Ranger Jay has seen all he’s going to be seeing of me.
“You’re good.” I laugh when he peeks through his fingers. “I don’t mind if you want to lose your wet clothes, as long as you’re not going commando.”
“Uh …” he hesitates.
“It wouldn’t be the first casual penis sighting on the AT.” I’m attempting to reassure him, but as soon as I say it, I know I’ve made things more awkward. “I’ll show myself to the corner now.”
Spinning around, I mentally bang my head against an imaginary desk. I’m not fit company for regular people anymore.
“Snowbird?” His voice sounds unsure. “It’s okay. I’ll keep my pants on.”
“So you are one of those commando guys?” My voice lifts to a tween-like squeak.
“Didn’t say either way. I just don’t want to make an awkward situation more uncomfortable for either of us.” He’s clearly trying to be professional while I keep bringing up inappropriate topics. Like what’s in his pants.
After removing his olive-green jacket, he unbuttons the gray short-sleeved shirt with his badge and patches. Beneath is a plain gray t-shirt. There’s a dark line mid-thigh on his pants marking where the fabric is soaked.
I’m not a prude by any measure, but I don’t want to cross the boundary of public servant and taxpayer with him.
Geez, sounds like some weird kind of roleplaying.
Chapter Eleven
Olive
“If we lay our clothes on the floor near the fire, they’ll dry quicker.” I gather my things and carry them over to the hearth, all the while I try not to check out Ranger Jay’s broad shoulders and the way the cotton stretches around his biceps. So basically, I’m only staring at my own feet.
He sits on the crate to unlace his boots and strip off his socks. I’ve seen a lot of gnarly feet and toes over the past five months—missing toenails, thick calluses, bunions, and other pedicure nightmares—so I feel qualified to say Jay has nice feet. No hobbit hair.
Olive, get a hold of yourself.
He reveals his forearms and feet and I’m decoupaging a mental scrapbook about them. A poem waits to be written about his thick belt. Perhaps a short haiku about his boots or a limerick about his hat.
His movement breaks me out of my trance. Neatly lining up his jacket, shirt, boots, and socks in a row, his arm brushes mine when he reaches to flatten out a sock.
The hairs on my arm lift in a salute to acknowledge the contact. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. Maybe I’m imagining the pull between us.
“Let’s make some real food and eat. We might get lucky and have water.”
“You might need to adjust your definition of the word real. All I have is packets and processed food stuff.” I know I should eat healthy while hiking. My body is a temple and should be honored with nutritionally dense, organic meats and vegetables. Right. That was me before I had to carry my food supply on my back while heaving myself up mountains. Cheese puffs are both lightweight and delicious.
“Anything is better than nothing,” he reassures me.
After standing, he steps over to the counter and then turns the faucet handle. Nothing happens for a few seconds. “Guess we’ll have to collect snow and melt it.”
A foreboding, deep rumble and then a gurgle draws our attention to the sink. Black, then rusty brown water sputters and splashes into the basin.
“Mmm, mountain fresh,” I declare. “Snow it is.”
“Let it run to flush out the pipes. Out here it’s got to be well water. We can filter it.” As he speaks, the water lightens from chocolate to weak coffee before finally transitioning to clear.
“Look at us all fancy with our running water.” I slap his shoulder in shared triumph.
“What’s for dinner?” He grins down at me. The top of my head barely meets his shoulder.
“You like chicken pot pie?” I grin.
“You have an entire pot pie in your pack? Unrefrigerated?” His nose wrinkles.
“No, of course not. I’ve come up with the second-best option. Actually, lower your expectations and forget what real chicken pot pie tastes like. Pretend you’re an alien from a distant planet and this is your first experience with human food.” I pull the packets out and line them up on the counter.
“You’re really selling this dish. I can’t wait to taste it.”
Ranger Jay does sarcasm? We might become friends after all.
“What are you contributing? You must have some supplies with you. Wouldn’t be very rangerly to not have snacks.”
