by Penny Reid
Whereas Ranger Jethro, at just six years older, and based on Hank’s description, very well may have been beyond my maturity level. I still liked being goofy and winning the you disgust me wars.
I crossed to the fridge, opening it and pulling out drawers, searching for tomatoes. “So, now Jethro looks after widows and children.”
“Just widows. Just really gorgeous, redheaded widows, with pretty blue eyes and a voice like an angel.” Now Hank was batting his eyelashes.
“Aha.” I nodded my understanding. “Ranger Jethro is sweet on his best friend’s widow?”
My stomach dropped a little with disappointment as I said the words. It was like feeling disappointed when you discover a shop doesn’t have an awesome dress in your size, even though you weren’t sure you wanted the awesome dress to begin with. But knowing definitely the awesome dress was off limits was disappointing.
I quickly pushed the feeling away. I didn’t need any dresses.
“Actually, no.” Hank scratched his neck and leaned back against the stove, crossing his arms. “If Jethro were sweet on Claire, then he would’ve made his move by now. I think he just likes taking care of her. In fact, I think he likes taking care of people.”
“Then tell me something, Hanky-panky: why do you want me to stay away from reformed Ranger Jethro? He sounds fantastic. I could settle down here in Gangrene Valley. I could learn how to do woman’s work. We could have all the babies. Side note, I hope they get his beard and my forearms.”
Hank dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes on me, fighting a smile. “First of all, it’s Green Valley, not Gangrene Valley, smart-ass.”
“Honest mistake.”
“And second, I don’t want you to stay away from Jethro for your sake. I want you to stay away from Jethro for his sake.”
I gaped, sputtering at my friend for several seconds before I managed, “I am insulted.”
“That may be, but I’ll ask you to stay away, nevertheless.”
“You are an asshole yokel.” I thought about throwing the tomato I was holding at him but decided against it. I’d found only one tomato, and I needed it for tacos. Tacos without tomatoes was like cake without frosting. Pointless.
“And you’ve always been opposed to settling down, or has that changed?”
“Absolutely not. Settling down implies settling. I have no plans to settle.”
“Exactly. You’re a man-eater, leaving a trail of broken hearts longer than I can list.” Hank set his hands on his hips and grinned at me like he knew me . . . which he did. “You and your dimples and your sexy everything.”
“I am not a man-eater. I don’t even like giving head usually, my gag reflex is very sensitive. All that hair, I hate hair in my mouth. And it’s the worst kind of hair—”
“You know what I mean, baby doll. Leave the poor guy alone. He’s been through enough.”
“Did you just baby doll me? You don’t baby doll me. I baby doll you.”
Hank ignored my outrage and grabbed the tomato from my hand, moving to the cutting board. “Jethro might have been a con artist, but he’s mostly reformed.”
“Keep your diaper on, baby doll,” I grumbled.
“I’m serious, Sienna. He’s out of bounds.” Hank chopped the tomato, though he kept his eyes leveled on me as he mumbled, “Poor man ain’t ever met anything like you.”
CHAPTER 5
“The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seemed filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”
― Elizabeth Bishop, The Complete Poems
~Sienna~
Banjo music freaks me out.
I’ve always associated it with the movie Deliverance. It’s like, I hear a banjo and my hands go to my bottom in an automatic Pavlovian response. Ring a bell and nothing happens, strum a banjo and I’m covering my poop shoot.
Also, flannel.
Also, bearded men with hound dogs and rifles.
Likely this has something to do with the fact that my parents—although banal and suburban by most measures—didn’t really monitor my TV and movie consumption. My parents met in the Navy and left the service together to open a private practice. They worked a lot, were gone a lot, but always showed up and supported us when it mattered.
Nevertheless, my older siblings and old movies mostly raised me. By the age of four I was watching anything and everything. In my house that usually meant telenovelas.
However, I saw Basic Instinct when I was eight and have subsequently never owned an icepick.
