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

by Smartypants Romance

  “Guess that leaves out my coworker suggesting I dress up in a salamander costume for school visits.”

  Her laugh is more of a cackle. “You should totally do it, especially if there’s a headpiece. You can hide inside and avoid eye contact. Isn’t that what you learned from ranger school about interacting with wild animals? Don’t stare at them because they take it as a form of aggression?”

  “I’m not dressing up as a weird amphibian.”

  “Think about it.”

  “No.”

  “Daphne.” Her tone switches to serious. “Don’t forget to have fun. Life isn’t only about work.”

  She’s said this to me countless times over the years. “I know, Pot. Enough about me. How are you?”

  “Same as always, Kettle. Working, going out, not getting enough sleep. I swear my rebound ability has disappeared. Turned thirty-three and poof! Gone.”

  The background noise increases and I imagine her or someone else opening the door to the bar.

  “Speaking of, I should get back. Lynne has been sucking up to our manager all night. If I don’t watch out, she’ll sweet-talk her way into my promotion.”

  “How dare she!” I exaggerate my outrage.

  “I know! Let’s talk soon. Text me if anything interesting happens or send pictures of the salamander suit. Love you!”

  “Love you back.”

  She disconnects before I can protest the rest of her statement.

  I really do love and adore her but our life paths are so different. She works in an office building downtown and lives in a condo with a balcony she barely uses. Even with the salary increase that comes with being promoted, I probably earn half of what she does.

  After my student loan and car payments, I’m not left with much in my account for extras like fancy cheeses and charcuterie boards. I never eat out, although, I’ll occasionally grab a muffin or sweet treat from the day-old selection at Donner Bakery.

  Because I wear a uniform to work and rarely go out, I don’t need a whole closet full of clothes.

  Clicking on the worn keys of my ancient laptop, I scroll through Pinterest, pinning recipes of meals I’ll probably never make for dinner parties I’ll probably never host.

  Creating imaginary menus both soothes and agitates me—a distraction from boredom and the meager contents of my fridge. Sometimes I’ll pull up an online grocery app and load my cart with everything delicious, briefly living in a fantasy of not caring about the price and my budget.

  A side effect of these imaginary menus is hunger. I’ve already eaten dinner, and there’s nothing good to snack on.

  I open my other fantasy board: travel.

  Fifty states. Seven continents. Almost two hundred countries. There’s a huge world out there, waiting to be experienced.

  A quick glance over my shoulder at my map reminds me of all the states I’ve already visited. I have a pin stuck in every place I’ve been, and they’re color-coded by the reason for the visit: college, work, and vacation.

  Most of the pins are green for work.

  I figure I’ll be working my whole life to pay off my college loans, so the romanticized notion of retirement seems impossible even if I work as a ranger long enough to get a pension. My last boss encouraged me to open an IRA. With a very serious expression, he said he had two words that could change my life: compound interest.

  Whatever little money I can save goes into a travel fund. Scanning the beautiful photos, I sigh at the impossibility of me ever having enough to spend a week or an off-season in Europe or New Zealand. Sometimes I scroll sites that give packing tips for visiting popular destinations during different times of the year. As if I’ll ever need a fall wardrobe for Scotland or outfits for a summer on the coast of Italy.

  Like my dinner party boards, I guess it’s good to dream. Fantasies are free.

  Speaking of fantasies, I open a new browser window and type in Odin. Sixty-two million results. I click on the first entry for the Norse god. Maybe his legendary namesake will give me more clues to the real man.

  Things I know about him so far:

  He’s has a booth at the farmers’ market at the community center where he sells peculiar vegetables.

  He lives in a holler.

  He walks a pig on a leash.

  He’s kind of a weirdo.

  He is not living with anyone.

  Add to that comprehensive list: he also owns a fancy Italian dog.

  Let’s not forget the part about him resembling a younger, hotter version of the deity whose name he bears with the beard, the long hair, the fierce expression that could probably conjure lightning from the sky if he so wished.

  He also smells of the woods on a sunny day.

  Yep. That’s the extent of my knowledge.

  So far.

  I doubt he has a social media presence, but I still type in his last name out of curiosity. He might have a website for the farm.

  The amended results fill the screen. My mouth hangs open.

  In shock, I snap the laptop closed and set it aside.

  I need to tell Kacey. Then I remember she’s out tonight and who knows when she’ll be home.

  I can wait. I’ll text her tomorrow. We can be on the phone while we sort through the pages of results.

  I laugh—to think I first thought of him as a wholesome farm boy.

  Eyeing my laptop like it’s a snake coiled to attack, I stand up and pace my small living area. It’s possible, although unlikely, that I mistyped his name. There could be an Owen Hill or an Odin Hall doppelgänger out there.

  Without trying, I read a few of the headlines before I aborted the mission. One in particular stands out:

  “Celebrity Chef Protégé Arrested on Drug Possession After Bar Brawl.”

  Beneath was a row of images of a younger Odin looking more scruffy bad boy than mountain hermit. I briefly caught a mention of a Michelin Star, whatever that means.

  This might explain the fancy dog.

  Doesn’t explain the pig, though.

