Using my shoulder, I lean into the door, testing the strength of its hinges. They’re old and rusted, but they hold strong.
From the outside, the cabin appears to be long abandoned. Thick moss and pine needles smother the roof, and dead leaves crowd the porch. Grime coats the cracked panes of glass in the small windows flanking the door under the low porch ceiling.
Next to me, Snowbird shuffles off her pack before setting it down on the ground next to a small boulder. Snow slides off the top where it’s accumulated. Thick flakes land on her black beanie and slowly melt into the fabric.
“Maybe there’s a hidden key.” She bounces on her heels and blows on her hands.
“People engaging in illegal activities don’t generally use a hide-a-key,” I grumble.
“Understandable, but it’s possible. Why even lock a cabin in the middle of the mountains nowhere near anybody else?”
“See my above statement about illegal activities.” I jostle the old lock to double-check it’s engaged.
“It won’t do any harm if I look for a key.” She steps closer to me.
Reflexively, I freeze and hold my breath as she invades my personal space and stands on her tiptoes.
What is wrong with me? She’s not going to try to kiss me. That would be ridiculous.
She pauses, gazing at me with her eyebrows drawn together before reaching her hand above my head. “Sometimes people hide keys above the doorjamb.”
“People?” I croak out like I’m thirteen and at my first dance.
“Okay, me. I’m notorious for losing my keys or locking myself out of my apartment. I don’t have a doormat or a potted plant, so I’ve been known to slip a key on the ledge.”
Empty-handed, she steps away, wiping her dirty fingers on her wet leggings. “No luck.”
“I’ll kick the door open.” I gesture for her to move back. “If it doesn’t splinter into a hundred pieces, we’ll only have to worry about a broken padlock.”
“Not reassuring, Ranger Daniels.” Her tone is teasing. I think.
I correct her for the tenth time. “You can call me Jay.”
“So you’ve said.” She runs her fingers over the top of the window next to the door.
“Even with a broken door, we’ll still be out of the elements and protected from the worst of the storm.” Recalling my years of karate lessons from childhood, I assume the proper position for a side kick.
“What’s this?” Snowbird’s voice halts my movement. Grinning, she extends a metal, key-shaped object toward me. “Why, I believe it looks like a padlock key.”
“What are the odds?” Muttering mostly to myself, I drop my foot and straighten. Disappointed I didn’t get the chance to kick the door open like a badass, I slip the key from her hand and then insert it into the lock.
The door swings open, revealing a room empty of furniture. The only objects on the filthy floor are a wooden crate, a plastic gallon jug of questionable amber liquid, a fire-poker, and what appears to be the petrified carcass of a mouse near the threshold.
She peers around my shoulder into the one-room cabin. “At least we don’t have to worry about sharing a single bed.”
I chuckle, the sound awkward. “Thank God for small mercies.”
Chapter Ten
Olive
“Total murder cabin.” I back away from the door and lean against the crooked post holding up the rickety roof.
“Porch might be wide enough to set up your tent. I’d be careful of rotting boards.” The ranger’s smile is patronizing.
With my weight on my left foot, I gently stomp on the wood below my right. It creaks and groans. “Hmm, spongy.”
He’s gone when I look up. “Ranger Daniels?”
“Inside,” he calls from within the dwelling whose structural integrity I am seriously questioning. Light from his flashlight sweeps the room. “I was right—there is a fireplace.”
“Any evidence of blood splatter or dismemberment?” I hesitate to enter. Near my boot is a mummified rodent. Using my hiking pole, I push it across the narrow porch. The late Mr. Mouse skitters off the side and disappears from view.
“Surprisingly, no,” Jay says from close behind me.
I yelp in surprise. “Don’t jump out at me.”
“I didn’t.” He doesn’t apologize. “Come inside so I can close the door. You’re letting snow and more cold air in, which defeats the entire idea of weathering the storm inside.”