I saw Friday the Thirteenth when I was twelve and have a morbid aversion to hockey goalies.
It also meant my favorite movie at thirteen was Duck Soup with the Marx Brothers, and my sister Rena and I could quote line for line the entire Abbot and Costello “Who’s on First” bit.
But now, on a backwoods mountain road in the middle of nowhere Tennessee, I glanced around my tree-lined surroundings and I swore I heard the ominous banjo music.
Duna-ner-ner-ner-ner-ner-near-near. . .
Yeah. I was lost again.
This time it wasn’t my fault. Not that it was my fault last time, but this time it really wasn’t my fault. I’d been practicing for the last week. With the reluctant blessing of Dave, my security lead, Hank had taken me out three times, showing me the route to the filming location. He brought me maps. I made a mental map. I even drew my own map from memory. And I had a new cell phone, one that should have had reliable reception all over the mountain.
Driving by myself felt like a luxury after spending a week working from early morning until past midnight writing, answering emails, going into Knoxville to be seen and for interviews, and sharing a lake cabin with several burly, loud men.
Regardless, my new phone now had no reception, it was 6:47 a.m. and I was terribly and irrevocably lost. I felt like a fool. I should’ve just agreed to let Dave or Tim drive me. I didn’t know why I was being so stubborn about driving myself.
The good news, because there was good news, was that the sun had finally decided to rise. So when I saw an official-looking sign reading COOPER ROAD TRAIL I decided to pull off. I figured, like any sane person would, that the trail must be on the map.
The trail wasn’t on the map. I didn’t have the energy for a breakdance map assault. Instead I exited my rental car, calmly sipped on my tepid coffee, and made a plan to walk toward the campsites I’d spotted by a creek in the distance. I figured I’d wait until someone emerged from his or her tent—assuming he wasn’t carrying a rifle and wearing flannel—and then I’d accost him or her for help.
At least, this was my plan.
Not part of my plan was the very familiar-looking green pickup truck that slowly wound down the trail entrance and eventually parked next to my tiny rental car. Also not part of the plan, the perplexed smile on Ranger Jethro’s handsome face as he exited his truck and scrutinized me as I sipped my tepid coffee.
Not part of my plan, but not unwelcomed.
Keeping his eyes on me, the ranger—who I could no longer call adorable or simply a hot guy now that I knew way too much about his past—tipped his hat much as he’d done before. And much as he’d done before, he said, “Miss, do you require assistance?”
Unexpected warmth spread from my belly to my fingertips at the sound of his voice in the early morning, rough and unused. Deeper. Manly. Despite the unanticipated belly flips, I was able to quip, “Aw, I bet you say that to all the lost ladies.”
This earned me a wider smile. “As a matter of fact, no. I don’t make a habit of coming upon lost ladies all that often. But when I do, they all have irresistible dimples and they all seem to be you.”
I returned his smile, unable to help myself. Man, he was a great flirt. Like really, really great. He was able to slip in a compliment and make it sound like a fact. As well, his creepiness and cheesiness factor was a big fat zero. He made my heart beat faster, and yet he seemed entirely relaxed and unaffected.
/> I recognized it as confidence. And not the douche kind either. The sincere, well-deserved kind.
I let my dimples show and indulged in my desire to look at his lips, because he had nice ones. But I didn’t look too long, because he also had nice eyes. “So, you’re a strictly monogamous rescuer?”
He shifted on his feet, gathering a deep breath and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “More like I’ve been in a rescuing dry spell for several years.”
“Not many damsels then? In these parts?”
He smirked but endeavored to keep his expression even. “Plenty of damsels. Just none that I’d like to rescue near as much as you.”
This made me laugh, and I saw his eyes fall to my mouth. He blinked and gave into his grin. He’d complimented my smile and laugh last time I’d seen him, so I decided I ought to return the favor.
“You have a great smile, Ranger.”
“Call me Jethro.”
“What’s wrong with Ranger?”
“Ranger isn’t my name, Sarah.”
