“You’ll be fine. You don’t need to know the Tennessee waltz or any other formal dances, and we already know you’re more than capable of abiding by rules if you put your mind to it.” He extends his hand and wiggles his fingers. “First rule is to always follow the caller.”
Gently, he cups my hand, placing it on top of his and stands, pulling me off the couch. “Ready? We’ll begin with something simple. This is an allemande. All you do is hold hands and walk. Think you can handle it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Seems easy enough.”
He slowly moves in a circle around me and because we’re connected, I follow.
“Good. Ready for a do-si-do?”
“No.” Images of him lifting me and spinning me around come to mind.
Laughing, he releases his clasp and steps right in front of me. “It’s a fancy term for walking in a clockwise circle around each other.”
I remain in place as he demonstrates. “That’s it? I’m disappointed.”
“I told you, you have nothing to worry about.” He places a quick peck on my lips.
“Show me more.”
He obliges me with spins and twirls in addition to bowing.
The old-fashioned formalness of the moves make Odin feel like he’s from another time period. I can see his ancestor living in this house, lit by candle or firelight, dancing while someone else plays a fiddle. There’s something romantic about the image.
We dance and laugh until I’m a breathless heap on the couch. He sits next to me, a happy smile on his flushed face.
“Thank you. That was fun.”
“You’re welcome. Glad you enjoyed yourself. Still nervous about the party?” He picks up my legs and swings them over his lap.
“Is the rest of your family as wonderful as you?”
His happy energy disappears.
“I’m the black sheep,” he says flatly. “The prodigal son without the triumphant welcome upon my return.”
“Aren’t you the one who was called when your cousin was hustling pool at Genie’s?”
“Only because Joe knows me well, which isn’t a great character reference.”
I persist. “He must think you’re responsible enough to take care of Gracie. Why not call your aunt?”
His brows draw together. “Samantha wouldn’t be … ” He pauses. “Sympathetic, let’s say, to getting that phone call. More likely to make things much worse for Gracie. As it was, her sister Willa arrived as I was escorting her out of the bar.”
“You’re not proving me wrong.” I give him a satisfied grin. “If anything, you’ve solidified my opinion.”
“Willa had her own wild streak. Ran away from home as a teenager. I’d already been gone a couple years.”
“Sounds like the Hills have a reputation for being wild teens.”
“Bad apples fallen from the same family tree.”
“What about as grown-ups?” I ask, still curious.
“Some of us settle down sooner than others.” He shrugs, dismissing my attempt to pry for more and muttering something too quiet for me to hear.
I give him a sharp look.
“Stop making me out to be some sort of hero. There was a long span of my life where I was the last person you’d call if you needed a hand, a favor, or a friend. Looking back at my early twenties, I don’t have many bridges left intact.”
Silently, I wait him out.
“Every generation of Hill men has a black sheep, and the general consensus among the family is I’m the lucky bastard this go-around. Samantha’s husband, my father’s brother, was—is—? Who knows if he’s even still alive—the black sheep for their generation. Left his wife and four daughters behind in Green Valley and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work.” I’m mad on their behalf.
“The difference between my uncle and me is he stayed gone like last week’s garbage. I came back.”
“Isn’t the same true for your cousin Willa?”
He reluctantly agrees. “I guess our roots are here. Anyway, enough about me and my messed up family. Where’s home for you?”
Ignoring the bigger question, I go for the simple answer. “You already know this—I live in the ranger cabins.”
I cringe at the memory of him finding me in the woods, high on Benadryl and smelling of skunk.
“That’s not what I asked. Where is your soul’s home? Where do you feel most like yourself?”
I blink at him and then close my lids, trying to imagine the feeling he described. Forests and rock-strewn streams come to mind, but I can’t decide on one particular place. After a few seconds, I open my eyes and refocus on him.
He waits for my answer with lifted brows.
“I’m not sure. I’ve moved around a lot, not staying in one place for a long time.”
“Maybe you haven’t found your dirt yet.”
“Right now, I’d say the Smokies, but it’s a big area. Two years ago, I might’ve said Yellowstone. Before that, the Grand Canyon.”
He considers me, dragging his thumb along the patch of skin between his bottom lip and the edge of his beard.
I feel like I’ve failed an important test. “Can I give my answer another time?”
“It’s no big deal. Not everyone thinks the way I do. Most people who manage to leave this area never come back. Teachers encourage their best and brightest students to go off to college, probably knowing once the kids get a taste of the world, they’ll have a better life outside of Appalachia. I imagine people lost money when I decided to return.”
“What do you mean?” He speaks in riddles and clues. I want to piece him together and solve the puzzle of Odin.
“I blew out of town at seventeen, an angry tornado, weaving a random path of destruction wherever I landed. Didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone, only cared about getting away from here. I burned my bridges and left nothing but ashes and scorched earth behind me.” He sweeps his hand over his jaw and then scratches near his temple. “Funny thing about that metaphor.”
