His large eyes are more melted caramel swirled in milk chocolate. A dark ring at the edge of his irises gives way to warm amber surrounding his pupils, all framed by dark lashes. I’m staring again.
“Umm …” I scan the display, willing myself to ignore the carrots. “Lettuce?”
“What kind?” He cocks his head to the side, indicating the bins of colorful leaves and small heads of green and red.
“Iceberg,” Kacey answers for me.
“Boring,” he says. “That’s like saying your favorite beverage is water.”
“Don’t knock the old H-two-oh. It’s magical. You can make tea or coffee or lemonade with it, or drink it on its own, or add bubbles and call it seltzer.” After I finish my defense of water, we all stand in awkward silence for a beat or two.
“Tell us about these.” Kacey pinches my side while using her other hand to point at a neat pyramid of green balls next to the carrots.
“Japanese turnips.” He picks one up, tosses it in the air, and catches it.
I make a face and don’t bother hiding it.
“Not a fan?” His voice loses its friendly tone and he eyes me challengingly.
“They smell like feet.” My nose wrinkles at the memory of my grandmother’s boiled turnips.
“Have you ever tasted this variety?” he asks. “I promise there’s nothing remotely foot-flavored about them.”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”
He pulls a small blade from his back pocket. It isn’t the typical Swiss Army style, more like a fancy hunting knife with a bone handle, worn smooth from use. There’s something old-fashioned and rugged about it.
Using the flour sack towel resting on his shoulder, he wipes the turnip clean before cutting a paper-thin slice. Extending the knife toward me, he implores, “Taste.”
I really don’t want to eat a raw, unwashed turnip, but Kacey elbows me, doing so neither gently nor subtly.
“Come on.” He wiggles the knife back and forth. “Trust me.”
He’s a stranger. I’m not going to trust him.
However, it would be rude to reject his offer and walk away.
“Fine.” I slide the slice from the knife and lift it to my nose. “It’s peppery.”
“You sound disappointed it doesn’t smell like old shoes.” He’s clearly amused by my reluctance.
“Has anyone ever called you a food bully?” I retort.
He laughs, though not the head-back guffaw from earlier. More of a chuckle, and it feels authentic and less staged. “Yes, but not for a long time. I won’t force you, but you’ll never know what you might be missing out on if you don’t give things a chance.”
His knife pauses near the turnip as he waits for me to make my decision.
I take the tiniest bite possible. A mouse would take a bigger mouthful. A wave of spicy pepper hits my taste buds, but it’s not like hot sauce. This is followed by an unexpected sweetness, and I take another bite, wondering if I imagined the combination.
“Good, huh?” He offers a slice to Kacey.
“Amazing,” I mumble as I crunch the rest of mine.
“So I was right?” He offers me another piece, which I happily accept.
“It isn’t polite to say I told you so or gloat.”
“I’ve never been a fan of being polite.” He sets down his knife. “How do you feel about kale?”
“Isn’t everyone over kale? It’s all about the cauliflower now.” Kacey laughs. “Don’t you follow the food fads?”
His face tightens and his mouth narrows into a thin line. “Can’t say that I do. I prefer to eat what I enjoy and leave the trends to people who need to be told what to like.”
She’s hit a nerve, and we stand around in another awkward silence. While friendly on the surface, I get the feeling Vegetable Thor isn’t a real people person.
“What’s this?” I point at a pale, yellowy-green cluster comprised of tiny triangular towers.
“Romanesco. Italian cousin to the cauliflower.” He eyes Kacey. “Incredible roasted and drizzled with fresh olive oil.”
“And these?” I point at the white version of the turnips.
“Ah, these have a surprise inside.” He cuts one in half, revealing the fuchsia center with a pale green outline. “Watermelon radishes.”
“Do they taste like the fruit?”
He chuckles and flashes his small smile again. “No, but they’re delicious.”
I take the piece from him and bite into it.
“Good, right?” he asks.