That gave me a start, a twinge of something unpleasant like guilt, because Sarah wasn’t my name, and yet I continued to encourage his ignorance. He didn’t recognize me as a celebrity, of that I was certain, but would he recognize my name?
I hoped not.
Before I could correct him and give him my real name, he stepped forward, reaching for my mug and removing it from my hands with a gentle kind of self-assurance. He placed it on the roof of my car. I had to lift my chin to keep looking in his eyes, which held me completely captivated. They were gold and green, not brown like I’d expected.
Now he was standing close, but not too close. Just, a really good distance—non-threatening but within my reach—like an invitation.
With a truly exceptional grin, one that made my knees feel a bit weak, he dropped his voice so I’d have to lean closer to hear him. “And you’ve got such a beautiful voice. Seems a shame to waste it on Ranger when you could be saying Jethro instead.”
I blinked, startled, because—Oh. My. Dear. Lord.—I do believe my stomach just did a somersault.
Could he be any sexier? And why, apart from the obvious, was he so sexy?
“Jethro, I hope you don’t mind my saying so—”
“Say whatever you’d like, Sarah,” his voice was a rumble, “just as long as you keep using my name.”
Oh, gah! Another tummy cartwheel. And now I really wanted to touch him. What voodoo was this?
It took a great deal of concentration, but I continued as though he hadn’t interrupted. “And please accept this as a compliment, because I mean it with all sincerity, but you are the most gifted flirt I’ve ever met.”
His eyebrows ticked up beneath his hat, and his smile didn’t waver, if anything it seemed to deepen.
“I mean it. And I’ve met a lot of very capable ones. I hope you’ve put flirting on your résumé, and if you need a reference please let me know, because as much as it’s possible to love something about a near stranger, I love this about you.”
He continued to study me for a silent moment, during which the urge to touch him intensified to something like an itch. He was so close, yet all I could think was that he wasn’t close enough. But that was probably the point.
Well played, Ranger Jethro. Well played.
And his eyes. Don’t get me started on his eyes. Just . . . don’t. I can’t even with this guy. So. Gorgeous. They held an invitation as well, a twinkly, heated, mesmerizing invitation. And I wanted to RSVP so hard.
Both breaking and heightening the wonderfully agonizing tension, Jethro finally said, “Coming from you, that is a compliment.”
His eyes swept over my face, pausing on my mouth.
Oh, sigh.
Too bad I was late for work. Also too bad I’d promised Hank I would stay away from Ranger Jethro. At the time I hadn’t thought I’d encounter him again, so my promise hadn’t felt like a sacrifice. Hank had been overreacting, succumbing to prissy hysteria. Clearly, the ranger wasn’t a delicate flower. He was self-possessed and capable.
And I was not a man-eater.
I was more of a man-sampler.
Regardless, yielding to the more responsible facets of my personality, I gathered a large inhale and glanced at my watch. Yes, I wear a watch. I hate keeping track of time on my cell phone, mostly because it distracts me. I see the texts and notifications and feel like I must respond. Whereas my watch makes no demands.
It’s like, here is the time and nothing else. That’s it. I love it. It’s great.
“I hate to press the pause button on this epic awesomeness,” I motioned with my hand to his entire person, “but would it be possible—do you have the time—to help me get unlost this morning? I was supposed to be someplace by five thirty and it’s almost seven.”
He smirked at my hand movement. Of course he did. No pretentiousness or shocked indignation from this guy, or irritation at my quick subject change. Just quiet acceptance and confidence. He was such an . . . adult.
Jethro rocked back on his heels, pulling his phone from his back pocket and tapping out a message. “Sure, no problem. I have time, just need to call my boss.”
I recalled from my gossip fest with Hank last week that Jethro’s boss was Drew, a federal game warden, engaged to Jethro’s sister, and had beaten the crap out of Jethro a few years ago.
I said nothing of my knowledge, but inspected the ranger as he made his call.
Okay fine. I stared at him.