His eyebrow arches. “I came prepared.”
“Where’s your picnic basket?” I prod.
“That joke doesn’t land anymore. How old are you?” He chuckles and again, I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at me.
“My grandfather and I used to watch old cartoons together—Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Scooby Doo, and all the original Disney classics. It was our thing when I was little. I’d get up early and find him then he’d make us each a bowl of cereal and we’d hide out watching shows until everyone else woke up.” I love this memory of my grandfather. It’s one of the most normal family memories I have. “Do you have any moments like that from your childhood?”
“No, not really. I didn’t really know either grandfather. My mom’s family lives far away and my dad wasn’t close with his parents.” His words come out in a rush. “My dad and I watched WWE wrestling sometimes and Godzilla movie marathons on Saturday afternoons.”
Going about the process of cooking with limited supplies, I begin by filtering water, and then set up my small pot and single burner mini camp stove, AKA the pocket rocket. Not to be confused with the other pocket rocket also available for sale on Amazon.
“Anything I can do to help?” Jay stokes the fire, adding another log until it classifies as roaring.
“Got it covered.” I bring the water to a boil and let it simmer for several minutes to ensure it’s safe to consume.
“Guess I’ll explore.” He slowly turns in a circle to check out the room. “Did you open the closet?”
“No way.” I laugh at myself. “I already dubbed this place the murder cabin. If there’s a hidden killer or dead body, it’s definitely behind that door.”
“Might be something useful.” He makes a beeline to the closet.
I freeze and hold my breath, ready for something horrible to be revealed when he tugs on the handle.
Nothing happens right away.
“Feels like it’s warped.” He pulls harder.
“Or God is trying to protect us from what’s on the other side.”
Laughing, he puts his back into it, and the hell gate swings open.
Secretly I’m hoping it’s a hidden bathroom or at least a toilet so I don’t have to go outside to take care of business in the snow.
Sadly, it’s only a closet. With a broom and an old metal bucket.
“Disappointed?” he asks, bending down to lift the bucket.
“I was hoping for moonshine. I feel misled by this being called a moonshiner’s cabin. False advertising. Where’s the hooch?” Adding a dramatic sigh, I stir my bubbling dinner concoction.
“Those stills are worth something. If they had to abandon this location, the equipment would be the one thing they’d take with them. Good news, though—we can use this to heat up water in the fire.”
“A broom and a bucket?” I ask, disappointed.
“From the mess on the floor, looks like the former residence of our not-so-recently departed furry friend. Wait, there’s something up on the shelf.” He extends his arm and pulls down a stack of magazines.
“Please tell me you’re not holding porn.” I cringe, both at the possibility of Appalachian moonshiner pornography and the words my brain insists on vocalizing.
“You have sex on the brain.” He’s not amused.
Normally, he’d be wrong, but given the things coming out of my mouth this afternoon, he’s right. “Too much time spent with the dude bros
. I’m no longer fit for society.”
“Looks like some old issues of Outdoor Life along with Field and Stream.” He holds up the evidence so I can read the titles.
“Nature porn is a thing, the fantasy of communing with the land,” I mumble, lamely defending my assumption.
“Right.” After tossing the stack back on its shelf, he rinses his hands in the sink.
“I have soap if you want to clean up.” I jerk my head in the direction of my stuff. “In the little green pouch.”
“What else you got in there, Mary Poppins? Coat rack? Sugar? Top hat? Semi-feral house cat? Parrot?” He opens the top and peers inside.
“Have you even seen Mary Poppins? There’s no house cat in her bag.” Exasperated, I reach over and hand him the pouch.
“Isn’t there a parrot?” His forehead crinkles adorably.
“On her umbrella handle. It talks, though, if that makes you feel better.” I pat his arm.
Still looking confused, Jay frowns. “Huh. I thought I remembered the movie better. My mom and sister loved it and watched it on repeat.”
