“For the record, I had no intention of groping you.” From my spot splayed out on the ground leaning back on my hands, I meet her blue eyes with a slow smile.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing at you. If you get injured, who will carry me to safety should I be overcome by rain, sleet, or snow? I might get the vapors and faint. Who will save me if you’ve been knocked unconscious?” Speaking in an atrocious Southern accent, she presses her hands together over her heart and flutters her lashes.
My hat has landed a foot or so away from the rest of me. Standing, I gather it and place it back on my head before I wipe the dirt and mud from my uniform. My fingers flex at the memory of touching her.
“Was your accent supposed to be Scarlett O’Hara?”
If she identifies with such an entitled character, we might be in bigger trouble than I originally thought.
“Actually, it was Blanche from Golden Girls with a dash of Miss Julia Sugarbaker from Designing Women.” Her pointed chin lifts in defense.
“Okay, sure. Well …” I stretch out the word. “Shall we?”
Sweeping my arm to the left, I gesture at the trail.
“I never answered your question.” She steps around me and leads the way down the narrow dirt path.
Happy to finally be moving, I follow behind her. “Which one?”
She twists her neck to locate me. “I am the Snowbird you’re looking for.”
“Did you just deliberately misquote Star Wars?” I add one point in the positive column for her.
“Maybe.” She winks and faces forward.
We walk for a few minutes in silence. Listening to the creaks and sighs of the bows bending from the wind, I release the tension in my neck and shoulders, relieved to have located the solo SoBo. I might not be a fan of people, but conducting a missing person search after a weather event is probably my least favorite part of this job. Finding a body out here sticks with a person for life, no matter if it’s the first time or the fifth.
“Now you’re supposed to tell me your name. That’s how introductions usually go,” she says, barely glancing over her shoulder.
“You can call me Ranger Daniels.” I point at the name embroidered on my uniform jacket.
“Is Ranger your first name? How convenient for you.” I swear she picks up her pace.
“Actually, my mother wanted me to become a doctor.” I resist the urge to help her navigate a rocky section.
She stops and faces me, waiting.
I answer her silent question. “It’s Jay.”
“Short for James?”
“Nope. Just Jay. Since I told you mine, what’s your real name?” I cock my head.
She studies me, not hiding how she’s sweeping her eyes down my body to my boots and back up. Whatever she finds causes her to shake her head.
“Since we’re technically still on the trail, Snowbird will do, Just Jay.” With a satisfied smirk, she walks away.
This is going to be a long hike.
Chapter Eight
Olive
Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee
Day: 148
Mile one thousand nine hundred something
There I am, squatting behind a tree, having a private moment when this man-hunk shows up wearing a Smokey Bear hat and looking all grizzly in a good way with a thick beard and the prettiest green eyes surrounded by the longest, darkest lashes. Totally unfair. I’ve paid hundreds of dollars for lash extensions and the gods bestow their bounty on Ranger Smoking Hot. He’s probably one of those guys who doesn’t care about his appearance. Not even deliberately trying to destroy women with his hotness, just doing it naturally.
Both his light brown hair and darker beard could use a trim. I wonder if he’s even heard of manscaping or if all his body hair is wild and free.
I cover my mind’s eyes before they can start picturing him naked.
How many months have I been out in the wilderness? How many dude bros and thru-hikers have I encountered? I haven’t imagined any of them naked. With some I didn’t have to use my imagination, not when skinny-dipping in streams and lakes happens on the regular.
Honestly, the male body is okay but doesn’t throw me into a hormone-fueled horny haze. A six-pack is nice to look at but can’t satisfy an itch. By satisfy an itch, I mean give me orgasms.
One thing about being outnumbered by men out here is the knowledge that dick is plentiful and easily available. Sounds nice, but the reality is disappointing. Supply and demand. When there isn’t a scarcity, there’s no reason to get riled up and flustered. I wish I’d had this realization back in college.
Ranger Jay in his spiffy gray and olive uniform exudes authority. I didn’t mean to be snappy with him from the start, but the rebel in me doesn’t respond well to figures of authority.
I’ve had enough men telling me what to do, the last thing I want to do is follow orders.
His suggestion to detour down to the valley does not mesh with my agenda. Time’s running out to spot the Black-throated Blue Warbler, one of the few species left on my list.
When I heard footsteps on the trail, I yelled out the first thing that came to mind to explain why I was off in the woods and needed privacy.
Probably should be embarrassed, but whatever shame or scraps of dignity I’m supposed to have around bodily fluids has long disappeared.
However, in the moment, I wasn’t using nature’s restroom.
I thought I’d finally caught the notes of the elusive warbler’s call and wandered toward the sound. I know they like to hang out in the underbrush at higher altitudes.
I hoped he would keep walking. He didn’t.
There are guidelines about hiking in the national parks. Leave no trace and pack-it-in, pack-it-out are two of the biggest. The number one rule is to stay on the trail. Wandering into the woods, chasing birds is exactly how people get lost.
Instead of continuing on his way, he waited for me. Weird. Most hikers would give a wide berth and keep on keeping on. Catching a glimpse of his hat, I knew I’d been busted. It’s not like I was stealth camping or doing anything he listed, but I still feel guilty.