I STARED AT RANGER JETHRO. Are you happy now?
You would stare at him, too. He had long eyelashes for a guy. And his beard was fantastic. And it framed a really nice mouth.
Plus, I felt like I knew him. Probably because Hank had given me the man’s entire life story. And yet, this guy didn’t even know my real name. This was a complete role reversal. Usually people, strangers, felt they knew me. They followed my life, had seen pictures of me from my quinceañera, and had real opinions about the dress I’d worn. Opinions they wanted to discuss, and did discuss on message boards all over the glorious Internet.
I’m serious. Check out #SiennaQuinceañera. It still trends on Twitter every once in a while. You will be horrified and amused.
But back to sexy Jethro.
Now I was the stranger.
It was nice to be the stranger.
And yet, the fact Jethro had no idea I’d been acquainted with his backstory didn’t sit well. It felt more deceptive than not sharing my real name. Knowledge of his history colored my thoughts and reactions to his behavior, and he had no idea he was being viewed through my gossipy lens.
“Drew? It’s Jet. I’ll be late. See you later,” he said then ended the call. Either he didn’t wait for a response or he was leaving a voicemail.
“Where are you headed?” he asked, not glancing up from his phone. He must’ve felt my eyes on him—because I was staring—but he didn’t seem at all fazed by it.
“Um, Cades Cove.”
His gaze shot to mine. “Cades Cove?”
“Yes. And I’m running terribly late.”
“Are you, uh,” he conducted another pass of my features, dawning realization making his eyes grow just a smidge wider, “you’re an actress.”
Aaaggrrrraaahh . . . boo.
He knew about the movie. It made sense, what with him being a wildlife ranger at the national park where we were filming. But I didn’t like the way he’d said that, like being an actress made everything I’d said or done up to this point suspect, or less sincere.
I wasn’t a fake. I was just selective about the truth. Totally different.
Not wanting the magic between us to end, I hedged, “I’m a writer.” Then I turned to my car under the premise of grabbing my bag so he wouldn’t see me cringe.
The irony was not lost on me; I’d just proven his instinct to be suspicious right. However, what I’d said was also true. I was a writer. I was a screenwriter.
“A writer? Really?” Jethro had already opened t
he passenger door for me by the time I straightened from my vehicle. He looked at me with renewed interest bordering on fascination. “Did you write this movie? The one they’re filming here?”
“Uh, yes. I did. I wrote this movie.” Truth.
As I climbed into his truck I realized he hadn’t offered his hand like last time. I don’t know why I noticed, but I did and I wondered why—both why he didn’t offer and why I noticed.
“How’d you get into writing movies?” he asked as soon as he opened the driver’s side door. I saw he’d also grabbed my coffee mug from the roof of my car and placed it in the cup holder closest to me, whereas I’d totally forgotten about the mug.
“In college. I won a contest.” Technically true.
“What kind of contest? A screenwriting contest?” Jethro turned the key to the ignition, placing his phone on a dashboard stand, presumably so he could see any messages as they came in.
“No. I won a stand-up contest my freshman year.”
“You’re a comedian.” His smile returned. I really liked how easily he smiled. Given his past, especially the shady criminal parts, I was amazed at how genuinely friendly and upbeat he seemed to be.
I braced myself, wanting to be honest, but hoping if I told the entire story he wouldn’t put two and two together. “Well, the contest was stand-up comedy, improv, that kind of stuff. An agent—Hollywood talent agent, big deal—had been in the audience; her nephew was a contestant. After the show, she approached me. I’d always loved to write, so I showed her some of my work. She helped put me in contact with the right people to clean up my first script for submission.” All true . . . except I left out the part about the bidding war between studios. I also left out that my agent wanted me to play the lead in the movie and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Though, I didn’t put up much of a fight because, really? I’m going to turn down the possibility of becoming a movie star at twenty? Yeaaaaah, no.
Jethro was turning back onto the main road, which I noted was named Moth Run Road, and I saw another question was on the tip of his tongue.