“Memory is funny.” This conversation has me feeling nostalgic, too. “Food’s almost ready. I only have one spork and the mug/pot, so we’ll have to take turns.”
Chapter Twelve
Jay
The only place to sit other than the floor is the old crate. Being a gentleman, I plop down on the floorboards close to the fireplace.
Our fire has warmed up the room enough that it’s almost comfortable in here. My pants are still damp, mostly from the knee down so I angle my legs toward the heat in the hope they’ll dry out quicker.
Snowbird’s suggestion that I remove my pants took me off guard, and my hesitation to hang out in my boxers surprised me. I’m not shy about my body, and boxers don’t reveal anything a swimsuit doesn’t.
Living in the park staff cabins means close quarters with my colleagues. Think college dorm meets summer camp. On our days off in the warmer months, we’ll go swimming or hike up to a waterfall and spend the afternoon chilling out together. Still, I don’t think any of my female coworkers have seen me in my skivvies.
Snowbird falls under the category of park visitor and in my mind she’s on the same level as Guy or any of the summer interns or volunteers. In other words, she’s off-limits.
There’s no rule set in stone about fraternizing with visitors. The line in the sand is my own. I never want “hooking up with a ranger” to be part and parcel of a trip to the Great Smokies. Or any national park. Rangers aren’t here for entertainment and personal, um, enjoyment.
Others would disagree with me. Griffin definitely would. Life is an all-you-can-eat buffet for him. He’s going to enjoy every moment, every experience. If anyone is an odd duck, it’s him.
Snowbird pulls the crate closer and sits, her feet resting on the floor near my knees. Blowing on the beige goop in the mug-pot, she takes a small bite and then hands it to me.
“How is it?” I sniff the pudding-like consistency. “Smells like chicken and vegetables. Sort of.”
She waves a hand in front of her mouth before speaking. “It’s delicious.”
I’m not so sure. “I don’t want to steal your food. I have some protein bars and some jerky in my bear can. That’ll suit me just fine.”
“I swear it tastes better than it looks. Try it. If you hate it, more for me.” She refuses when I attempt to give it back. “Don’t you know it’s insulting to the chef if you’re not even willing to try something?”
I use the spoon to poke at something green. Might be a pea. “Chefs might think it’s insulting to compare this to food.”
She’s been teasing and flirting with me all day. Pretty sure she doesn’t think I’ve noticed. As the younger brother, I grew up being teased and quickly learned to dish it out as good as I got. This is a language I speak fluently.
Cautiously, I lift the spoon to my lips and take the tiniest lick with my tongue. The first thing I notice is salt, followed by chicken and an umami flavor, reminding me of buttery crust.
Braving more, I slide the spoon into my mouth. The texture is mush, but she’s right—it vaguely resembles pot pie … if my eyes were closed and I have no memory of a real pot pie.
“Not bad, huh? Huh?” Her grin is infectious.
“Far from the worst I’ve ever eaten.” I scoop up another bite. It’s probably my saliva glands responding to the salt, but suddenly I’m starving. It’s been a long day of hiking and I can’t remember if I stopped to eat lunch.
“Well, don’t hog it all.” She gestures for me to hand it over.
After another mouthful, I pass it back to her. “Not bad. How’d you come up with it?”
“This may shock you, but I’ve never been much into cooking until feeding myself in the wilderness became a necessity.”
Given all of her top-of-the-line, expensive gear, this news doesn’t come as a surprise. Typically, the fancier the equipment, the less seasoned the hiker.
“One day I hiked over twenty miles, thinking I’d find some trail magic by the end of the day—a hot meal, cold drinks, and good company before crawling into my tent and falling asleep.” She holds out the mug. “Well, a storm rolled in and the sky turned into a faucet. Complete deluge. Too wet for ducks. Kind of like this afternoon. Forced to set up camp before I floated away, I threw in every soup packet I had and only added a little water because I was running low. Mushroom plus chicken plus creamy vegetable. Voila! I’m a genius!”