Now he’s escorting me to safety.
My knight in a green uniform.
There’s no point in arguing with him or trying to ditch him. I attempted the former and know the latter would be pointless. I may have more long-distance endurance, but Ranger Jay seems like he’d be a fast runner. Long legs, lean muscles. Broad shoulders. Strong hands.
Must. Stop. Cataloging. His. Hotness.
This is why I’m walking in front of him.
Eyes on the path, Olive. Pretend he’s a friendly bear concerned about forest fires, not causing a fire in your pants, one he could put out with his big hose … the one I caught a suggestion of when he fell.
In spite of the chill in the air, I fan my heated cheeks.
A heavy drop of rain splats on my head, leading the charge of its brethren in a sudden downpour. Low beats of thunder echo around the valleys below us. We’re below the balds and in the trees, but still at high altitude. The trail is never the best place to ride out a thunderstorm, especially near a place called Thunderhead Mountain. No, not the ride at Disneyland. Ranger Jay is right—we need to get off this mountain.
“We need to put on rain gear so we don’t get soaked.” His voice is closer, a few steps behind me. “Once we’re wet, we’re wet. I’d prefer not to get hypothermia.”
I stop walking and shimmy my pack off my back. My poncho is strapped on the outside of my bag for quick access. I’m adjusting the hood over my head while he’s still unfolding his.
“Need some help?” I offer in a sweet voice, with a slight Southern lilt to it. I can’t help it. He has a drawl I automatically want to mimic. The slow pace of his words is molasses and I’m a housefly with a sugar addiction.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” Once encased in his clear body condom, he rolls his wrist, indicating that I should continue walking.
I give him a salute an
d set off again.
We walk in silence for a while, maybe half a mile or more. The thunder encroaches but lightning never strikes closer than three or four miles away if my one-one-thousand counts are accurate. The rain pelting my poncho makes hearing anything else difficult.
Thankfully, the storm passes and we get a break from walking through the equivalent of an outdoor shower. A light mist follows, enough to keep wearing our ponchos but not terrible.
Swift-moving, low-hanging clouds characteristic of the Smokies scrape the peaks across a valley from where we’re currently navigating a narrow ridge. Moisture thick in the air, I can barely make out details of the trees less than a quarter of a mile away.
Slowing my pace, I allow Ranger Jay to catch up with me. “When did you say the worst of this weather is hitting?”
“Last report said tonight.” He wraps the long fingers of one hand around the radio near his neck. “Shit, I was supposed to check-in an hour ago. Give me a moment.”
He presses a button on the side and speaks into the black mouthpiece. “350 to 324.”
“Aren’t you supposed to say over?” I ask when he pauses. “So the person on the other end knows when you’re finished?”
“Not you, too.” He rolls his eyes.
“Daniels?” A female voice crackles over the speaker. “Is that you?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “No over?”
The woman on the other end laughs. “You’re obviously still fine. Any luck with Snowbird?”
They’ve been talking about me? I squint at the radio.
“Found her. We’re en route back.” He ignores me by turning his back. “Everyone else accounted for?”
“As far as we know. Lightning took out a tower to our north. Tornado warnings to the south. Surprised you were able to get through. Best to keep the lines clear unless it’s a true emergency. You going to be okay?”
“As long as we just have a little rain, we’ll be fine.”
I reach over and knock my knuckles on a tree. Evidently, Ranger Jay isn’t superstitious enough to believe in jinxes.
He glances at me and then up. I get a definite impression he doesn’t like me.
Which is fine.
The last thing I need is to have a mountain man flirt with me. Don’t need him being all charming and sweet with his slow, honey-coated voice.
The very last thing.
I knock twice again on the nearest trunk and remind myself I’ve sworn off men.
Not forever. Just for the duration of this hike.
Let’s be realistic—yes, a lot has changed about me over the last five months, but I’m still the same woman who said yes to six proposals. I still have eyes and a heart and other working parts.
This ban isn’t forever.
Chapter Nine
Jay
Once the lightning fades and the thunder is no longer audible, I think we’re out of the metaphorical woods for a while. This is good news because this section of the trail has a lot of rocks and a quickly moving creek we need to cross.
During our descent, Snowbird keeps up a quick pace. Her steps are sure as she navigates uneven surfaces and inclines, and I can tell she’s used to clocking a lot of miles most days. Curious about the why of her hike, I make a mental list of questions to ask her as I try to keep up with her.
Another round of heavy rain pelts us, turning the ground beneath our feet to mud, slippery and sticky. There’s no sunset as the sky grows noticeably darker, along with the onset of another temperature drop.
“Can you smell snow?” She inhales deeply. “I swear I’ve always been able to tell when the first snow of the season is coming.”
“I’m not sure that’s a thing.” I sniff the air.
“Don’t be such a grumpalumpagus.”
“Disagreeing with you doesn’t automatically equate with me being grumpy,” I complain. “Snow doesn’t have a scent.”