I nod. After swallowing, I say, “They taste similar to the turnips but different.”
“They’re from the same family. Kind of like cousins.”
“Makes sense.” I finish the radish, surprised by the kick of heat on my tongue.
“Better than iceberg?” He tilts his head back, and the posture feels intimidating, like he’s sizing me up.
“Don’t hate on the ’berg. It serves a purpose.”
Kacey laughs—or more accurately, snorts. I’m surprised his pig doesn’t confuse her for one of its own. “Don’t try to convince her otherwise. You won’t win this battle.”
He crosses his arms, forcing his muscles to bunch in a rudely distracting way. “Is that so?”
When he directs his attention at me, I can’t decide if I should feel flattered he’s so interested or perturbed he’s judging me.
“Life’s too short to be boring or eat boring food,” he declares, still focused solely on me.
“Let him who is free from sin cast the first stone,” I retort, the words flowing from deeply ingrained memory.
“Did you just Bible-verse me?” His steady gaze falters.
“Sorry. Slips out sometimes.” Out of habit, my teeth find my lower lip and chew the smooth skin.
“What’s up with the pig?” Kacey breaks through the weird tension surrounding us.
“That would be Patsy Swine, finest sow in the land.” He points at the black and white pig asleep in the shade of the tent. “She was supposed to be a miniature pot-bellied, but as you can see, she’s an overachiever.”
“Is she a pet?” I ask.
“Sure is. House-trained and everything. Her manners are impeccable—except when she naps on the job.”
“Nice to meet you, Patsy.” I give her a wave.
“We didn’t catch your name,” Kacey interjects.
“Odin Hill.” His grin returns as he stares at me “And you are?”
Are you freaking kidding me? Odin? God of thunder? Father of Thor? Of course he’s a Norse god.
“I’m Kacey, and this is Daphne. She works up at the national park.”
“Do you?” he asks. “Are you new?”
“Four months next week.” I hold his stare.
He makes a humming sound but doesn’t comment. Like he’s making up his mind about something, he bobs his head once. His demeanor shifts and he takes a step to the side. “Well, nice to meet you. I have other customers waiting. Let me know if you decide to buy anything.”
I meet eyes with Kacey before weakly saying thanks.
We shuffle out of the way of the line that’s formed behind us.
Once we’re a few yards away, near a table crowded with jars of honey, I stop and face Kacey. “What happened back there? Did it get weird or was it just me?”
Crinkling her nose, she confirms my observation with a nod. “He was flirting with you until you went all biblical on him over lettuce.”
“That makes it sound like I sent a plague of frogs or lightning to smite him. You’d think a man who loves turnips so much would be more accepting of differing tastes.”
“I’m teasing. He was still chatty until I mentioned you work at the park. Did you notice that?”
“Weird. Who hates national parks?” Not sure why, but I feel deflated by how our encounter ended. What do I care if the weird farmer judges me? Or has a weird grudge about rangers?
“Guys with pet pigs?” Kacey offers in response to my question
. “Do you think he lets it sleep in the house? Or in his bed? Why do all the gorgeous ones have to be freaks?” She sighs.
“Better to be appreciated from afar I guess.” I take one last glance over my shoulder at Odin. The name suits him even if he’s not an old man with one eye. Smiling and laughing one moment, serious the next, he’s as unpredictable as a summer thunder storm.
“You sound disappointed.” Kacy links her arm with mine. “Sorry we had to ruin your impure thoughts with reality.”
“No need to apologize. I’m happier to spend time with you before you head back to Greensboro.” I force myself to focus on the positive.
“Lies, but I’ll take the compliment.” Kacey gives my wrist a squeeze. “Let’s buy you some consolation soap to cheer you up.”
Chapter Two
Odin
By early afternoon, the crowd at the farmers’ market fades, leaving only stragglers, bargainers, and tourists sampling the charms of small-town life.
