Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1)

by Smartypants Romance

  “Land has to be cheap around here. Besides working for the NPS, what do people do for jobs?” Her tone edges on snobby, and I don’t think she realizes it.

  “There’s a timber mill down valley. Schools, a decent library. Lots of private businesses, tourism, service industry. You might be surprised how vibrant small towns can be out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  She cringes. “Sorry. My big city privilege was showing there, wasn’t it?”

  I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just a little.”

  “My grandfather always says we’d realize we’re more alike than not if we spent more time visiting different parts of the country. I should take his advice.”

  “He sounds like a wise man.”

  “Smartest man I know and one of my favorite people. I think he’d like you. He’s always been a big fan and supporter of the national parks.”

  “That’s good to know. With the current administration cutting our budgets and funding, we need all the private patrons we can get.”

  “Are you directly affected? I don’t really know what you do, besides boss around hikers.” She flashes her flirty grin.

  “Given how stubborn you are, I’m failing at my one job.” I mirror her expression. She’s adorable and she knows it. Who am I to try to resist her?

  “No, seriously. I’d like to know.”

  “I’m one of the resident wildlife ecologists.”

  “What do you do exactly? Deal with bears?”

  “I have my doctorate in ornithology. Day to day, I spend a lot of my time out in the field, studying our local bird population and monitoring the migration patterns of our seasonal species. I give educational talks to school kids and visitors. I’m also routinely asked to do trail sweeps for hikers. Most of the time I don’t mind doing those because it means time on my own.”

  With an excited squeak, she jumps up so fast, she gets herself tangled in her sleeping bag and almost faceplants on her way to her pack.

  “Was it something I said?” I ask, watching her turn into a human tornado as she searches for something in her bag.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Olive

  “Look!” I shove my battered copy of Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds directly in his face.

  He places his hand over mine and moves my arm back so the book is no longer touching his nose. “Nice.”

  His low-key reaction is in direct opposition to my enthusiasm. “Nice? Aren’t you excited to meet another bird lover? One more thing we have in common. It’s fate.”

  “What is?’ he asks, dragging a hand over his beard to cup his cheek.

  “The two of us meeting. You can be my Yoda and I’ll be your young Jedi protégé—only with birds.”

  “Sounds like weird role-play involving costumes and magic hat birds.” He cracks up.

  “How do the doves get involved?” I join his laughter. “And I’d like to point out that for the first time, I’m not the one with the dirty mind making things awkward.”

  “Just because I said it first doesn’t mean you didn’t think it.”

  “I was excited about the birds. Tell me everything you know.” I pat his leg above his knee.

  “Everything? Well, we have over two hundred species in the Smokies. Among those are the migrant and resident populations, which vary depending on season, altitude, and location.” His eyes remain on my hand, which rests midway up his thigh.

  I remove it and fumble with what to say next. Once again, I’ve crossed some invisible fence around him. “Okay, right. We don’t have enough time for a master class. What do you know about warblers?”

  “Within the Parulidae family are about eighteen genera. Out of those, we have about forty species in the Smokies. Can you narrow it down for me?”

  “Whoa. I had no idea.” In my head, I repeat the old mnemonic I learned in biology: Karen, please come over for good soup. “Okay, so what can you tell me about the Black-throated Blue Warbler?”

  “Why do you ask?” His voice is wary and his eyes crinkle with uncertainty, like he’s suspicious I’m setting him up.

  When I open the book, a few of my postcards slide out.

  “What are these?” He picks up the Shenandoah one and flips it over.

  “Journals are too heavy. Every ounce adds up when you carry it on your back, so I decided I would keep track of my trip and deeply philosophical musings by writing myself postcards. I send them whenever I find a mailbox. When I get home, I’ll have a record of the hike.”

  He nods, impressed. “Very clever.”

  “I know.” I beam at his compliment.