Her mouth twists in annoyance. Noticeably inhaling, she says, “I think it does. Frost is in the air.”
She’s right. Our breath comes out in puffs, lingering between us and floating above our heads before dissipating. Not a good sign.
Tilting my head, I stare into the tree cover. A single perfect flake drifts down from above, followed by another and another.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Ooh,” she murmurs. “It’s snowing.”
If I’m not mistaken, there’s a slight hint of gloating to her tone.
“Let’s hope it stops soon.” I glower at the flakes swirling fast and furious in the wind, willing them to stop. “Typically, we don’t see any frozen precipitation until November. Mid-October is highly unusual.”
“It’s going to be beautiful.” She spins in a slow circle, head back and arms spread wide.
If she tries to eat the snow, I’ll be forced to share with her about microplastics. No one enjoys hearing about how our planet is so overwhelmed with human garbage now, there’s literally plastic falling from the sky.
Instead, I remind her about our mutual enemy: hypothermia.
“We’re already wet from the showers. Even with the ponchos, our forearms, hands, lower legs, and feet are exposed. They’re at risk for frostbite, and reduced body temperature can lead to hypothermia.”
She stills, her face serious when she gazes at me. “How far are we from a shelter?”
I check our position on GPS. “Nothing close. There’s an open lean-to a few miles ahead, but it won’t protect us much.”
“If it’s our only option, we should head there for the night.” In the dusky light, I can barely make out the worry lines of her forehead.
“What happened to hiking through all kinds of weather?” I rub my hands together and blow on my fingers. I only brought thin gloves and they’re mediocre at best, but better than nothing. I drop my pack and pull them on.
“You brought up frostbite and hypothermia. If the professional is concerned, who am I to be arrogant enough to think I’ll be fine?” She mirrors my movements and grabs a pair of thick gloves from the bag at her waist.
“I’m more worried about being out here at night and losing the trail in a few inches of snow. We get whiteout conditions, it’ll be impossible to spot the white blazes that mark the way. Even with the GPS, getting disoriented and lost is highly probable.”
She takes in our surroundings. “Should we set up camp here?”
“Ideally, no. I only have my bivy bag. It’s basically a sleeping bag with a storm flap.” Because I refused to believe I’d be stuck out here in the snow.
“My tent is for a single person of average size. AKA, me. I’m not saying you’re a giant, but I don’t think we’d both fit. Sorry.”
There’s no way I’d ask to share her tent unless freezing to death was inevitable and even then …
Extracting the laminated trail map from my inner jacket pocket, I have an idea. “Give me a second. I think I know a better option.”
Snow coats the plastic and I struggle to see the fine lines in the dim light.
“Hold on, let me grab my headlamp.” She pulls one out of her waist bag. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Grateful, I take it from her and hold it above the map.
“What are you looking for?” Leaning into my space, she peers over my hands.
“I grew up hiking these mountains. Let’s just say I didn’t always keep to the marked trails when I explored.”
“Why, Ranger Jay, are you saying you didn’t follow park rules?” she teases.
“Young and dumb.” I shrug off her words. Pointing to a spot not far from our current location, I swirl the light in a circle. “We’re going here.”
“What’s there?” Warm puffs of air rise with her words.
“An old moonshiner’s cabin.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times, not that I’m staring at her lips … not enough to notice her front top teeth are slightly longer than the rest or note that her bottom lip is slightly chapped. I definitely don’t stare long enoug
h to realize she has faint freckles across her nose and cheeks that aren’t visible from farther away.
She begins speaking, her voice high and thready.
“Has horror movie written all over it. No way. Nope. We can squeeze inside my tent. You might have to sleep on your side curled into a ball like a potato bug, but we can make it work. Or find a cave. Even one occupied by a bear would be a better option than the murder cabin. I’m not a virgin and therefore definitely not surviving a night in the death house.” Her head turns from side to side as she speaks. “Not happening.”
If she stomped her foot for emphasis, it wouldn’t surprise me.
“Okay, you can sleep outside. I won’t force you to spend the night in a building with a roof, four walls, a door, a floor, and a fireplace.” I shoulder my pack.
“What?” She jabs me in the chest. “You’d let me sleep outside all alone while you’re enjoying a warm fire? Aren’t you sworn to serve and protect?”
I remove her finger from my solar plexus. “You’re thinking of the police, not park rangers. If I’m not mistaken, you just told me all the reasons why you are absolutely not setting foot inside a perfectly good cabin.”
She rambles about fireplaces and ski lodges, at least I think that’s what she says. She’s mumbling mostly to herself.
Snow begins collecting on the fallen leaves near our feet. A gust of wind hits my back, shoving me forward a step.
“Can we at least get moving again?” I ask, adjusting my poncho, which has partially inflated with the breeze. “You can make up your mind when you see your options. All I know is we’re not camping here.”
Given she doesn’t have any other choice but to follow, I take off down the still-visible trail. It’s less than two hours to the cabin.
I hope it’s still standing.
Death by a simple padlock.
Well, technically we’re at risk of dying from hypothermia if I can’t get us out of this storm. Wet gear and dropping temperatures are a deadly combo.
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 6