I’ve had enough people for the week, and I’m looking forward to the quiet of my own company. All the talking and friendly chatter exhausts me. You’d think vegetables would sell themselves given they’re pretty self-explanatory, yet folks wanna hear a story about a carrot being grown from the guy who pulled it out of the dirt himself. So, I play my part of the happy farmer at the stand. It’s my bad luck I’ve always been charming. Part of my DNA.
My family has lived in the mountains surrounding Green Valley longer than anyone around here can remember. Before there was a national park or even a Cades Cove, the Hills established a homestead in the Smokies straddling Tennessee and North Carolina.
Because our last name is Hill, some people like to joke that we put the hill in hillbilly. Some people think they have a sense of humor when they’re just being mean-spirited. As my Nannie Ida always says, glass houses provide good views, but then again, so do mirrors.
This is why I prefer the company of Patsy over most folks. She’s smart, a good listener, tidy, and doesn’t give a damn about my family and reputation. She has more class than a lot of the gossips and Sunday churchgoers around here.
After I consolidate the remaining produce into crates and load them into the van, I fold the tables and collapse my tent. While I work, the face of the brunette ranger floats through my mind.
She looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize her name. It isn’t likely our paths have crossed. I don’t get out much, and I’m not hanging around the bars or the visitor center in Cades Cove. Normally, one of my cousins covers the stand at the weekly farmers’ market and I can avoid the crowds, but this week everyone had other obligations. This is what happens when I let my guard down and am forced to engage with the public. I get iceberg and Bible quotes. I’ve never been a fan of either.
Bothered I’m still thinking about her, I close and lock up the van.
“Come on Patsy. Let’s go for a walk.”
She gives a happy snort and steps closer to where her leash hangs on the top rail of her pen.
When the two of us stroll through town, folks stare. It’s worse when they insist on sharing an observation, tell the same old joke, and, in general, make a fuss. Honestly, at this point I’d think people seeing the two of us together would be old news around here.
Guess some folks don’t have enough going on in their lives and they need to make commentary about people minding their own damn business.
I don’t understand what the big deal is about a man walking his pig.
Patsy’s excellent on a leash. Doesn’t pull. Has never instigated fights with dogs. Hasn’t bit anyone. Doesn’t do her business in the middle of the sidewalk. In my mind, she’s much better mannered than any old hound dog.
She’s pretty darn perfect in every conceivable way.
There was the one time she trampled Mrs. Simmons flower bed, but even that was my fault for not paying closer attention to where we were walking.
If I had to find a fault in her, it would be that Patsy thinks she’s in charge. She’s also a little more than spoiled. I only have myself to blame.
“Clarice, please tell me you see that man walking his pig.” A woman shouts to her friend and points from about three feet away.
“I’m not invisible,” I tell her with a flat smile.
“Oh dear.” Her companion rolls her eyes. “You’re a tall drink of cool water, aren’t you?”
The question is rhetorical. Being compared to a refreshing beverage doesn’t require a response, so I remain quiet. Patsy tugs on her leash and releases a frustrated snort that we’ve stopped walking.
“You two have a nice day, m’kay.” I step off the sidewalk to pass them.
I’d like to say their behavior is atypical, but if I hear “You’re like the Jolly Green Giant, only less green” one more time …
For the record, I am not jolly.
There must be something in the well water around here. We grow ’em tall in Green Valley.
Does a pig need to be walked on a leash for health and exercise? No.
I’m the only weirdo in the area who likes to take my daily constitutional accompanied by a sow. Not even Cletus Winston is as much of an oddball as I am, and that’s saying something.
He’s only interested in pigs and boar in terms of sausage. In my opinion, he’s missing out. If we were friends, or even friendly acquaintances, I might suggest we partner up. Truffle salami can be incredible—or so I remember. I don’t eat pork anymore, not since I’ve had Patsy. I’d be offended if she ate human body parts around me, so it only seems fair.
Hogs will eat pretty much anything you give them. A few years ago a pig farmer went missing. Wife said he ran off with his mistress, and everyone believed her until his gold tooth turned up in the muck and mud of their hog pens. Macabre, but true.