  Unless …

  She’s part of some act he’s putting on while he hides out in his holler.

  Kacey was right—why do all the handsome men have to be morally bankrupt? On the outside he’s a delicious-looking jelly donut. On the inside, he’s filled with slime.

  I’ve spent enough time thinking about Odin Hill. There are more productive things I could be doing—like sleeping.

  Going to bed would be the smartest option right now.

  Once I’m settled in, I toss and turn, readjusting my pillow and blanket a dozen times. Finally I give up and turn on the lamp, looking to the stack of books on my nightstand. Picking the one on the top, I open it to a random chapter and begin reading about the early history of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

  I’m dozing off when a car alarm starts screeching.

  Freaking tourists. Who sets their alarm in the middle of the mountains? Jerks, that’s who.

  Cursing, I roll over and wrap my pillow around my head. On the rare occasion this happens, the owner will quickly silence the blaring.

  Not tonight.

  They must be the soundest sleeper ever. The entire valley can hear the honking.

  Frustrated, I climb out of bed and pull a sweatshirt on over my pajamas on the way to the door. I grab my keys, planning to drive through the campground until I located the asshole.

  A ranger’s job is never done.

  Apparently, I’m the asshole.

  There is a bear. Inside my car.

  The doors and windows are shut, just as I left them when I last drove my car. I think I would’ve noticed if there was a bear in the vehicle when I went to the Piggly Wiggly. I always lock the doors, or almost always.

  The alarm continues to bleat. I’m surprised the entire campground isn’t storming over here, an angry mob with flashlights. Anyone sleeping through this racket seems impossible.

  My car rocks as the bear moves around, thrashing her body between the seats and aga
inst the glass. How she even fits in the passenger area is a mystery.

  Mesmerized, I almost forget to freak out about a fully grown black bear in my car. Almost.

  From inside my Toyota Highlander, the bear stares at me through the window. She looks pissed and more than a little confused.

  I know how she feels.

  Gaia comes out of her cabin next door, pulling on her fleece and walking across the small porch in her socks.

  “What is going on?” she asks from the top step. “Why was your alarm going off in the middle of the night? Did you hit the panic button by mistake?”

  As both my neighbor and my boss, she sounds annoyed as if I’m up late, irresponsibly throwing a rager on a school night.

  Light spills out from the open door of Griffin’s cabin and then Amory’s as they exit. Both are in pajama pants and their ranger jackets looking rumpled and sleepy.

  “Um, Daphne? What’s a bear doing in your front seat?” Griffin points to the partially steamed windshield and the ursine carjacker staring at us.

  “Please tell me you didn’t leave anything edible in an unlocked vehicle.” Gaia groans and then gives me a pointed look. “First rule around here: bag it or can it. Don’t create temptation.”

  “I know. I swear, I have zero food in there. Not even a mummified McDonald’s fry under the seat. Nothing.” As the most junior ranger here, I feel the need to defend myself.

  “Appears you forgot to lock it. Bear got in and has somehow she triggered your alarm.” Amory offers a summary of the events so far.

  The four of us stare at the Highlander.

  “Well, the bear can’t stay in there all night. She’s going to be one angry beast when she gets out,” Griffin says, stating the obvious.

  “Should we get the tranquilizer gun?” Gaia takes a step down, glances at her socks, and returns to her porch. “Someone can break the window, but if we do that, we better be prepared for a freaked-out bear.”

  I can’t afford to fix a broken window. In reality, the interior of my beloved Toyota is probably toast anyway.

  “What’s the range on your key fob?” Amory asks, standing in the space between the cabins and my parking spot.

  Pressing the button, I finally silence the panicked screeching, and the blissful silence of the night returns. I think we all sigh with relief, including the bear. The alarm is the least of our problems, though.

  “Can you pop the back hatch?” Amory asks.

  I nod.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” He’s remarkably calm about this whole situation. Then again, he’s generally low-key and unflappable. “Everyone is going to return to our cabins, including you, Daphne. Once we’re inside, you’ll push the release, and we’ll wait. Hopefully, our furry friend will be so relieved to be free, she’ll exit and be on her merry way.”

  “Sounds like a solid plan.” Gaia backs up through her door. “We can examine the damage once the coast is clear.”

  “Or in the morning,” Griffin says with a yawn. “Unless you have a pot of honey in there that will attract more bears.”

  “I swear, there’s no food.” I do a mental inventory and know I haven’t left any food in the car. I never eat snacks in there.

  They all give me looks that say they don’t believe me.

  “We’ll see,” Gaia says, closing her door.

  The bear rocks the Highlander, which groans on its shocks. She lets out a growl of frustration mixed with fear.

  “Hold on, we’re going to set you free,” I tell her, not that she understands. Even so, when our eyes connect, a sense of understanding passes between us.

  Once safely inside, I click the button on the fob, and the rear door softly opens.

  “Turn around.” I gesture through the window. “Freedom is behind you.”

  Holding my breath, I wait for her to sense the fresh air and make her escape.

  “Come on, come on. You’ve got this.” I quietly encourage the bear despite being full aware she can’t hear me.