“What’s that?” My voice remains calm, but inside I’m hopeful he’ll reveal more about himself.
“Have you ever seen a forest after a fire?”
I nod. “Fire training is part of ranger academy.”
“Of course. Then you know soil becomes more fertile after a fire. A burn will clear out the crowded undergrowth, sparing some of the mature trees. Scorched earth doesn’t mean nothing will ever grow again. In fact, it’s a good thing.”
“Unlike a lava flow.”
“Exactly. A devastating eruption destroys all life in its path.”
“Be a fire, not a volcano.”
He nods, a small, knowing smile curling his lips. “I thought I was a volcano. I wanted to leave destruction in my wake so I could never return to the same place.”
“And instead?”
“I came back.” He gives another one of his dismissive shrugs.
“And?” I prompt again.
“I rediscovered myself in the ashes of my former life. Not in my childhood—those deep roots and giant trunks remaine—but in the life I thought I wanted, which turned out to be nothing but kindling for the blaze that nearly incinerated my existence.”
Our eyes lock. He’s telling me everything, and yet I know nothing more than I did a moment ago.
His attention slips over my shoulder. “Did you know a few years ago there was a huge fire in the Smokies? Thousands of acres burned.”
“I remember hearing about it. I was in Montana then, or was it Arizona?” My years blur together unless I can place myself by location.
“Do you know what came after the fire?”
There are several answers I could give, but somehow I sense all of them will be wrong.
“Morels.”
“The mushroom?”
“Exactly. One of the best seasons in recent memory. Huge, glorious morels pushed their caps through the blackened, ash-coated soil. The flavor was incredible, like not
hing I’ve tasted before or since.”
“You talk about fungi the way some men speak about women.”
His eyes light up. “A man should have more than one passion in life.”
He pounces, playfully pressing me into the couch cushions, pinning me with his hips as he lays a row of hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck.
I decide in this moment I could get burned by Odin Hill and be okay.
Whatever pain and heartache I’d face would be worth having him look at me like I’m his.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Daphne
On Wednesday after work, I go hunting for something to wear for the dance. After checking all possible sources for dresses in Green Valley, I’m expanding my search. All roads lead to Merryville. Literally, every local route seems to meet around the town like spokes on a wheel. I guess this is where the term hub comes from in describing a place.
Compared to Green Valley, whose main street only houses a few shops, Merryville is brimming with two thrift stores and a consignment shop. If I can’t find something here, I’ll be forced to drive to Knoxville.
Lucky me combining two things I loathe: cities and shopping.
If I were getting married, serving as a bridesmaid, or going to prom, I’d be set for shiny, sparkly gowns. However, since I’m doing none of those things in the foreseeable future, I strike out on finding a dress for the party. In the parking lot outside the consignment store, I text 911 to Kacey in frustration. It’s almost dinner time and I’m hoping to catch her at work.
A minute or so later, she calls me.
“What’s the emergency?”
“Hi to you, too. I need help.”
I hear the crunching sound of loud chewing. “Sorry, eating salad at my desk.”
“You could’ve finished swallowing before calling me.”
“911 is the emergency code, only to be used in actual emergencies.”
“I need something to wear to a dance-slash-birthday party. You know this is out of my wheelhouse. Help me?” I plead.
“Whoa, hold on—you’re going to a party?”
“For a centenarian. It’s not going to be a rager.” I’m assuming as much, but I suppose I could be wrong.
“Who do you know who’s that old?”
“Odin’s great-grandmother.”
“Daphne!”
“Yes?”
“What have I told you about burying the important information?”
“The key point here is I have to have something dance-isn and you know my wardrobe is ninety percent jeans and T-shirts. The other ten percent is uniforms.”
“Stop. You’re going to a party with Odin? A family birthday?”
“That’s what I said.”
“This is serious.”
“I know. What am I going to wear? Dress? Skirt?”
She groans. “I mean with him.”
If I tell her I’ve had sex with him, her head might explode. Given the time crunch, I decide to save that revelation for later.
“I think I’m going to be a buffer between him and his family. Nannie Ida is insisting he bring a date.”
“Pfft.” She blows a long raspberry into the phone. “He’s a grown man and can do what he wants. I think it’s an excuse.”
“I’m trying not to get my hopes up,” I confess, my voice soft.
She remains quiet for a moment. “I’m happy you have hopes, high or low. You deserve only the best after your childhood. If the sexy farmer wants to plow your fields and harvest your crops, I’m over the moon for you.”
Kacey is one of the few people who knows the full story of my past. Isaac and I had a class with her freshman year, and she’s been in my life ever since.
Laughing at her ridiculousness, I ask, “Are those supposed to be euphemisms for sex?”
“If your mind goes there, I’m going to say yes.” She giggles.
“Stop. You’re terrible.”
“Fine. So what are you wearing?”
