Today is more of an exploratory mission and a chance to stretch our legs. We’ll load up my backpack with fruit before we head out then we’ll circle back to the van via the park trail.
I find myself thinking about walking the loop through the campground and past the main ranger station to see if a certain brunette ranger is on duty. After running into Daphne twice in a month’s time, I’m reluctantly willing to admit I’m intrigued by her—a first for me in a long time. Her pretty face isn’t the only reason. Ranger Abbott is objectively beautiful, and while I respect the hell out of her, I don’t feel compelled to get to know her.
When I had a hankering for fried chicken, my first thought was to make it myself. Then I remembered Genie Lee makes some of the best I’ve ever had. After picking up Gracie last spring and delivering her into Willa’s waiting, albeit angry, arms, I haven’t been back to the bar.
It isn’t because of some supposed lifetime ban for a few broken pool cues back when I was one of those teenage Hill delinquents. I know Joe doesn’t hold a grudge and Genie’s practically kin.
Sure, I might still be a bastard, but I at least have the knowledge and the perspective I earned from all the screwing up and screwing over I did in my early twenties.
I stay away because of a feeling in my gut.
Every time I think about being around big crowds of people, the skin on the back of my neck gets tight and hot. I prefer being on my own and keeping my own company. Funny how I never feel lonely when I’m by myself.
My musings occupy my mind on the return trip to the van. The apples I picked weigh down my pack, creating an ache in my shoulders. Sunlight breaks through the low-hanging clouds, heating up the day and warming my skin, and my T-shirt is damp where the pack and straps press against it. I lift my old ball cap and wipe my brow, wishing I’d grabbed the hat I inherited from my granddaddy. Something about the wide brim makes me feel protected, shading my neck as well as my face and keeping my head cooler.
Despite being sweaty, I keep to my plan to extend my walk with a stroll along the loop road.
I find myself disappointed when I don’t spot Daphne on my circuit. I’d been hoping to casually run into her outside. Pausing outside the main ranger station, I’m now faced with the realization that I might have to make an effort to see her. My social skills are rusty from neglect. However, I’m accompanied by an adorable dog, and I’m not averse to using him as bait.
I crouch down and adjust his collar, pulling a couple twigs from his coat. Holding his head in my hands, I make eye contact. “Roman, I need you to be charming. Can you manage that?”
He barks and tries to lick my face.
“Good enough.”
Chapter Nine
Daphne
I love my uniform.
Is it flattering? Probably not.
Comfortable? Not always.
But it identifies me as a ranger, and I’m proud of my job.
I love the hat, and don’t even get me started on the badge and patches. They make me ridiculously happy. I never got to be a Girl Scout, but I would’ve rocked the badge sash.
Most of all, I love being able to wear pants every day.
For the first eighteen years of my life, I never wore pants.
Not in the sense of a “no pants” meme.
I mean I was only ever allowed to wear skirts or dresses and nightgowns. My thighs never experienced the joy of cloth-covered separation.
After I left home, one of the first things I bought with my own money was a pair of jeans. Apparently, they’re the gateway to jeggings and leggings and the most sinful of all—shorts.
I can’t fathom being a ranger without pants. Not a pantsless ranger—that I can imagine and whoa, no thank you. Hello, awkward.
I love finding historical black and white photos of women wearing trousers long before it became socially accepted. If clothes make the person, those rebellious women of the past centuries who wore trousers instead of skirts and petticoats are true heroines. There should be a patron saint of these trailblazers, a goddess of pants who smites thigh chafing and cold legs.
Clearly, I’ve given a lot of thought to cloth leg tubes. I’ve spent many quiet hours pondering the idea of modesty and body parts. If we’re all created in God’s image, why are men’s legs less sinful than women’s?
Being a park ranger allows for a lot of time to contemplate these types of questions, especially when I’m stuck manning the information desk at the visitor center on a slow Wednesday. There hasn’t been a single person with a question in over an hour, and I’ve organized the maps and pamphlets twice already. I’ve even written several tweets and posts for our social media.
Staring out the front window, I think about how different my life is now.
Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things.
Sleep in on Sunday mornings.
See movies. Watch TV. Use the internet.
Go to public school.
Wear pants.
My family belongs to a conservative church. I knew we were different than the random strangers we’d bump into at the store. Little girls with butterflies on their T-shirts and ruffles on their shorts would stare at us while we stared back. They probably thought we were strange in our modest, old-fashioned dresses and hair in identical braids.
In hindsight, we were definitely the weird ones.
A soft tone alerts me to someone entering the center. Standing, I slip on my friendly ranger expression, ready to welcome them to the park.
“Hello again.” Odin's voice is warm and oozes charm like honey, not molasses. That metaphor is forever ruined by the beverage that shall not be called coffee.
“Hello,” I reply, friendly but professionally reserved. We haven’t seen each other since our brief encounter at Genie’s, so I’m pretending I hardly remember him. I won't fall for his easy charm and those cheekbones he wields like weapons. “What can I do for you today?”
