Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2)

by Smartypants Romance

  Nannie Ida greeted me with a wary glance and asked if I was done being a fool. I told her I couldn’t make any promises. Her narrowed eyes studied me and her thin lips pressed together so tight they disappeared as she made up her mind about me.

  Woke up the next morning, stepped outside into the mist, and knew for once in my life I didn’t have to second-guess my decision.

  I belong to these mountains. I can breathe deeply here in a way I can’t anywhere else. Took me a decade and a half to realize it, but I’d rather have this dirt under my nails than concrete beneath my boots.

  Angry, seventeen-year-old me swore he’d never set foot in a holler again. Anywhere in the world had to be better than getting stuck in the shadows of the Smokies.

  I’m here to say I was wrong—about many things, but mostly about random places being better than right here. Guess that’s called perspective. With age comes hard lessons and sometimes, if we’re lucky, wisdom.

  Funny how the shit we swear we’ll never do when we’re teenagers we end up doing at some point as grown-ups.

  I read somewhere that the “universe” doesn’t hear the negative in a sentence. Saying “I won’t turn out like my parents” is pretty much the same as declaring you will. In other words, we’re all doomed to keep repeating our patterns, which is the same as saying we’re fucked. Nihilistic, sure, but also liberating.

  Once I stopped rebelling against everything, I had enough energy to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

  Chapter Five

  Daphne

  Tucked into the narrow point of a small valley sits a white, one-room church, its steeple jabbing into the sky. Having more in common with a chapel in a fairy tale than today's mega churches, the building dates back at least a hundred and fifty years.

  Long gone are the echoes of sermons warning of fire and brimstone, and a bird's nest above the door is the only ornamentation in the otherwise bare interior. Other than two rows of pews, their wood soft and smooth from years, there isn't much indication inside of what was once an active house of worship. No altar or cross. No hymn books or donation cards tucked into the carved pockets on the backs of the benches.

  No stained glass colors the windows. The clear glass isn't original, but a small church like this was probably never able to afford fancy decorations.

  And yet, this is where I come to think and sometimes have conversations with myself and sometimes God, or whatever higher power I imagine might listen. More Are You There, God? It's me, Daphne and less Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  When I went through my “experimental” phase, I briefly explored Catholicism, thinking I needed more structure. The saints and their stories of martyrdom appealed to me. I always liked the story of Saint Lucy plucking out her eyes to deter an over-zealous suitor. Even with the cool stories and all the miracles, turned out I needed less organized religion, not more.

  Unitarians and their songs to the trees should’ve been a good fit. I’ve dipped a toe in Buddhism and even sat in on a Wiccan circle or two. Alas, nothing has been quite right. I’ve tried on a lot of religions like a spiritual Goldilocks. Too structured. Too scary. Too big. Too woo-woo. Too … weird.

  I’ve finally accepted I’m not really a joiner.

  I'm more agnostic than church goer, even though I still feel a microscopic dose of guilt if I sleep in on a Sunday morning—at least until I snuggle under the covers and enjoy the quiet of a lazy morning in bed.

  Deconsecrated years ago, this tiny chapel suits me fine, and I come here often to enjoy the quiet. Some people like hanging out in clubs or bars, bowling alleys or arcades. I’ve always found those places to be loud and crowded, the opposite of what I crave.

  If anyone ever asks, I can tell them I'm in here on official park business. Security, or perhaps maintenance. Slightly outside of my official duties, both are still viable explanations.

  Along with abandoned moonshiner cabins and the restored settler buildings at Cades Cove, the Smokies are dotted with old structures held together by a few rusty nails and stubbornness.

  I swear some of the local residents share the same composition: rust, reluctance and pure obstinance toward anything, or anyone, new. If I hear “That's the way we've always done it around here” one more time, I might scream.

  That reminds me—I need to make an appointment to see the dentist. My jaw has been bothering me, probably from all the clenching to swallow words I should not say out loud. I'm almost positive I've begun grinding my teeth in my sleep again.