  “Go, be free,” I shout through the glass.

  The car shifts as the bear moves from front to back. With a quick hop off the tailgate, she scampers away and into the woods.

  With a long exhalation, I silently give thanks she was able to run off on her own.

  Relieved, I open the cabin’s door and spot my colleagues on their porches.

  Gaia is now wearing boots and has added her jacket. “Well, let’s see if we can figure out what lured her into your SUV.”

  “I swear I locked the doors. How did she get inside to begin with?” My voice trembles with emotions.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s an entrance,” Griffin muses.

  “There’s a way,” Amory corrects him.

  “You say tomato, I say to-mah-to.” Griffin waves him off with the beam of his flashlight.

  “Yikes,” she says as we peer through the open hatch. Padding and upholstery from the seats and ceiling are strewn everywhere. Claw marks gouge the dashboard and center console.

  “Wow,” Griffin whispers. “This should be photographed as a cautionary tale for visitors.”

  “Griff, now might not be the time,” Gaia warns him.

  “I don’t see any crumbs or wrappers.” Amory’s moved to the driver’s door and peers into the front.

  “There’s a shredded paper bag in the backseat,” she declares from the other side, holding up a scrap of white and what appears to be wax paper.

  My stomach sinks as tears burn my eyes. “Oh no.”

  “Do you remember what food you had?” Gaia asks, sounding remarkably nonjudgmental.

  I sigh. “I keep telling you, I may have forgotten to lock it, but I wasn’t stupid enough to leave food inside the car.”

  “Then what was it?” Amory shifts through the rubble of my backseat.

  “Soap,” I say, the word barely audible. “I bought soap at the farmers’ market last month and completely forgot about it.”

  “What kind of soap?” Even Griffin sounds serious for once.

  “Oatmeal with vanilla … and honey.” I cover my face with my hands.

  “That’ll do it.” He clicks off his flashlight. “You’ll always attract more bears with honey than vinegar.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot it.” I don’t mention my soap addiction or the possibility that I deliberately left it in the car to hide it from myself. This is definitely proof, very expensive proof, that I have a problem.

  Amory collects the bits of paper mixed with the deliciously scented flakes. “Let’s lock the vehicle for tonight. We can assess the full damage in the morning.”

  Gaia touches my shoulder. “It will be okay.”

  Tears spill from my eyes and I turn away. I don’t want to cry in front of my boss and coworkers. I manage to choke out, “Thank you.”

  She gives my arm a squeeze. “Don’t beat yourself up. Things will be better in the light of day.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Daphne

  Things are not better in the light of day.

  No, most definitely not.

  Even in the soft, diffused light of a foggy morning, the damage is shocking.

  The metal shell of what was once my pride and joy encloses a disaster zone. The shredded ceiling and seats could possibly be replaced. The floor carpet could be steam-cleaned.

  “It can be fixed,” I tell myself.

  Then I see the electrical wires hanging from below the steering wheel.

  The truth hits me.

  My car is totaled. Because of soap and shame and forgetfulness and being distracted by beautiful men and their extra-long root vegetables. Yes, I’m throwing Odin into the blame mix, too.

  I’m not completely sure about my insurance deductible, but I vaguely remember it being more than I have in savings. After my student loan payment, it’s the only option I could afford. How much can a ten-year-old car with over a hundred thousand miles be worth? Especially one redecorated by a bear?

  Silen
tly, I chant I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

  Rebellious tears pool and spill down my cheeks.

  After sobbing myself to sleep last night, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of my coworkers. Even if we’re not technically at work, it’s still the same. Crying equals being too emotional.

  And emotions are weakness, especially in professional environments.

  My first boss taught me that lesson. Buck up. Straighten your spine. Bite your tongue if you have to, but never show others your soft underbelly. No one likes a crybaby.

  Did the bears cry when Goldilocks ate their food, trashed their furniture and drooled all over their pillows?

  My answer to that is the baby bear probably did.

  Which only proves my old boss’s point about crybabies.

  These reminders don’t stop the tears from continuing to run down my cheeks. Angrily swiping them away with the back of my hand, I remind myself that crying won’t fix my car.

  I snap a couple photos with my phone.

  Gaia walks over to me, holding two mugs, and hands me one. “I brought you coffee. Thought it might help.”

  Similar to me, she’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Her face is clear while my eyes are so puffy it hurts to blink. My hair would make an ideal home for squirrels with its tangled mess that was a bun when I fell asleep last night.

  Sniffling, I try to pretend I’m okay. “Thanks.”

  She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay to be devastated. I’m upset for you.”

  I nod, worried about opening my mouth and a sob falling out.

  “You should probably call your insurance company this morning. Take some pictures for the claim. The sooner you file, the sooner they’ll process it.”

  “It’s totaled. I’m not sure there will be any money after my deductible.”

  She nods in support, but I see the pity in her eyes. “You can always use one of the NPS rigs. I mean, don’t take it on a road trip to Florida for spring break or decide to drive to California for tacos or anything, but it will get you around town.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. One of the perks of the job. Probably best to avoid any joyrides and drag races—Deputy James might not approve.”