His warm brown eyes hold my gaze, a challenge or a concession in his expression. Perhaps both.
“I … ” He starts and then stops before beginning again, “I'm … ”
I wait for him to continue.
“I’m sorry, but didn’t we meet at the community center last month and again at Genie’s? Maybe I’m mistaking you for another Ranger Baum.” He points at my name tag.
“Oh, right. You have the pig,” I say with impressive casualness.
“You do remember me.” His mouth widens into a genuine smile. “Or at least Patsy.”
“She is memorable.”
He flinches slightly, probably not used to women not swooning over him and his charms. He worries his bottom lip and dips his chin, angling his face in a way that makes him appear less intimidating and sweeter.
Must remain impartial.
Griffin’s warning echoes through my head.
“Been hiking today?” I point to his backpack which appears to sag under its heavy weight. Maybe he’s training for a longer trek? We’re close to the Appalachian Trail and get a lot of long-distance hikers in the area, not that he seems the type. Whatever that means.
“Uh, yeah. Hit the Cooper trail area this morning before it got too warm out there. Guess I underestimated.” He lifts his cap and swipes a hand through his hair. The shaggy blond curls are mostly contained in a low pony tail but a few have escaped and cling to the damp skin of his neck.
Rangers are trained in basic emergency medicine, and I scan him for signs of heat exhaustion. Because I’m a professional. Not because I’m ogling.
Overall, he appears flushed. Sweat has dampened spots on his faded navy T-shirt and he’s wearing jeans, not shorts or hiking pants. A long-sleeved plaid shirt is tied around his waist.
He takes a hearty chug of water from the reusable bottle he slides out of a side pocket of the pack, his throat bobs as he swallows. Not all men have a well-defined Adam’s apple, but Odin does. It’s almost sculptural in its perfection of what an Adam’s apple should be.
Is there nothing flawed about his physical form? Can’t he have bunions or knobby knees? A third nipple? Something to prove he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.
Finished drinking, he wipes the back of his hand across his wide mouth and beard. My attention remains on his face, specifically his lips. I’m staring, and we both know it.
Needing a distraction to cut through the awkward silence between us, I glance behind his legs, half-expecting to see his pet pig. “No Patsy today?”
“No, I brought my dog with me. Want to meet him? I left him tied up outside next to the water bowl.” He points at the door. Sure enough there’s a brown and white mop of a dog staring at us through the glass.
“Okay.” I sound hesitant, probably because I’m still confused by Odin’s appearance. I’ve worked here for months and have never seen him. Now he’s randomly showing up and inviting me to meet his dog.
I’ve never gotten the feeling he particularly likes me, yet I find myself following him out the door. Who isn’t a sucker for a cute puppy?
Chapter Ten
Odin
“What kind of dog is he?” Daphne squats, stroking Roman’s side where he’s lying across her feet. Her fingers slip through the brown and white curls of his coat, and the jerk lifts his dark head and gives me a self-satisfied look.
Yeah, I might be jealous of my dog right now, and he knows it.
“He’s an Italian water dog.”
“I’ve never heard of that breed before.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.”
“Not really. Roman’s a working dog. Bonus that he doesn’t shed. Think of him like an Italian poodle. In a way, he is.”
“Like a noodle-doodle?” She laughs at her own joke.
I laugh despite not really getting the humor. “I guess?”
“You know … Goldendoodle, Labradoodle, Schnitzerdoodle—all the oodle mixes that are super popular right now? I can keep listing them if you’d find it helpful. You basically take a breed and add ‘oodle’ to the end.” At least she’s amusing herself.
“Got it. Think of him as the great-great-great-grandfather to the oodles of the world. He can trace his lineage back generations in Italy.”
She sweeps her attention over me. “Didn’t figure you for a fancy dog breed person. Not into the whole rescue a mutt who needs love thing?”
“I’m not opposed. It was love at first sight with Roman.” I’m not lying. Ours was supposed to be a working relationship, but when he arrived in his crate all the way from Italy and I saw him for the first time, we bonded instantly.
He lifts his head and blinks at me, his way of saying he feels the same—or so I tell myself. It’s the same with Patsy. They could be playing me, but I don’t even care. I’m a sucker for my animals.
“How romantic,” she says drily. “It’s just the three of you?”
Daphne’s face and voice remain neutral, like she’s simply asking out of polite conversation and not prying into details about personal life.
“Yep. Me, Patsy, and Roman,” I say with a nod. “We’ve got everything we need for a good life in the holler.”
“In the holler.” She mimics my deep Appalachian accent.
“Are you making fun of the hillbilly?” How original. “Hollow. Is that better?”
If it want, I can make my accent disappear entirely. I learned quick that a lot of people equate a Southern drawl with lower intelligence and I enjoy manipulating them using their own ignorance.
Her eyes widen at being called out. “No, not at all. I just think holler is a funny word for a place. I imagine a lot of yelling and echoes.”