  There isn't one particular reason I'm internalizing stress, nothing I can put my finger on specifically. Job is good. My boss, and newly appointed chief ranger, Gaia, is both a friend and mentor. I get along with my co-workers, and I’m enjoying teaching my classes. I feel useful and needed. The park is beautiful and the local small towns are charming. As a bonus, I have a small cabin to call my own.

  None of the above is reason for me to be grinding my teeth.

  Cloven hooves flash to mind, no, not the devil, nor is it an adversarial goat I’m picturing. They belong to a certain pig, one owned by a certain local.

  My jaw tenses.

  An unfamiliar warmth settles low in my belly.

  My heart contracts with a delicate squeeze of anticipation.

  Clearly, it doesn't understand that sometimes fear and excitement are the same sensation and would be the idiot who runs toward danger like a tourist snapping a selfie with a bear at close range, or climbing a sheer cliff for the adrenaline rush.

  Acts of defying death come with great highs, but they also sometimes end in death.

  Tell that to my heart.

  Inhaling through my nose and then unclenching my jaw, I blow out a slow exhalation while counting to seven. I press my hand to the center of my chest the same way a parent might rest their palm on top of their child's head, indulgent and firm and filled with calming energy meant to soothe wayward emotions.

  “There, there,” I tell my body. “Nothing to get worked up about. Odin Hill is nothing more than a strange farmer, most certainly not our type and definitely not the right man for us. Stop with these delusions you’re having just because a man with symmetrical facial features and more than his fair share of muscles smiled at us.”

  My heart flips and flops around like a trout in a net at the visual memory of biceps, reminding me it, too, is a muscle, as if sharing something in common is proof of their entwined destinies.

  “He's not our type. We want a good man, a decent and kind person. Gainful employment and clear life goals would be nice. Truthful and trustworthy. Intelligent and ethical. Funny—definitely funny. Nowhere on this list is cheekbones or a classical nose or a well-arched eyebrow. Yes, a heart is necessary. No vampires. Adequate arm strength to at least hold a fork or a glass, or my hand, but we don't need to go overboard and get greedy with those bulging globes of overworked flesh. Nothing in excess. Avarice is a sin.”

  I feel the urge to say amen to this list. Feels appropriate given my current location.

  “Amen,” I whisper.

  “Amen,” a male voice echoes.

  Holding my breath for a beat, I freeze as I strain to hear footsteps or other movement. There’s nothing but the faint chirp of crickets and the wind brushing through the gaps in the clapboards.

  Behind me, a floorboard squeaks, or maybe the door creaks on its hinges. I can’t be sure. My head spins around faster than a doll possessed by the devil himself, but there’s nothing in the empty room.

  Dust dances in the triangle of sunlight brightening the old floorboards where the door is wedged slightly ajar. I swear I closed it behind me when I entered; it’s habit after the time Oscar the donkey wandered inside and scared the bejeezus out of me.

  No sign of man or beast.

  It’s possible I imagined the second amen, or it may have been a previously undetected echo. I test this theory.

  “Amen,” I say, louder than the first time.

  Silence.

  Per
haps the wind blew the door open and my brain translated the sound into a word. There are other possible explanations involving the voice of God or angels. Those are silly, particularly given my pseudo-prayer was more a shopping list for a man—hardly the subject matter to warrant an in-person visit from the holy.

  Although I might need a miracle to help my romantic life.

  “Only the wind,” I declare, standing and brushing the dust from the pew off my pants.

  Beyond the heavy wooden door, the sounds of the world return, loud against the silence within the chapel. Birdsong repeats through trees and a breeze rattles the first fallen leaves of autumn, distance muffling the white noise of a small waterfall. Inhaling, I try to decipher the scents of the upcoming change in seasons. Warm earth. Harvest. Rain. The return of cool, misty mornings.

  I’ve only been here a few months, but I feel more at home than I have in a lot of my other jobs. Right out of college, I got a seasonal gig at the Grand Canyon. Not as a ranger. I worked in the gift shop and laughed at the same joke about a big hole in the ground over and over every day for an entire summer.