Picking up my backpack, I step across the threshold. The room doesn’t feel any warmer than the porch, but at least snow isn’t pelting me in the face. Glancing around the room, I notice a drop leaf table with three legs in the corner behind the door, but zero firewood.
“Do you have wood?” I ask, without thinking.
Jesus take the wheel of my brain-to-mouth bus.
“For the fireplace,” I add.
He stands stock-still and does nothing to ease my verbal flailing.
“You know … for heat. I’ll stop talking now,” I mumble.
He gives me a funny look. “I’m hoping there’s some stacked up against the side of the cabin. I’ll go check it out. If not, we can burn the table and crate.”
The cabin dips into darkness when he leaves since he takes his flashlight with him. I fumble with my headlamp and pray there isn’t someone waiting to jump out at me from the shadows.
Tye would absolutely hate this place. It’s pretty much his worst nightmare and would definitely take the number one spot if there was a soundtrack comprised entirely of banjo music.
Funny, I haven’t thought about him in weeks. Maybe even longer. I’ve been on a boycott of social media and sworn Campbell to silence, which means I have no idea what he’s doing with his life or if he deleted any evidence of our non-existent engagement. I’ve enjoyed not knowing.
Not my cattle, not my bullshit as my grandfather would say.
I miss him and his wisdom. Next time I’m somewhere with service, I need to call him. He always tells me exactly what I need to hear, though it took me a long time to understand his brand of tough love.
Keeping my gloves on, I gently lift the jug of questionable liquid and set it outside on the porch. Could be moonshine. Could be urine. Either way, it has to go.
If there were a broom in the place, I could sweep up the dirt and leaves. Across the room is a narrow door by a small counter with a sink comprising the ‘kitchen.’
There is zero possibility of me opening said door without Jay in the room.
Satisfied I’m not going to die in the next five minutes, I go about removing my poncho. Should Jay get a fire going, I’ll be able to dry out my clothes and shoes. Until then, I’m keeping all my layers in place.
Minutes tick by and he doesn’t return. Through the grime on the window, I spot the glow of his light. Slightly reassured, I flip the wooden crate and take a seat to wait.
Something heavy thumps into the other side of the closed door. I hold my breath for a second until Jay appears, arms laden with logs.
“Can you take these? I’ll grab another load and we should be set for the night,” he says from the doorway.
The firewood is heavy and wet, but better than nothing. I’m grateful for whatever Jay can find.
This time he returns quickly, carrying even more wood, which he adds to the pile I created by the old stone fireplace. Over time smoke has blackened the rocks directly above the hearth. I wonder how many years this cabin has stood here and how long it’s gone unused.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“Sure. Sort out the smaller branches and any loose bark. We’ll use it for kindling. I have a package of fire-starter pods in my pack. I’ll grab those and my matches, and we should be good to go.”
There’s something so confidently capable about him that I find appealing. Must be a caveman/cavewoman response in my ancient lizard brain. If you provide fire, I’ll be your mate.
His strong hands and nimble fingers make quick work of stacking the kindling
and bark into a neat pyramid. I’m guessing he must be a complete Ranger Romeo, flirting his way through the park, wooing every woman in the campground. How could he not be?
Now I’m flipping through all the other rangers I’ve met along the way. None of them come close to his good looks, even with the scraggly beard. Must be something in the water around here. I wonder if all the men in the Smokies are as handsome.
A spark of orange catches my attention. Ranger Jay tips forward, gently blowing on the baby flame, breathing life into his creation.
From my perch on the crate, I watch with relief as combustion takes over, spreading along the edges of the dry material.
“I shall henceforth dub you Prometheus, Ranger of Fire.” I tap both of his shoulders from behind with a long stick.
Sitting back on his haunches, he laughs. “What an enormous responsibility. Not sure I can live up to being a Titan.”
My gaze lingers on his wide shoulders. “I somehow think you’re up to the challenge.”
Whatever that means.
