A woman behind us has clearly been listening because she taps me on the shoulder and says, “I believe the old saying is ‘knee-high to a June bug’.”
“Thank you.” I give her a warm smile.
Odin turns to see who is speaking and his face lights up. “Hi, Lena.”
“Hey, Odin.” She hugs him. “Good to see you. Figured you’d find a way to skip tonight’s circus.”
She hugged him, penetrated his force-field with no visible resistance. Or did I just imagine that?
He bestows his genuine smile on her. “I’d say the same about you. Lena Walker, this is Ranger Daphne Baum. I’ve been wanting to introduce the two of you.”
She quickly scans my face. “Nice to meet you. You’re the new full-timer at Cades Cove, right?”
I smile and shake her hand. “And you’re at the farm museum? I can’t believe we haven’t met before now.”
“Lena runs the farming operations. She knows more about native plants and heirloom crops than anyone else.” Pride coats Odin’s words.
“Anyone except Ida Hill. She’s a walking encyclopedia. She knows things even Google doesn’t.” She beams up at him.
“Lena’s been studying with Ida for the last five years,” Odin says.
“Six, but who’s counting?”
They have a deep connection I haven’t witnessed him share with anyone else.
“Are you one of the Hill cousins, too?” My curiosity is piqued.
“Oh, no. I’m not a relative … as far as we know.” She’s beautiful with high cheekbones and straight, almost black hair kind of like Kacey’s, and she’s wearing a brightly patterned top with jeans. I’m jealous and simultaneously admire her for doing her own thing. “Odin and I share a mutual obsession with horticulture.”
My gaze shifts from Lena to Odin, and I wonder if they’ve ever been involved. What are the odds of a woman loving weird heirloom plants as much as he does? Still there isn’t any awkward tension or simmering bitterness between them. If they were together, they appear to have ended amicably.
“How are the apple grafts doing? Still optimistic they’ll take?” he asks.
“So far, so good.” She crosses her fingers. “How’s the spore cultivation going?”
“Good, good. I’ve had some success with the shiitake logs. You should come by the farm and check out my progress. I have some turkey tails in the dehydrator, too.”
Oh, he’s talking about mushrooms—the fungus among us. If I’ve learned anything, once he gets started, this could be a long conversation. Letting my attention wander as they chat, I spot Jay and Olive across the room.
“I’m going to go say hello.” I point at my friend and colleague. “If you get to the front of the line before I get back, will you make a plate for me?”
Odin agrees and I tell Lena it was nice to meet her.
“Come visit the farm. I’d be happy to show you around.”
Located just over the North Carolina border but still part of the GSM park, the living museum is staffed with historians who maintain the collection of original structures. Like in Cades Cove, the park pulled buildings from other locations to recreate a farm.
I remember Odin’s words about erasing history and retelling it to fit the park’s narrative.
Jay and Olive stand off to the side. Olive wears a flowy, navy maxi dress that highlights her blue eyes and dark hair, and Jay’s wearing a black collared shirt and jeans. They could be on an album cover.
Jay’s brow furrows when he spots me. “Daphne? What are you doing here?”
“I was coming over to ask you both the same thing.” I smile warmly at Olive.
“I dragged him along.” She points at the band. “Porter Walker invited me as part of my traditional Appalachian music project.”
“Any relation to Lena?”
“Probably. You know her? Isn’t she the best?” Olive gushes. “I think she’s the coolest woman I’ve ever met.”
My attention flits to where Odin is chatting with her.
“Who are you here with?” Jay follows my eyes. “No, seriously?”
Olive stands on her toes to see better. “Odin Hill? The hot farmer?!”
Jay’s head jerks back in surprise. “The guy who walks his pig on a leash? He’s hot?”
She pats his chest. “Calm down. You’re more handsome.”
On paper, they don’t make sense, but in reality they’re perfect together. Introverts need love too, and if our resident nerdy ornithologist can find his soulmate, there’s hope for all lonely hearts.
Chapter Thirty-One
Odin
“This ain’t my funeral, so why are we all standing around instead of dancing?” Nannie Ida stomps her cane on the worn boards of the old barn floor.
Conversations around us begin to die down, but a few folks continue their chatter, unaware or unconcerned the guest of honor is speaking.
“Odin, whistle for me, will you?”
“Sure thing.” I place my pinkies in the corners of my mouth and release a shrill sound, one that’s impossible to ignore or talk over.
“I taught you well.” She pats my arm, her fingers bony and skin papery with age.
“You sure did. Anything else I can do for you?” I crouch next to her chair so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see my face.
“I can handle it from here.”
Another pat before she turns her attention to the room, everyone collectively holding their breath as they wait for her to speak.
“Now that you’re listening … ” She gives me a smug grin. “Like I said, save the jabbering and reminiscing for when I’m dead. I reckon you won’t have to wait too long.”
A few people murmur about her outliving all of us before she stops them with a swipe of her hand.
“Hush with your foolishness. Porter?” She points the tip of her cane at the band.
