalfa—well, bless my heart.
I’m clearly taking this fake Southern thing too far.
He dips his head and meets my eyes. “Daphne, wasn’t it? We met at the farmers’ market not too long ago, didn’t we?”
I still haven’t spoken, afraid I’ll drawl out a y’all or fiddle-sticks. Instead, I nod in confirmation.
His eyes narrow. “Cat got your tongue?”
Inhaling and reminding my brain we’re from Idaho, I exhale through my nose, long and slow. “Nope.”
Only one syllable. Nailed it.
“Sorry. I thought you looked familiar.” He shifts, allowing air to swirl in the widened gap between us.
“No, I meant the part about a cat stealing my tongue.” I pause, thinking about that visual. “Why is that even a saying? That’s horrible.”
His laugh is rich and deep. My stomach warms, and I swear my pulse quickens. He should laugh all the time, although, that might be weird and make it impossible to have a conversation with him, or go to a concert, or watch a documentary about the plight of polar bears in a melting Arctic.
Okay, he shouldn’t laugh all the time. Only several times a day.
“You’re right. It’s something my granny would say. I’ll have to ask her about it.”
The bartender finally makes an appearance, but I want to ignore him until he goes away again. Staring at us, he waits for one of us to order.
My lips are parted and forming the word “refill” when he says, “Hey, Odin. Haven’t seen you in ages. What can I get you tonight? Coke? Or you want a beer? Something stronger?”
Seriously? I’ve been standing here, waiting for how long? Does a woman have to flash her cleavage to get a drink? Not that that’s an option in this crew neck T-shirt. I don’t want to stretch the collar.
“Um … ” I clear my throat as I lift the empty pitcher.
“Sorry. You were here first,” Odin apologizes. “Joe, looks like we need a refill.”
Joe the bartender’s brown eyes meet mine. “What are you drinking?”
“Beer.” Duh. He isn’t very good at his job.
The two men chuckle.
“What kind?” Joe asks.
“Whatever’s on tap.” Smooth.
He points to the row of pulls. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
I feel Odin’s stare on my profile. “I have no idea.”
“You with Griffin?” Joe points behind me.
“I am!” Relief makes my voice sound overly enthusiastic.
“Gotcha.” He takes the pitcher and begins filling it.
“You and Griffin Lee?” A small line appears between Odin’s brows.
“Are coworkers,” I explain.
“Oh, right. You’re a ranger.” Is that relief in his voice?
“Yes, sir. Here to serve and protect.” I tip my imaginary hat.
He returns the gesture with a smile. “Good to know.”
“How’s Gracie doing?” Joe sets the large jug o’ beer down without sloshing any. “Staying out of trouble?”
Who is Gracie? Girlfriend? Goddess of the harvest?
“As far as I know.” Odin shrugs. “Has she been hustlin’ again?”
Whoa. My eyes widen as I eavesdrop. I don’t care what Griffin says—if this place is a hustlers’ hangout, it one hundred percent falls into honky-tonk territory in my book.
“Not around here.” Joe flips a bar towel over his shoulder and levels Odin with a serious gaze. “Haven’t had any underage pool sharks since spring.”
Ahh, that kind of hustling.
My attention swings to Odin. He’s dating a teenage hustler? With a single comment he’s gone from wholesome farm boy to creeper. I totally misjudged him. Maybe he is a pig.
While I’m having an internal crisis, Joe continues like this is all normal conversation. “What is it with you Hills being teenage delinquents?”
Wait. Hills?
His younger sister is a child pool shark?
“Not all of us, and most outgrow that phase.” Odin raps his knuckles on the smooth wood of the bar. “Speaking of drinks, I’ll take a water if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Coming up,” Joe tells him with a sheepish smile. “No hard feelings. I was just yanking your chain. Haven’t seen you around here in a long time.”
I feel like I’m not supposed to be hearing all of this, but since they’re having this conversation right in front of me, it’s kind of hard not to. I suppose I could go back to my table, but for some reason I linger.
Odin’s eyes cut to me but his head still faces Joe. “Don’t spend too much time hanging around bars anymore. Not really my scene.”
For some reason, I want to explain that I’m not a regular either, but I think that’s obvious from my obvious lack of beer knowledge.
“Anything else I can get you?” Joe asks.
Odin slips his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Was hankering for some fried chicken, called in an order. Can you check to see if it’s ready?”
“Sure thing.” After Joe hands Odin a glass of water, he steps away to serve other customers, leaving the two of us to stand here in awkward silence.
I definitely have the feeling I’ve overheard something I shouldn’t have about his family, unless Gracie and hustlin’ are code for something else.
Unable to stop myself, I ask, “Who’s Gracie?”
He blinks at my abrupt question like he’s already forgotten his conversation with Joe and I’ve caught him off-guard. “One of my cousins, who happens to be sixteen.”