Standing, I walk over to my pack and pull out my bear bag of food. “Hungry?”
“I could eat.” He crosses the room to where I’m setting supplies on the three-legged table. “Have anything tasty in there?”
“Who says I’m sharing?” I attempt to clutch the top closed, despite the fact that I just asked if he was hungry. Mother Nature isn’t the only fickle bitch.
“I’ve provided shelter and fire—you should contribute something. Is this a Pop-Tart wrapper I spy?” Excited, he points to a silver package poking out of the top of my bag.
“Could be.” I don’t know why I like teasing him. I just do.
He directs his words to my hands. “Please tell me you have Brown Sugar Cinnamon. Or Strawberry. Or at the very least, Frosted Blueberry? I’d be happy with the unfrosted variety too, but know I’ll be silently judging you.”
I’m taken aback by his list and shift the pack farther away from him. “How did you know?”
“Seriously? Which one?” He pretends to make a grab for my goodies.
And by goodies, I mean my stash of Pop-Tarts.
“All of them?” I don’t know what I’m asking when my voice rises at the end of the sentence.
“Really? You have to share. At least split a package of your least favorite flavor. One tart is all I’m asking.” He begs, hands clasped together and face shaped into an expression so innocent and hopeful I can imagine him as a little kid.
Widening the top of my bag, I extract all the two-packs. “I tossed the boxes so they’re kind of a mystery. Pick one.”
“This feels like a Vegas card trick.” Slowly, he slides one of the packets out of my hand. “No take-backs. I keep whatever I picked, right?”
“Deal,” I agree.
Dammit, he’s adorable. I bet he can be a sweetheart if and when he forgets to be grumpy.
Peeling back the wrapper, he breaks off a piece and exclaims, “Strawberry! I win!”
His enthusiasm makes me laugh. “My favorite are the brown sugar ones.”
Half a Pop-Tart disappears before he swallows and asks, “Then why buy the other flavors?”
“The Piggly Wiggly only had one box of them in stock so I bought my runner-ups. To quote the Rolling Stones, if you can’t have the tart you love, love the tart you’re with. Or something.”
“Pretty confident those aren’t the lyrics.” He finishes off the first pastry and tucks the remaining one into his jacket pocket. When he catches me staring, he explains, “For later. I like to pace myself.”
“Let me guess, you were the kid who still had leftover Halloween candy at Thanksgiving.”
“Made it to Christmas one especially bountiful year.” His smug smile puts me in my place. “And you?”
“One Halloween, I ate so much and was in such pain, my mother took me to the ER because she was convinced my appendix was going to burst.” I giggle at the memory.
He chuckles and I feel his eyes studying me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You want to say something, say it. I won’t take offense.”
“Somehow I don’t believe that’s always the case.” He holds my gaze.
I fight the urge to glance away. Feels like he can see straight into my soul. Most people don’t hold eye contact, but then there’s Ranger Jay.
Being exposed makes me defensive, so I deflect. “We don’t know each other and will never see each other again. No reason to hold back.”
I swear he flinches.
“Fine. It’s true we just met, but you seem like the type of person who doesn’t believe in delayed gratification.” He glances over my shoulder and then directly at me.
I hold eye contact. Eventually, we’re going to end up in a staring contest. “Why do I think you’re the opposite?”
“Because I am. I believe in hard work and setting goals. Nothing in life has come easy for me. I suspect that’s not true for you.”
His words are an arrow straight to the truth of me. “I have goals, like the two-thousand-plus miles I’ll walk this year. Pretty major accomplishment by any measure.”
Feeling vulnerable, I look down and stuff half a Pop-Tart into my mouth.
“You’re absolutely right. Never mind.” He strolls back to the fire and stabs it with the poker before adding a bigger log. The damp wood cracks and pops as flames infiltrate it. Thick tendrils of smoke creep up and over the stones.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Forgot to open the flue.”