“Yes, ma’am?” He straightens his spine and stands taller.
“Somebody paying you to play your fiddle tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well?” She gives him a stare that could freeze a pond with ducks still on it.
With a nod, he picks up his bow and tucks the instrument under his chin.
“Any requests?” he asks.
“You know what I like.”
He nods again before turning his back to us and whispering something to his bandmates, and then the opening notes of a waltz float over the crowd.
Still squatting next to Ida’s chair, I hold out my hand. “May I have this dance?”
Her rheumy eyes are full of steel and intolerance for bullshit as they stare back at me.
“Isn’t there someone else you’d rather partner with? Go ask your girlfriend to dance. I’ll sit here and keep the time with my stick.” She gives her hand-carved cane a few good thumps in time with the beat to prove her point.
Watching Daphne from across the room, I slide my fingers through my hair and curse softly.
“The last thing I want is a girlfriend,” I remind her. I’m not saying that because I’m only into sleeping around without the trappings of commitment. Since returning to Green Valley, I’ve avoided all socializing. After years of living in cities, surrounded by people, I’m done. I think I’ve reached the maximum number of social connections for one lifetime.
“Everyone needs love in their life, Odin. ’Bout time you let someone into your heart.”
“Daphne and I are … ” I let the sentence go unfinished. Honestly, I don’t know. She’s at this party with me as … what? A date? A human shield? Friendly foil to my family’s meddling? All true, but she’s more to me.
I like her. I like spending time with her, talking with her, and having sex with her. Why do we have to put labels on people, trying to control them by claiming them as ours?
Ida giggles, sounding decades younger than her she is. “Lord help you, son. Love’s made you stupid. You’ve been struck with Cupid’s arrow. Hold on to her if you can. Now, get over there
and ask her to dance before one of your cousins swoops in and steals her.”
I bristle at the thought of anyone else with Daphne.
“I love you, Nannie.” Leaning down, I place a soft kiss on her cheek.
“Save the declarations for your sweetheart.” She pokes me with the business end of her stick. “Quit stalling.”
I don’t bother telling her it’s too soon for me to be in love with Daphne. We’re only getting to know each other, have spent a small bit of time together, but there’s no point in arguing with Ida. Once she’s made up her mind, she’ll never be convinced she’s wrong.
The caller announces the dance as couples make their way to the center of the room in front of the band. Non-dancers shuffle to the side or take seats at the round tables along the edges, though Nannie Ida’s view remains unobstructed. No one is stupid enough to block her from seeing the action.
In the shifting crowd, I lose track of Daphne. Half-tempted to stand on a chair for a better vantage point, I finally locate her off to the side, with the other wallflowers.
I get the feeling she’s more comfortable being an observer, not because she’s shy but because she’s unsure of how to join. Her expression holds cautious delight and wonder, excitement about the dancing and dread at being asked.
I’m not a therapist, but I’m good at reading people. Maybe I missed my calling of studying psychology, though working in a commercial kitchen probably taught me more about people than any book or lecture could.
Squeezing myself through the narrow gaps behind chairs, I forge the shortest path between the birthday girl’s throne and Daphne.
“May I?” I extend my hand, palm up so the invitation is clear.
“Go ahead. I’m good to watch from here.” Without even glancing at me, she refuses my offer.
“Nope. The fun is had in the doing.” Before she can concoct an excuse, I slip my hand around her waist and give her a gentle nudge. She gives in more easily than her posture promised. Once she’s beside me, I tip my head closer to hers. “You’ll do fine. We practiced. Remember, contra is just Simon Says to music.”
“What if I mess up?” Her forehead wrinkles with worry.
“Everyone does. We laugh it off and keep going. Dancing isn’t about being perfect.” I give her a reassuring squeeze.
Near the dance floor, she hesitates again. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Impossible.” I lead her to the line of women and squeeze her in between two cousins. “Just listen to the caller and follow what these ladies do.”
I take my place in the row facing them, the caller claps his hands and the dance begins.
At first, Daphne’s eyes are wide and nervous like a spooked colt. After a few turns and do-si-dos, though, her smile returns. Her steps aren’t perfect and her grip is tentative, but she isn’t the worst dancer in the room, not by a long mile.
Seeing her laughing and happy give me a warm feeling in my chest.
Nannie Ida might be right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daphne
Outside the barn, I inhale the crisp air and stare at the bazillion stars sprinkled throughout the Milky Way, visible in the clear sky.
My brain feels like it’s on the loopy-de-loop ride at the fair, and I don’t know why or how to stop it.
Could be the dancing, all those reels and swings with their turns and spins.
Could be too much sugar from the extra piece of cake I ate. Turns out stack cake is an irresistible combination of cake and pancakes with apple butter spread between the layers. It was Odin’s slice and he said I could have it, because he’s nice even if he swears he isn’t.
I remember the moonshine one of his cousins gave me in an adorably tiny glass jar with a slice of apple on the rim like a garnish … and the second or third jars that followed. I can’t recall if those had apple slices.