  Flipping through the book, I search for the page with the double-dog-eared corners. Out of the corner of my eye I catching him cringing.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Remember our conversation about mayo and how offended you were I could loathe something you like?”

  “Uh-huh.” I continue flipping.

  When he doesn’t say anything more, I glance up. He’s focused on the paperback. “There are two types of people in the world: those who use bookmarks, and monsters.”

  “Are you a librarian spy? I found it like this.” I spread the pages for him to see all the bent corners and notes. “It’s a field guide, not a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays. If anything, I rescued it from a life of neglect.”

  “Let me see.” He places his hand over mine.

  I reluctantly release my grip on the spine. “Not all the notations are mine.”

  He opens the book and slowly turns a few pages, reading the scribbled comments in the margins. Finally, he glances up, his eyes searching mine. “Is this a new hobby?”

  “I stumbled into it accidentally. It started with the story about the bear trampling the hiker.”

  “The guy with the earbuds?” he asks before adding, “Idiot.”

  I leave out the part about listening to podcasts while walking during the early days of solo hiking. Instead, I roll my eyes and sigh. “Right? Totally.”

  His presses his thumb and index finger against his bottom lip. “What does that have to do with Peterson?”

  “Well, during the early days of hiking, I began listening to the birdsong, you know instead of music or podcasts through earbuds. Because, as we’ve established only idiots would do such a thing.” I widen my eyes and bob my head to show I now see the error of my ways. “I became fascinated with birds, and soon it wasn’t enough to hear the songs, I needed to identify the individual species.”

  Can I kiss up anymore? Let’s see.

  “You became a bird spotter.” He states this as fact without judgment. “Ah, now Snowbird makes even more sense. The best trail names always have layered meaning.”

  “You could say I’m obsessed with identifying as many species as possible.”

  “And the Black-throated Blue Warbler plays into this how?”

  “I decided I want to see all the bluebirds I can on this trip. It’s my thing.”

  “Chasing the bluebird of happiness?” he jokes.

  “In a way, yes. Like finding a penny, only instead of luck, they’re a sign of upcoming joy and happiness. Who doesn’t want more of those?” Worried I sound silly, I peek at him from the side before continuing.

  “Blue jays were easy up north. They’re so loud, large and in charge, it’s hard to miss them. Saw Eastern Bluebirds hanging around a birdhouse in New York. I thought I saw a female warbler the other day, but the real prize would be finding a male.”

  He nods slowly like he’s really listening to my ramblings. “They’re fairly small and easy to miss.”

  Excitement gathers in my belly. “Would you help me? I just need to see one. Then I can leave happy.”

  “Your timing is off. The majority of the migratory pairs leave the area by September.”

  “Some years it can be as late as October. Birds don’t have planners and calendars,” I argue back. “There could be a few still in the park.”

  “Not
with yesterday’s storm. They prefer warm Caribbean winters to cold temperatures. There’s zero chance of finding one hanging out in the snow. Unless it’s dead.”

  The thought of a tiny, frozen bird punches me right in the heart. Tears pool in my eyes. “You don’t think they got caught in the bad weather and all died, do you?”

  He must see the sadness on my face. His voice softens. “They’re resilient and come with their own down coats. I bet they found a protected area.”

  “So there’s a chance I might spot one?” I hate how my voice wavers when I speak.

  “I wouldn’t set your heart on it.” He frowns at me. “Are you crying?”

  Embarrassed by the flood of emotion over birds, I wipe under my eyes with the backs of my index fingers. I wave my hands in front of my face. “No, of course not. That would be silly, and as you have probably figured out, I’m a deeply serious and rational person.”

  “You’re kind of a mess.” With a closed mouth, he gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “Are you complimenting me? Because it doesn’t sound like it.” I flinch at the label. Hits too close to home.

  “Does everything have to be a compliment?” He does the thing where he holds my gaze, peering behind the curtain to where my true self is hiding.

  “Guess you don’t believe in positive vibes only?” I break eye contact first.