I don’t eat pork, and Patsy doesn’t eat me. It’s an unspoken pact between us.
Not that she’s some sort of demon pig crazed with bloodlust. Not at all. She’s the best pig in eastern Tennessee. Don’t need a blue ribbon from the state fair to make it true.
This leisurely stroll around town is all part of my ruse.
If someone sees us ambling someplace we don’t belong, they’ll leave us alone, which is the entire point.
There’s freedom in being a weirdo. Folks keep their distance. Sure, there are the asinine comments, but for the most part they assume I’m dimwitted or crazy. Fine by me. With or without my porcine sidekick, I’ve always been different. I learned early on that people like to form and hold onto their own opinions. It’s pretty pointless to try to change someone's mind and what they think of me is their problem, not mine.
On my way out of town, I drop off the majority of unsold produce at the back door of the food pantry. Sure I could keep it and try to sell it next weekend, but I’d rather people get fresh vegetables instead of sad leftovers. In my opinion, food insecurity shouldn’t equal puny carrots and wilted lettuce.
After knocking to let them know the crates are here, I climb inside the van and turn the key, only pausing to make sure someone opens the door.
A curly-haired woman wearing a volunteer smock over a red and black buffalo-plaid dress gives me a friendly wave. She says something and I roll down the window, gesticulating that I can’t understand her. Shouting her words of thanks, she braces the door open with a wedge of wood.
“You’re welcome,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the engine.
I don’t need to stay for more chitchat and praise. If I could donate anonymously, I would. Accolades aren’t the reason for my generosity. Words and awards won’t fill your belly if you’re hungry.
A notification flashes on my phone and I catch the name of an old friend in the text, someone I haven’t thought about in a long time, not since I left my old life behind to return to Tennessee. Ignoring my phone, I swing a wide left across traffic and onto the road that will wind its way up into the hills and take me home. Whatever is within that message can wait.
Long after commerc
ial buildings give way to houses and the neighborhoods transition to farms, fences fading into trees, I realize today’s date. The farm and my other projects have successfully distracted me from the outside world this month.
Another August is almost over, and I survived.
Four years ago today, my mentor and one of my best friends skipped out on this life and changed the course of mine.
A mix of anger and sorrow blur my vision as I slam my hand down on the steering wheel. Goddamn you, Tony.
The van swerves into the gravel shoulder and the pull on the tires draws my attention back to driving. I roll down the window and let the warm, humid air fill the van. Using the side of my hand, I swipe away the tears on my cheek. Nothing would piss Tony off more than knowing I was upset. He’d slap my shoulder and remind me there’s no use crying over the dead or burnt toast. Tears won’t fix anything.
Antoine “Tony” Beard was one infuriating fucker, one of the biggest assholes and egos I’ve ever met. He was also one of the best chefs who ever stepped into a kitchen. If I let myself, I would miss him every day. Instead, I try to forget he’s gone by pretending he’s off doing his thing in some remote pocket of the planet while I’m doing mine in this forgotten corner of the country. Sounds crazy, but most days it works.
I make a plan to cook something tonight in his honor, maybe even open up one of the few bottles of wine I have tucked away in the cellar. I’m not saving them for special occasions so much as times like today when I need to remind myself I’m alive, and living means indulging in the best this existence has to offer.
My shoulders relax when I spot the mile marker right before my road. Past the pavement’s end, I navigate the van around the dips and ruts in the dirt. The old house sits with her back to the hill, the view from the porch looking out over the gardens and fields, encompassing the valley below. The location is as close to ideal as I could imagine, and I have my great-great grandfather to thank for building his homestead here.
Patsy grumbles and snorts as she walks down the plank into the yard. I have a fenced area around her house, but we both know she spends most of her time acting as my second shadow. Where I go, she follows, unless she’s found a shady spot for a nap and can’t be bothered with my constant productivity nonsense.
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 2