Exasperated, I sigh. “No idea. I’m sitting in the parking lot of a consignment store. This is the third place I’ve looked, and so far, nothing appeals to me.”
“You should’ve called me earlier. I can ship you something.”
“Why didn’t I think of that? Oh, probably because you’re a giraffe and I’m a wombat. Everything you own will be too long on me.”
“I have the perfect dress. It’s short on me, so it will fit the average wombat.” She snorts. “Please don’t ever put yourself down. You’re beautiful and sexy and Odin Hill wants you.”
“I wasn’t putting myself down. It’s just the truth. I have a low center of gravity because my legs are short. Don’t dis the wombats—they’re adorable.”
My phone vibrates with a text. Glancing at the screen I see Isaac’s name.
“Speak of the devil, guess who texted me?”
“Odin?”
“No, Isaac. I haven’t spoken to him in months. Have you?”
“It’s been a while. Last I heard he and the boyfriend were getting serious.”
“Same. I’m happy for him.”
“Doesn’t that complicate things for you?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Like the item at the bottom of a to-do list, I know I’ll avoid dealing with it until I absolutely have to. I need to get off this call before she asks too many questions. “Thanks for sending the dress.”
“When’s the dance?”
“Saturday.”
“I’ll overnight it tomorrow with a backup option in case it doesn’t work.”
“You’re the best.”
“Take pictures. Since you never had prom, here’s your moment.” She laughs again.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Love you.”
As soon as we end the call, I open the text from Isaac. He’s asking when I’m free to chat. I miss him, but this week is busy and I suggest we catch up next week.
He doesn’t respond right away.
Relieved I can call off the search, I set my phone in the cupholder. I feel a little guilty for driving an NPS vehicle to Merryville when I’m not on official business, but I was kind of desperate.
I haven’t had time to figure out my next car or how I’m going to afford it. My insurance totaled my car, and the cash value is lower than the deductible. Their suggestion that I could buy it back and repair it made me laugh until I hung up on them. I’m not sure even the Winstons are talented enough to de-bear a car interior. It’s still sitting in the campground as a warning.
As I start the engine, I glance around. Leaning against a Mercedes SUV parked on the other side of an empty spot, a man watches me through the passenger window. He waves, and I return the gesture. Trying to place him, I plaster on my friendly-but-placid work smile. He mimes rolling down the window.
He’s casually dressed, but his clothes look expensive and too fancy for strip mall consignment parking lot. Something about him makes me wary, and I touch the lock button for the doors before I do anything else.
Would someone be crazy enough to carjack a government vehicle? Probably.
He says something, but I can’t understand him. Maybe he’s lost and thinks I’ll know the area. Rangers are notoriously helpful people.
I lower the passenger window, but only a quarter of the way. Safety first.
“Are you with the park service?” he asks, more brusque than friendly, likely from the city.
I’m out of uniform but there’s a big sticker on the door right in front of him. “Sure am.”
“Oh, good.”
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. The locals around here are useless. Can’t understand half of what they’re saying.”
He doesn’t use the word hillbilly, but it’s implied by the way he says locals.
My eyebrows rise but I remain silent. Guess he takes this as encouragement, because he keeps speaking.
“I want to hire a guide for backcountry foraging, but no one will take me up on it e
ven though you can tell they’re all dirt poor around here and could use the money. Can you recommend anyone who has half a brain and is willing to do an honest day’s work? Do rangers take side jobs?”
I don’t like his entitled attitude or his choice of words. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I wouldn’t advise going into the mountains this time of year if you’re not an experienced hiker. We can have severe storms, even snow.”
When I don’t say anything more, he frowns. “That’s all you’ve got? Thanks for nothing.”
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.” I push the button to raise the window.
What an odd, snarly man. Anyone I know who took him into the backcountry would probably leave him there. Stranger danger is real. People “around here” don’t like outsiders because of men like him. He’d be better off driving his fancy car right back to whatever city he came from.
Gaia stops by my desk under the guise of discussing my work on the social media accounts. She’s happy with the engagement, reminding me to respond to any questions if possible. Overall, the project has been positive and not nearly as torturous as I thought it would be, other than the few bots and trolls who have found the account and like to post negative comments. Some people need to go for long hikes away from society.
“Now that you’ve been here six months, any feedback and ideas for our interpretation programming?” she asks.
“How long do you have?” I joke. “I have so many thoughts, I don’t know where to begin.”
“What’s your number one goal?”
“Mostly, I want girls to be excited about the junior ranger program and maybe studying to become rangers themselves. Women played a huge role in the early formation of the parks, especially the GSM. I want to honor and celebrate their legacy with more role models and mentorships.”
“We definitely want to encourage more girls to sign up for the junior ranger program in the spring. Same with the internship programs in the summer. Let’s brainstorm on how to expand our application process to attract more diversity—more women, more minorities. Would be great if we could have more languages spoken in the information center for visitors.”
I write down her suggestions on a notepad next to my keyboard. “Agree.”
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 19