  “It’s bullshit,” he loudly grumbles, running his hand through the thick hair near the nape of his neck. “Everyone has bad days and rough patches. I hate those quotable sayings people throw on t-shirts like they’re ‘Woke.’”

  “I think I saw ‘woke’ on a shirt at Target in Virginia, next to the ‘Mermaid Goals’ and ‘Rosé all day’ gear.”

  “Ahhh.” He tosses his head back and groans in frustration. “Exactly the problem. Why does every girl want to be a mermaid? Or a unicorn? They don’t exist. Be a narwhal if you want to have a horn. Or a rhino. They’re super cool and couldn’t care less about what other people think of them.”

  “Trust me, no girl wants to compare herself to a horned whale, or a rhinoceros. Or a manatee.”

  He opens his mouth to interrupt me and I hold up my hand before continuing.

  “Yes, they’re all cool animals, and some might even say adorable, especially the manatees, but thanks to society and body shaming, they’re equated with being fat, which is the absolute worst thing a girl can be. Dreaming of being a mythical creature allows us to escape the pressure. Nobody is going to hate on a magical horse shooting rainbows out her ass.”

  With his eyes closed, he shakes his head. “Society is fucked up. This is why I don’t like people.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about any of this. You basically won the lottery—smart, educated, white, male, handsome.”

  He physically jolts at my words. I wasn’t expecting my attempt at a compliment to affect him so strongly.

  “Is that what you see when you look at me?” He practically whispers the question.

  I guess I shouldn’t have brought up his appearance. It obviously makes him uncomfortable. “Sorry, I was being superficial. You’re adequately not hideous. Better?”

  “Don’t placate. Women aren’t the only ones who find themselves trapped by expectations.” Using both hands, he rubs his temples with vigor. “People see the world through their own biases. We can’t control how others perceive us, yet we are unable to stop those opinions from shaping our identity.”

  In the quiet that follows, I mull over his words. We keep finding ourselves in these deep, uncomfortable corners of conversation. It’s the opposite of my time with Tye, who lived life happily skimming the surface of the shallow end of the pool.

  On the opposite end of the spectrum, Jay dives right into the deep end without hesitation.

  “How did you get so wise?” I mean it as a compliment. I’m not sure he takes it as one.

  “Sorry, I just wish people could be themselves without all the bullshit.” He apologizes and clears his throat. “Do you have more questions about the blue warblers? Maybe we should stick to talking about birds.”

  “Better than the birds and the bees, because I’m guaranteed to make that sexual.” I lob a joke into the air and hope it lands.

  It doesn’t.

  It does earn me an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re worse than any twelve-year-old boy, and I should know from firsthand experience.”

  “Everyone says so, but girls are huge perverts too. We’re just better at keeping it amongst ourselves—except when we’re fangirling over boy bands and cutie-patootie actors.” And hot rangers.

  Hey, I didn’t say it out loud!

  My filter might be regenerating. Or I’m building immunity to Jay. Doubtful.

  I keep flashing back to earlier this morning and his warmth. We barely had skin-to-skin contact, my arm against his, and yet … and yet I can’t stop remembering how he felt, strong and solid beneath my touch.

  Our conversations have been a series of advances and retreats. One step forward, a dozen back. I blame myself for making it awkward.

  He cracks up. “Did you say cutie-patootie?”

  Grinning, I nod. “Blame my grandmother and her friends. If the expression is favored by Abigail Perry, it’s certainly good enough for the rest of us.”

  The name floats above my head. If I could, I’d snatch it back and shove it down my throat. I brace myself. Once he figures out who I am, he’ll look at me differently. Our bubble will be gone.

  He doesn’t react. The follow-up question I dread never comes.

  His walkie-talkie comes to life with a woman saying his call number. He stands to grab it.

  “Hey, Guy.” A wide, happy grin splits his face. “Good to hear your voice.”