“Actually, one of the reasons I like living in a holler is the quiet.”
“Sounds like the ideal bucolic life.”
“Beats the alternative of living in town with nosy neighbors. Or worse … in a city.” I exaggerate a shudder.
“I feel the same way. Too much concrete and metal give me hives, not to mention the exhaust and fumes.” She wraps her hands around her neck and coughs. “Suffocating. Can’t breathe.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a flair for the dramatic?”
“Me? Never.” She addresses this statement to Roman by scrunching up his ears and wiggling his face close to hers, and he licks her nose. She focuses her attention on him, basically ignoring me.
I didn’t have a plan other than to show up. Clearly, I didn’t think this through. What am I going to do, loiter around her work place all afternoon watching her play with my dog?
Giving Roman one more scratch behind the ears, she stands, still focused on him. “He’s sweet.”
“That’s what all the ladies say.” What am I saying? There are no ladies. Unlike my walks with Patsy, I don’t parade through town with my dog. Someone would have to come to the house to see him and other than family, no one visits me.
Her eyes flash to mine. “I imagine they do.”
I want to clarify, but if the past is an example, I’ll only dig myself deeper into a hole with her.
“Well, I need to get back to work.” She points to the building behind her.
Shifting my heavy pack, I slide it off my shoulder and set it down for a moment to put away my water bottle.
Eying it, she asks, “What do you have in there? Rocks?”
“Ha ha. No. Just apples.” The statement is out of my mouth before I can take it back.
Her eyes turn into slits as she stares at the backpack and then up at me, her face full of suspicion. “You’re hiking with apples?”
I don’t want to explain about the orchard and family ties to the land, so I lie. “Easier to manage than soup cans.”
It’s nearly impossible to imagine that at one point in my life, I was considered a player. I’ve never been this awkward around a woman before. Time to cut my losses.
“I don’t want to keep you from your rangerly duties.” I lift the pack and reposition it on my back.
“Nice to see you again.” Her voice has a professional polish to it that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
“Sure. Yeah. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” I walk backward away from her, gently tugging Roman with me. He normally follows me without any coercion but lingers near her feet. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
He lies down.
“Looks like you might have yourself a dog,” I joke.
Thankfully, she laughs. “Not sure he’s my type. Probably too fancy for me.”
We’re talking about Roman. At least I think we are.
Another pull on his leash gets him moving.
Finally figuring out it’s better for me to remain silent, I flash her a smile followed by a wave as she heads back inside.
If I were an old Southern woman, I’d bless my own heart right now.
Chapter Eleven
Daphne
At the end of the day, I’m still replaying my conversation with Odin.
Did I really say he’s too fancy for me and not my type? I should’ve clarified I was joking about Roman being a fancy Italian water dog, not him, though maybe he is a little bit extra with his weird produce and Patsy. Are hipsters into pet pigs now? Floppy farmer hats are the new fedoras, so could be. Do people even refer to other people as hipsters anymore? I have no idea.
I don’t have a ton of experience with men. I missed out on the typical awkward middle school social shenanigans and dating in high school. My sisters and I weren’t allowed to date or hang out with members of the opposite sex without chaperones.
At the time, I didn’t know what I was missing because I didn’t know any different. Everyone I grew up around was like me. Their families were members of the same church. We were homeschooled or went to a small charter school populated only with kids like us. My world was tiny.
In college, Kacey introduced me to John Hughes movies and High School Musical, Glee, and Taylor Swift. She used to joke I was an alien from another planet. In a way, she wasn’t wrong.
We haven’t talked much since the
weekend she visited. I text her and tell her about my promotion.
Breaking the universal rule of responding to a text with a text, she immediately calls me. The ringer startles me.
“Congratulations!” I can hear other voices and music in the background.
“Where are you?” I ask her.
“What?”
I repeat my question, only louder.
“I’m at a bar with some coworkers.” The noise decreases. “Okay, I stepped outside. They won’t miss me.”
I check the time on the screen. It’s only seven but I’m already in my pajamas.
“Are you there?” she asks. “Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“That’s great about the official job. Glad you’ll be staying in the area.”
“For now. You know me. I like to move around.”
“Someday you’ll find a reason to stay put. Have you seen the hottie farmer again?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Then why aren’t you giving me all the dirt?” Her volume increases with her indignation.
“There isn’t much to tell.”
I proceed to spend the next ten minutes trying to recall every detail of seeing Odin at Genie’s and today. I leave out the part about my body’s involuntary warming and tingling whenever I’m near him.
“He so likes you.” Her voice is a loud screech through the phone. “Sounds smitten.”
“Let’s not get carried away. He didn’t ask for my number or ask me out.”
I imagine her optimism deflating like a balloon.
“Maybe he’s awkward like you. Or shy?”
“Men who look like him aren’t shy.” Although our goodbye today did feel clumsy.
“Fine. You’re right. He’s not interested. Random coincidences, that’s all. So tell me how you’re doing. What’s new that doesn’t involve a Y chromosome?”
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 7