Cousin. Ahh. The pendulum of my opinion swings back to the neutral middle. I’ve written an entire narrative about the man in the time it’s taken him to ask for fried chicken and a water.
“Sixteen seems a little young to be hanging out in a bar even in Appalachia.” I keep my voice flat like I’m commenting on the weather.
He stares at a spot on the ceiling. “She’s more definitely too young, and also foolish enough to hustle pool around here.”
“Was she any good at it?”
His lips curl with amusement. “Enough to win games and take people’s money.”
My sixteen-year-old self is both shocked and in awe. “Sounds pretty badass to me.”
His eyes sweep over my face like he’s confused by my admiration. “You approve of her breaking the law and skipping down the road to being a juvenile delinquent, Ranger?”
He’s got me. I settle my face into a serious expression. “No, of course not.”
“Just checking.” The little curl of amusement spreads into a genuine smile.
“Something funny?”
“Nah.” He sips his water. “Need help carrying your beer back to the table?”
“I think
I can manage.” To prove I’m right, I lift the container by the handle and support its weight with the other hand. “Put a stack of books on my head and watch me go.”
Why do I say the weirdest things around him? I can have coherent, non-weird conversations with people of all ages and backgrounds. I’m actually paid to talk to people, yet every time I see him, my mouth-to-brain connection short-circuits.
No one walks around with books on their heads anymore. Not sure if they ever did or if it was something Hollywood made up. I really need to stop watching old movies.
Next thing I know I’ll be calling someone yare like Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. I’m still not sure of the exact meaning, but it’s a compliment having something to do with yachts—another useless nugget I doubt I’ll ever use in real life, like walking with books on my head for good posture.
Not waiting for his response, I say goodbye, turn, and march back to the group, careful not to spill the beer.
“Finally!” Griffin holds out his glass. “We’re parched.”
“I was about to send Jay out on a search and rescue mission.” Laughing, Gaia elbows him, and he grunts. “What took you so long?”
“Bartender was swamped.” Setting down the beer, I slip into my seat.
“Was that Odin Hill you were talking to?” Griffin asks, keeping his attention on the bar area.
Only now do I realize he has a direct sightline from our side of the table.
“Odin’s here?” Gaia twists in her seat. “Seriously? I always assumed he was a hermit recluse.”
“That’s redundant.” Griffin frowns. “Don’t strain your neck trying to find him—he walked out after Daphne came back to the table.”
Not subtly at all, Gaia rolls her eyes.
Jay states the obvious “He’s a strange one. Did he have the pig with him?”
Guess everyone knows about Odin and Patsy.
“No swine allowed in here.” Griffin crosses his arms in an X in front of face.
“What’s his story?” I ask the table.
No one replies.
I flick my gaze around the group.
“Best to keep your distance,” Griffin warns.
“Why? He’s seemed nice enough whenever we’ve spoken.” I feel the urge to defend a man I’ve met twice and had two less-than-amicable conversations with.
“Are you and Odin hanging out?” Jay looks confused.
“No. Other than seeing him here, I met him at the farmers’ market a couple of weeks ago. He had a booth and his pig.”
“Weird.” Jay cocks his head.
I don’t know what part he means.
“Aside from his closest friend being a pig, he’s …” Gaia frowns as she pauses.
“Bad news,” Griffin interjects.
“I was going to say different.” Gaia meet my eyes. “Keeps to himself. Seeing him in a social situation is not unlike a Big Foot sighting. You hear about them, but no one ever has proof.”
“He ordered fried chicken to go, not sure that counts as him socializing.” I don’t know which side I’m on, bad news or recluse.
Griffin dips a celery stick into one of my containers of ranch. “Mom said he showed up to rescue his cousin last spring. I think that’s the last time he’s been in here.”
Giving him the stink eye, I confirm, “Gracie?”
“That’s the one.” He double-dips and flashes a quick grin at me as he slides the container closer to himself.
“Seems like an honorable thing to do.” Again, I feel inexplicably compelled to defend Odin.
“Suppose so. Funny how Joe called him and not one of her sisters. Probably figured one bad apple would help out another. Guess the lifetime ban on coming in here got lifted.”
“Or maybe his was the only phone number Joe had,” Jay offers. “Not like you can look these things up in a phone book anymore.”
“Surprised there isn’t a phone tree behind the bar with all the gossips in this town.” Griffin groans. “Hard to have secrets around here.”
Maybe that’s why he keeps to himself. The only way to keep a secret is to keep it to yourself.
I want to ask more about Odin, but the conversation moves on to things from our childhood that don’t really exist anymore. Still, my mind lingers on the start of a bad joke.
A man walks into a bar with a pig …
Chapter Eight
Odin
In the early morning mist, Roman trots through the woods, his nose hovering a few inches above the ground the entire time. I don’t bother to hold his leash now that we’re off the official trail and away from potential foot traffic.