“Like I said, I’ve had worse—much worse. One time I got served chicken feet when I ordered chicken soup.” I give her a turn with the spoon, pausing to gulp down water from my bottle.
“In Appalachia?” she asks.
“No, Japan.” It bothers me to know she travels with the classic stereotypes about these mountains being filled with hillbillies and small-town yokels. We do have our fair share of odd folks around here, but I’d like to believe we’re not all so different from state to state if you get to know people on a personal level.
“What were you doing in Japan? Were you in Tokyo? I’ve only been once but loved the energy. And the food. The sushi—can we have a moment of silence for the sushi, please?”
I can’t blame her for launching into her own memories of the country. We as humans want to be heard and acknowledged. Most of us want an opportunity to be seen and share our stories.
“The sushi is incredible there. Nothing comes close around here.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Have you ever been to New York? We have pretty decent sushi. The food isn’t all pizza and street meat.”
With a mouthful of food, I shake my head.
“Really? Never?” She sounds shocked.
“Cities aren’t really my thing. Too crowded. Too many people.” Saving the last couple of bites for her, I rest the pan on her knee. “Finish it. If you’re still hungry, I have two cookies for dessert.”
“Real, honest, baked-in-an-oven cookies? Or packaged ones from the store?” With a hopeful look on her face, she scrapes the spoon on the bottom as she eats the last of the soup.
“Homemade, but not by me,” I clarify. Don’t want her getting the idea that I’m some sort of domestic god who bakes in my spare time. If I want something sweet, I’ll drive into town and grab a slice of pie or a donut at Daisy’s Nut House, or I’ll swing by Donner bakery next to the lodge closer to the park.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Ranger Jay.” Her gaze pierces mine and I’m frozen, a deer in headlights.
Even in the dim light from the fire, she’s beautiful. Dirty and honestly more than a little smelly, she still has trouble written all over her pretty face.
Outside, the wind howls, causing the flames to shimmy and retreat with the draft. Neither of us has checked the state of things outside since we arrived. I assume it’s still snowing while remaining optimistic temps will warm enough to switch back over to rain before morning.
“So you live in New York City?” Under the guise
of cleaning up from our meal, I stand to put some distance between her and my body’s reaction. Must have been sitting too close to the fire and got overheated.
“Don’t try to distract me from your stash of baked goods. What kind of cookies are we talking about? Please don’t say oatmeal raisin.”
“They’re oatmeal raisin, which happens to be my favorite kind.” I’m full of lies. I’ll happily eat any cookie, because I’m not a monster, but raisins are a cruel trick on kids perpetuated by moms who want to slip more fruit into their diets. My number one favorite is double chocolate chip in brownie batter.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She sighs, resigned.
Snowbird excels at pouting, information I file away for future reference. I bet she’s rarely told no and almost always gets her way. What I’ve observed plus the limited amount of information she’s shared about herself adds up to a spoiled city girl. That said, the fact that she’s solo hiking the AT doesn’t fit neatly into this equation.
I’m thinking I can leverage the promise of non-raisin-tainted cookies to learn more about her.
“Hold your thought.” She bounces up. “I need to take care of some business. Outside. Um, you didn’t happen to locate a recently remodeled bath house while you were gathering the firewood, did you? Something with all the fancy modern conveniences like a flushable toilet?”
I snicker at her fantasy. Beats our reality. “Nothing remotely similar. Might be an old outhouse in the woods, but I didn’t spot anything close to the cabin”
“If this were a rom-com movie, this would be a lot less awkward.” Shoving her feet into her boots, she pulls her down jacket on. From inside her bag, she extracts a packet of wipes, hand sanitizer, and her headlamp.
Part of me feels like I should escort her outside. With the wind gusting hard enough to come down the chimney and affect our fire, I’m worried about the conditions out there.
“Want me to do some reconnaissance?” I offer, reaching for my boots.
She waves me off. “I’ll be fine. Not my first time. Bears and I have a lot in common.”
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 8