  “You too. Heard you’re stuck at elevation. Everything okay?”

  “We’re fine. Hanging out at the old moonshiner’s cabin off the spur past Thunder.”

  “Still snowing up there?” she asks.

  “Let me check.” He ducks to peer through the filthy window. “Looks like it’s stopped.”

  “We have patches of blue sky down here.”

  “Bragging doesn’t suit you, Guy.” He chuckles, displaying an ease with his co-worker that borders on flirting.

  I wonder if they’ve had a thing, past or present. I can also see him dating a local girl, maybe a reference librarian or the baker who makes extra of his favorite kind of cookie. Someone smart and sweet without generations of baggage and a messy romantic history. He deserves someone nice in spite of thinking he doesn’t.

  Attempting to avoid eavesdropping on his conversation, I decide to step outside for fresh air and a wee. I pantomime my plan to him and step outside after shoving my feet into my shoes and zipping my puffy jacket.

  I could bring in more firewood while I’m outside. Not sure how long Jay’s call will take, I decide to check out the far side of the cabin.

  In the hours we’ve been inside, the rain and sleet have shrunk the snow, compacting the powder into a denser layer, making it both easier and more difficult to navigate in my trail shoes. Snow slides between my skin and my socks, an unwelcome invasion.

  The stone chimney puffs white smoke into the chilly air while water drips from the roof as snow melts. There’s no porch on the back of the cabin. Brush and saplings crowd the ground, possibly hinting at there once having been a clearing out here.

  With the wind no longer howling, the sound of running water catches my attention. A creek must be close by.

  With a glance at the cabin, I decide to explore the area. Despite Jay’s declaration about the warblers, I’m still not convinced all of them have left.

  Snow and ice crunch underfoot as I weave a path through the shrubs and narrow tree trunks. Every now and again, I pause to listen for the familiar chirping of birds, hopeful for a sign they’re still here.

  The chimney barely visible behind me, I discover the creek, a narrow black line curving its path through the white snow. Various rocks line
the edges and the occasional boulder breaks the surface of the water, forcing the current to split around its mass.

  Movement on the opposite side catches my attention. I stand still, straining to hear a bird call or the rustling of an unseen animal. Fallen logs and the aforementioned shrubs provide protection for the birds from aerial assaults by the local raptors. If I were a bird, this would make a lovely place to ride out the weather.

  While not promising to be warm or dry, a partially submerged boulder at the edge with a flat top seems like a nice place to hang out and spy on the neighbors, AKA birdwatch.

  Thankful Jay isn’t around to witness me scrambling over the rocks, I use my hands to keep my balance. After removing a thin layer of snow, I settle in my spot. I brush the dirt from my palms and regret not bringing my gloves with me. At least my jacket has pockets. Everything should, and it’s a crime when they don’t.

  The dark water of the creek stretches about a dozen feet from bank to bank. Given all the exposed rocks and swirls of current, it doesn’t appear to be more than a few inches deep in most spots except in the pools closer to the boulders nearest me. My hiker brain looks for an easy path to cross it.

  A crow caws from overhead and my head automatically jerks back as I try to spot the dark feathers. Gold and rust tones of fall foliage color the landscape like confetti against the white backdrop of snow.

  The crow flaps its wings as it continues its flight and disappears. Hoping this means other birds are resuming their activity, I scan the woods for other movement.

  “I know you’re out there somewhere,” I say to the quiet burble of flowing water. The wind answers with a gentle rustling of dying leaves.

  Below my foot, a collection of debris swirls in the icy water. In the center floats a slim blue feather.

  Taking it as a sign, I lean to the side, stretching my arm and fingers to reach for my prize. No matter how much I will my bones to lengthen another inch or two, I come up short.

  Determined to collect the feather to show Jay, I shift position to lie on my stomach. Now dangling over the side, my hips anchored and my toes dug into the surface to brace myself, I extend my arm into the flow.