According to the federal statutes and park by-laws, dogs aren’t allowed on the trails. Neither are pigs, but I prefer to ignore the posted signs.
I’m aware of the rules. I’ve even studied the official guidelines for visitors. For example, foraging within the boundaries of the park for personal consumption is allowed, but there are restrictions about how you go about harvesting and a whole list of plants that are off limits. Picking a few morel mushrooms and springtime wild onions is okay if you only gather a small quantity. The codes put the burden on people to obey the law. Enforcement is up to the rangers.
Hence why I like to keep a friendly relationship with the staff. We have an unspoken agreement. I don’t cause a fuss, and they don’t pay us any attention.
The trick to getting away with semi-illegal activity out in the open is to act like everything is perfectly on the up and up. It also helps to be weird enough that people stop noticing every bit of odd behavior. In other words, my entire life has been building up to this. Also, knowing the precise GPS location of the invisible boundary between public land and private is key.
Our federal government might oversee the trees and rocks within park boundaries, but we’ve moved out of their jurisdiction.
An old grove of filbert trees surrounds us. Wild and overgrown, the orchard blends in with the surrounding forest. If you didn’t know hazelnuts aren’t native to the Smokies, you probably wouldn’t realize this area had been deliberately cleared and planted at some point.
Hearing family lore about Granddaddy’s failed hazelnut business back in the seventies, I did some research and discovered this narrow swath of land that isn’t part of the national park. Technically, it still belongs to the Hills.
According to the documents I discovered in the local archives, my great-great-granddaddy, Samson Hill, was paid more than a fair value for the acreage he sold the government back in the 1930s. Around here, some folks are still be perturbed about the Feds taking perfectly good farming land from the hardworking families and making a park. A hundred years later, their descendants still curse Samson and the others for selling out. Throw a rock around here and you’ll easily find someone who ain’t fond of big government and Washington, D.C.
Evidently, he was a wily bastard when it came to negotiating the boundaries of what was sold and what he kept. On the map, this narrow valley is like a middle finger giving the bird between federal property. Fifty or so yards to the north, east, and west, everything from the dirt and water on up is protected, belonging to the great American taxpayer.
Personally, I’m grateful the land is surrounded by the national park. Away from main roads and best accessed by an old logging path or on foot off the Cooper Road Trail, the majority of people will never know of its existence. Keeps them out of my business.
Many of the original trees in the grove have died and been replaced with smaller, shrubby young ones, erasing the unnatural order of the rows. A commercial filbert, or hazelnut, tree is productive for about forty years, meaning the majority of these are past their prime. Good thing I’m not interested in nuts.
Hiding in plain sight, the grove provides the optimal growing conditions for Périgords, aka black truffles, aka fungi gold. I learned about the symbiotic relationship between the two during one of my trips to France years ago for the truffle harvest.
I whistle and Roman li
fts his head from where he’s found something good to sniff. Despite having had him over a year, he’s still in the wild, puppy phase and we’re only beginning his training. These days most truffle cultivators prefer to harvest using dogs. I agree that they are a good alternative, less damage to the dirt and potentially to the truffles. However, I prefer to work with Patsy. For one thing, she’s smarter than Roman. Patsy Swine is the best truffle hunter in all of eastern Tennessee, and I’ll fight anyone who argues different.
People are used to seeing us wandering around together. Unlike ordinary hogs, she’ll indicate the location of a truffle, but rarely tries to eat them, mainly because she knows she’ll be rewarded with her favorite food. Took us a couple of years of testing to figure out what she loves more than truffles.
Banana cake.
I wonder what Jennifer Winston would say if she knew I didn’t buy her prize winning cakes for myself. If Donner Bakery is closed, or they run out, Patsy also enjoys homemade banana bread and banana pudding
Truth be told, I can’t stand bananas. The smell, the taste, the weird texture—I want nothing to do with them.
The things a man will do for his pig.
September is too early for truffles, but I like to come out here and check on things on a regular basis. Harvest season doesn’t typically begin until November, sometimes later.
Mostly I’m looking for signs of other humans. The last thing I need is for someone else to discover my hidden treasure. If I take the trail, I always make sure I’m not followed. Call me paranoid, but when tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of fungi are buried in the dirt, I need to take precautions.
Farther south from this grove is an even older apple orchard, probably planted by my great-granddaddy. Left fallow like the filberts, it still produces fruit. Not pretty enough for the farm stand, these are the wild, ugly cousins of the shiny red grocery store varieties.
While the truffles are by far my biggest cash crop, I’m curious about using these apples for hard ciders and vinegars. Still in the experimental phase, I’m excited to see what I can create. With its location closer to the logging road, I’ll be able to drive my truck up here and pick enough bushels to make it worth my time.
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 6