Or … the source of my discombobulation could be Odin himself. The man is dangerous with his disarming smiles and happy energy.
He’s not at all who I believed him to be—a weirdo scofflaw with a pig.
“At least Patsy doesn’t have a bad attitude. Good piggy.” For some reason, I begin singing, “This little piggy went to market, this little doggo stayed home. This farmer was a demigod, that one gave a dog a bone. Knick-knack-paddy-whack, something, something, and we all fall down.”
I hear giggling close by and whirl around to find the source, only to realize the sound is coming from me. “Whoa. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like? I should go inside and sit down.”
My feet don’t cooperate and tangle themselves together, causing me to sway.
As I hear deep, masculine laughter, a steady hand anchors around my waist, keeping me from pitching forward. “You okay?”
The surprise contact shocks me, and somehow I manage to flip myself around so I’m staring up at the sky. I’m basically a ballroom dancer in a low dip, or a fish on dry land with my mouth agape. Breathing is difficult.
When I try to reply, my words get stuck in my throat, mainly because my head is tossed back at such an angle that I’m staring at the treetops upside down.
Using core muscles I rarely engage, I lift myself enough to speak and realize Odin is the one with the strong hand and excellent balance preventing me from hitting the ground. “Why are you dipping me?”
His eyebrows furrow together. “Are you drunk?”
“Maybe?” The effort to support my head is too much, and I let gravity win this battle. Bad idea. What should be solid earth shifts and undulates wherever my gaze lands. Even the barn wobbles on its foundation.
Better to close my eyes.
My lids meet, and everything goes toes over nose.
Nope. Definitely worse.
I peek between my lashes, the world still gyrating like an over-zealous male stripper in a gold thong. Just as I’m resigning myself to this topsy-turvy existence and the very real possibility of vomiting, I’m once again vertical with my feet on the ground and my stomach back in its rightful place.
“Hey,” Odin whispers, lifting my chin with his finger. “Can you focus?”
“You know I.” My words come out in the reverse order of what I intended, making me sound like Yoda. Still nauseated, I’m certain I’m sporting the same green skin hue as the wise one. “I know you.”
“You do. The question is, do you know yourself?” His mouth does that thing where it curves with amusement and knowing and smugness, like he finds me immensely entertaining in a reality-show-train-wreck kind of way.
In an effort to stop his smirking ways, I use both index fingers to smoosh his smile down into a frown. I rhymed in my head and it makes me laugh.
The hand not holding my waist defends his mouth from my prodding.
“How much did you drink, Daphne?” He glares at something over my head.
“Moonshine with apple slices—a cocktail and a snack all in one.”
“I know what you had, I was asking how many.” His sigh is rather loud.
“You’re not my boyfriend, so don’t sound disappointment.”
“Disappointed.”
“That’s what I said.” I take a blind step back and the heel of my boot sinks into the soft dirt, causing my balance to shift.
“Okay, let’s get you home before you fall and hurt yourself.” He extends his arms to catch my shoulders. Gently facing me in the opposite direction, he begins marching us forward.
I’m disappointed—no, relieved he didn’t decide to carry me.
“You act all mean and cynical, but you’re a big softie, Odin Hill.” I attempt to crane my neck to look at his face, but he adjusts his grip.
“Eyes forward, Ranger Baum.” He’s all Mister Stern and Bossy. I hate how much I love him—hate how much I love it, that is. No, actually, I think I was right the first time.
“Oh, we’re using formal titles now, Chef?” My smirk is triumphant even if he can’t see it.
His huff of warm air sweeps across my shou
lders, causing me to shiver.
He pauses mid-step. “Damn it. Where’s your coat?”
“Didn’t have one.”
“You did. It was dark green with a collar and black buttons.”
“Sounds like mine.” I attempt to keep walking, but I’m held in place by his grip. How many people does it take to qualify as a conga line? Maybe if I step to the left and then to the right, I can trick him into dancing our way out of here.
With a resigned sigh, he releases me. “Let’s get you to the truck. Can you promise to stay put while I go back inside and search for it?”
“For what?”
“Your coat. Jesus, I want to punch those idiots and their moonshine.”
“You can’t punch a liquid. I mean, you could, but it wouldn’t be very unsatisfying. Have you thought about freezing it instead? Depending on alcohol level, it might never freeze solid. Could be similar to punching a Jell-O mold. Slightly more therapeutic than water, but again, I doubt it’s going to give you any satisfaction. And another thing, you shouldn’t resort to violence to express your emotions. Boy howdy is that unhealthy. Almost as bad as bottling everything up. Did you know—”
His hand covering the lower half of my face interrupts my word flow. “Will you please stop talking for a minute?”
I open my mouth, forgetting for a second I can’t verbalize my answer with his palm against my lips. I nod instead.
“Have you ever had moonshine before?” His voice is full of genuine concern.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” With a gentle touch, he brushes my hair away from my face before kissing me softly on the lips.
His beard tickles and makes me giggle. “This might be the grain alcohol speaking, but it wants me to tell you we love you.”
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 21