  Turns out, there are a lot of things in the desert that want to kill us. Dying from venomous creatures is one thing, but even the plants are hostile to humans. Openly, aggressive, with sharp spines ready to draw blood at the slightest touch—nope, not interested. Beyond the reptiles and plants, the sun itself is deadly. It is entirely possible to be scorched to death.

  Yes, there are dangers in the Smokies, too, yet something in these foggy valleys resonates with me. Standing in the thick, humid air, I lift my gaze to the mountains across the valley

  Movement at the tree line catches my attention. In the shadows between the thick trunks, a large, dark shape slips in and out of the dappled light. A bear? Too low to the ground and the gait isn’t right, not even for a cub.

  “Boar,” I whisper.

  I know there are wild hogs in the park, but I’ve never seen one with my own eyes. They tend to be nocturnal and avoid populated areas. If it’s prowling around in the middle of the afternoon, it might have rabies or swine flu, or some other porcine ailment affecting its behavior. In other words, this is not good.

  I press the button on my radio, ready to call in a report.

  One of the shadows among the trees takes on the shape of a man … a tall, lean man. Facing the sun, I lift my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes. Where the man shadow stood is empty sunlight.

  Obviously, my mind is playing tricks on me. The boar has disappeared too—if it was a boar at all. Probably nothing more than the play of shadow and light.

  Static crackles near my ear, indicating my radio is still on and waiting. I release my finger. There’s no imminent threat or emergency. No need to alert anyone about a shadow.

  After double-checking that the door to the church is locked, I make the short walk back to my official vehicle. The drive from the chapel to headquarters is less than half an hour and I’ll have plenty of time to report the possible sighting to the team before leading the evening nature talk.

  Chapter Six

  Daphne

  After our quarterly meeting with the federal game warden, Dr. Runous, I find myself in the lounge with his brother-in-law Cletus Winston. I don’t quite know what to make of the guy, but he seems friendly enough. Could be the baked goods. Sometimes he shows up with donuts from Daisy’s Nut House or muffins from his wife’s bakery, along with a thermos of his special coffee.

  Curious, I sniff the mug of dark brew, an unexpected sourness prickling my nostrils. “Is it spiked?”

  “No,” Cletus declares with a huff. “Why would I put alcohol in your coffee?”

  “The question you should be answering is why would anyone put apple cider vinegar and molasses in a cup of perfectly adequate coffee?” Jay removes the beverage from my grasp and sets it on the table.

  “You sound backed up.” Cletus apprises him with narrowed eyes, as if Jay were one of those plastic models of a human where you can lift off the skin and then remove muscles and bones to reveal the major organs.

  X-ray vision doesn't exist outside of fiction, and even Cletus Winston isn't an exception to this rule.

  “Are you going to let someone else decide for you what you like and don't like?” His eyes dance with judgment the way some people have kindness shining in theirs. The man has judgy eyes.

  “No, I make up my own mind.” I wrinkle my nose at the thought of vinegar, molasses and coffee. Acidic, metallic, and bitter is not my favorite flavor combination.

  “Don't knock something until you try it,” he tells me, continuing with his challenge. It isn’t exactly a dare, but he's definitely not backing down. “Some people hate mushrooms while others are willing to spend exorbitant sums on a sliver of an exotic fungi. One man's fungus is another man's joy, or pizza topping.” He emphasizes his insouciance with a shoulder shrug.

  Along with the beard and the baked goods, I suspect the gesture is a practiced part of his persona. There’s more to the man than he lets people see. He’s a closed book, kind of like me. I think Odin Hill might be the same.

  “You don't have to drink it.” Jay reminds me.

  I eye the steaming liquid that began this discussion on free will and personal preferences. There are a lot of the old-time recipes in Appalachia that are back in vogue. Apple cider vinegar is probably the most popular but molasses does contain a ton of vitamins and iron. He might be onto something.

  Griffin strolls into the room, taking one look at Cletus and another at the cup in my hand before he shakes his head. “Don’t drink that.”