The smoke billows into the room as the flames intensify. Jay inserts the poker up into the chimney, cursing under his breath as he struggles to get the latch to release.
Afraid we might asphyxiate, I open the front door at the same moment the flue opens, creating a strong downdraft. Our fledgling fire struggles to keep burning, flickering and sputtering.
“Shut the door!” Jay shouts.
Apologizing, I follow orders and slam it shut.
He casts me a sheepish look. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s fine.”
The orange glow in the fireplace restores itself and warmth spreads into the room.
“Think it’s safe to take off my shoes and dry them by the fire?” I study the dirty floor.
“Worried someone might steal them?”
“No, was thinking about tetanus and all the other bacteria probably living in here.” My mind flickers back to the poor mouse. “How easy is it to contract the bubonic plague? Do you have to be bitten by an infected flea? Or is contact with a body enough?”
Ranger Jay tips his head back and laughs. Real, shoulder-shaking, belly-jiggling laughter escapes him. It’s ridiculous and unrestrained. Utterly contagious.
Although I suspect he’s laughing at me, not with me, I join him.
Catching his breath, he finds enough of his voice to ask, “How have you survived for months in the wilderness on your own? Does your mind think up every worst-case scenario? How are you not crazy?”
“Who said I’m not?” I cock my head. “Most people who know me agree I lost my mind when I decided to continue this trek on my own.”
He nods once. “There’s a story there.”
“Isn’t there always?” I ignore his unspoken invitation to share more. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with my hands. If I cross my arms, I’ll look defensive. First, I rest them on my hips—too Wonder Woman power pose. I drop one hand to my thigh, and now I’m an awkward teapot handle. Finally, I tuck them into my jacket pockets. “We should get out of our wet clothes.”
His mouth pops open and his eyes grow wide. “Uh … I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
I replay what I said. “Oh! I don’t mean get naked together.”
Embarrassed, I cover my face with my hands.
He mutters something under his breath and then raises his voice. “You meant because our clothes are wet and we’ll warm up quicker with the added bonus that they’ll dry faster on their own. I’m an idio
t. Sorry, I’m inappropriate.”
“No need to apologize. I’m the one who suggested we get naked. I have other clothes.” I lift my small cube from my bag to prove my point.
“Lucky you.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“You didn’t pack anything?” I eye his much smaller backpack.
“Nope. Wasn’t planning on having a sleepover.” He frowns at his feet. “But feel free to change. I can turn my back or stand in the corner over there.” Pointing to the opposite side of the small room, he follows his own suggestion. “Just let me know when the coast is clear.”
“Okay,” I confirm, already fantasizing about dry, warm clothes.
Over the last few months, I’ve become a pro at a super quick outfit change and don’t hesitate to lose my damp layers, starting with my soaked shoes and frozen socks.
Wet leggings are difficult to peel off, but I shimmy them down and step out of them. Barefoot and pantsless, I shiver in the cool air when I unzip my down jacket. Despite the poncho, my clothes are damp down three layers to my skin.
Reaching for my one other pair of long pants, I knock over my pack and groan when it lands on my left big toe, which has been sore for weeks.
“You okay?” Jay asks from his corner.
My eyes cut to where he’s standing and make contact with his worried stare.
“No peeking!” I pull my jacket closed, which does nothing to hide my underwear.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” He faces the wall. “It sounded like you were in pain and I turned without thinking. I swear I didn’t see anything,” he mumbles through his hands.
I glance down. “Nothing to worry about. I typically wear less when I go swimming.”
“Everything okay? Are you injured?” His voice holds genuine concern.
“Totally fine.” Keeping an eye on him, I pull up my clean pants, drop my jacket, and peel off the long tee and camisole. My sports bra feels dry to the touch, so I don’t bother taking it off. None of my clothes could be described as clean, but they’re dry.
I sigh audibly when I’m fully dressed. “Dry socks are one of life’s greatest blessings.”
“Is it safe to turn around?” he asks.
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 7