  “Why is everyone acting like I’m trying to poison them?” Clearly offended, Cletus crosses his thick arms and widens his stance.

  “Drinking Cletus's ‘coffee’”—Jay puts air quotes around the word—“is a rite of passage around here.”

  “Hazing is more like it.” Griffin gives the mug back to Cletus. “What brings you to the station?”

  With a disgruntled sigh, he pours the liquid back into his old-fashioned thermos. “Ranger Baum said she recently had a wild boar sighting near one of the old churches. I was curious if there had been more.”

  “Sausage on your mind?” Griffin asks

  “Always.” Cletus gives him a serious look.

  “I’m not sure what I saw. Could’ve been a bear.” Thinking about Odin and Patsy, I don’t want to narc on them, especially if I’m not even sure of what I saw.

  Cletus squints to study me. “If you can’t tell the difference between the two, you might need to get your eyes checked. Have you needed prescription lenses in the past?”

  “No, I don’t need glasses. Honestly, I didn’t get a good look because I was facing the sun and the forest was in shadow. I doubt whatever it was is hanging around waiting for Sunday services.”

  Cletus wrinkles his brow. “Why would you assume the boar was a Methodist?”

  Thank goodness I’m not drinking anything because I’d turn into a human fountain.

  “Excuse me?” I manage to sputter.

  “Rather presumptuous of you.” He doesn’t back down.

  “More like preposterous.” Griffin takes my side—at least I think he does until he adds, “Everyone knows black bears in Tennessee are Baptists.”

  I’ve stepped into another dimension. “Right. Got it.”

  When I glance at Jay for back up, he just lifts his shoulders in a silent don’t involve me gesture.

  “I’m going to go.” I try to think of a reason I suddenly have to leave. “My bins need organizing.”

  A bald-faced lie. I’m type A when it comes to neatness and being prepared.

  “Keep me apprised of any more boar sightings,” Cletus hollers after me.

  He should really hang out with Odin Hill. The two of them are weirdly obsessed with pigs.

  I keep all my supplies for my nature talks in two large, plastic bins. One has pelts, bones, teeth, and skulls. That’s the fauna box. The flora box is filled with pressed flowe
rs and leaves laminated for eternity, lichen-covered rocks, various pinecones, and illustrations of mushrooms. Not nearly as exciting, but the flora box is my favorite.

  Ranger jobs are difficult to come by. No way was I going to let my fear of kids stop me from accepting this position. So far, so good. I’ve only cried twice.

  During the summer season, I’ve been hosting multiple talks and hikes daily for visitors in the campground. Spring and fall have more school trips. Those are also the most stressful days even though I technically have backup from the teachers. Hordes of kids are terrifying.

  Over the months, I’ve developed a sixth sense about who will be most likely to cry, vomit, pee their pants, start a fight, end up bleeding, or not follow directions. The last one tends to be eighty percent of the population, both kids and adults. I’m now a pro at anticipating most inappropriate jokes and talking over the talkers.

  When I feel like I’m losing their attention entirely, I bring up skunks—or snakes.

  I really hate snakes.

  The fauna collection includes several snake skins, which are almost worse than actual snakes. Almost. I blame my dislike toward the slithering creatures on a guy I briefly knew in college for forcing me to visit the reptile house during a date at the zoo. He said my phobia was ridiculous and reminded me they were behind glass, thus unable to hurt me.

  Obviously, he had never read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. We only went on the one date. Not surprising to anyone who knows me, I’m a proud Hufflepuff. I’m hard-working, loyal, and sometimes patient. Definitely have a strong sense of right and wrong. Truth is important to me. I like rules and fairness. In other words, I’m never the life of the party, but I’ll stay and help the host clean up after.

  After working at the Grand Canyon, I also learned never to tell my coworkers about my snake phobia. If I do, they may take it upon themselves to help me get over it by hiding a fake, rubber snake anywhere I might discover it. I’m surprised I haven’t died from a shock-induced heart attack before the age of thirty-two.