CHAPTER 4
Tate
"Tate, it's Neely at Ponderosa. Something big was clawing at my storage bay." A pause, and then, steadier than most trained people manage, "I'm inside, doors locked, food's properly stored.”
"Copy. Stay inside, keep your lights on, and make noise if it touches the rig again. Banging on a pot works well. I'm eight minutes out." I say all this as I’m dashing to the truck. Sliding behind the wheel, I add, "You did everything right."
"I know," she says.
I want to tell her how sexy her confidence is, but now’s not the time.
No time is the time, I remind myself. She’s the campground host. We have to work together. And she’s only here for a few months.
I make it to her campsite in six minutes flat.
Her lights are on, and I see her peering out at me through her kitchen window.
I shine my spotlight around the campsite and see nothing.
The bear seems to have moved on. I step out of the truck with the light in one hand and the air horn in the other and begin walking the perimeter of her site.
The story's there in the dirt again. Second verse, same as the first…
There are tracks along the back of the pad. A smeared print and some scratches on the storage bay where he unsuccessfully tried to get in.
I spot more tracks, this time leading away toward Loop A. I follow them, walking with exaggerated, loud footsteps to keep from surprising the hungry bear. A few yards down, at site four, I find a bag of dry dog food sitting on the ground beside a truck. It’s been ripped open like a pinata.
The dog is losing its mind inside the camper, but the bear is long gone with a full belly.
Dammit. Why can’t people just follow the rules?
I walk back to Neely’s site and knock on her door with the flat of my hand, twice, easy. "Neely. It's me."
The door opens and she's there in sleep shorts and a worn gray shirt, hair loose, arms crossed. I had every intention of just calming her nerves after the bear encounter, but I’m too distracted by the sight of her bare legs and a thin shirt that clings enough to show the peaks of her nipples to say anything at all.
It’s a miracle I’m not drooling.
Her forehead furrows. “Well? See anything?”
I clear my throat. "He got into a bag of dog food that was left outside at site four. Your storage bay is fine. Just has a few scratches and a story to tell.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “That’s a relief, I guess.”
I hand her the air horn from my belt. "Keep this on you. If he gets too close again, one long blast will frighten him away.”
She takes it, turning it over in her hands. "And here I thought you’d tell me to call you."
Is she flirting with me?
I meet her beautiful hazel eyes with mine. "Absolutely call me. Any time, for any reason.”
She nods. “What about the folks at site four?”
I sigh. “I’ll wake them up and have a conversation about safety.”
“But you won’t cite them?”
“It depends on how repentant they are,” I say. “Goodnight, Neely.”
“Night, Tate.”
I leave her to make my way back to site four.
The couple is kind and deeply apologetic, so I just give them a warning.
Then I post a wildlife advisory on the campground message board, close the spur path behind the host loop with tape and a sign until I can check it in daylight.
By the time I circle back to my truck, it’s been an hour.
I’m surprised to see Neely’s lights are still on.
I tap lightly on her door, trying to be quiet enough to not wake her if she happened to fall asleep with the lights on. She opens the door a second later.
"You should sleep," I tell her through the screen door.
She smiles. "You should too."
"I will." I won't, much. I’ll be too busy thinking of Neely in her pajamas. "Radio check at eight."
"Radio check at eight," she says, and then, as I'm walking away, "Thanks for coming so quickly, Tate.”
“My pleasure, Neely.”
In the morning, she passes her radio check at 7:58, two minutes early, smug about it, and I inform her that district business requires a supply run to town and that camp hosts are encouraged to accompany rangers on such runs. “For procedural familiarity,” I tell her.
“Camp hosts go on supply runs with the ranger?”
“It’s not required, but it’s encouraged.” This is technically true. Because I technically invented the procedure at six AM this morning.
She rides into town with the window down and her elbow on the door, and I learn things. She takes her coffee with lots of cream. She reads historical markers out loud in a documentary voice. When we pass the library, she stares at it reverently. I catalog the details, saving them for later.
She likes coffee, history, and books…
We hit the hardware store for radio batteries and replacement signage. We grab twenty signs instructing folks to "BE BEAR AWARE.” At the counter, we bump into an old friend, Caleb Foster.
I introduce him to Neely. “Caleb owns Foster Construction and Repairs,” I tell her. “If there’s a problem too big for Ollie, Caleb’s our man.”
Caleb smiles at Neely. “Welcome to Whispering Pines. Is it true there’s been a bear hanging out around the campground?”
“Yes,” Neely says, “but Tate and I are doing our best to get campers to follow the rules.”
“No food, no bear,” I agree. “You know how it is, Caleb.”
“Sure do,” Caleb agrees. “I install bear-proof garbage cans at every new build.”
After the shopping trip, we carry the signs and supplies back to the truck, which is parked outside The Pines Diner. My stomach growls.
Neely laughs. “Hungry?”
“Just a little,” I say with a grin. “How about lunch? I’d love to treat my campground host to the best meatloaf in Idaho.”
Neely blushes, but her eyes meet mine. “You said it again.”
“What’s that?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Your campground host.”
“Did I?”
“You did,” she confirms. “Out of curiosity, how many campground hosts have joined you for supply runs?”
A grin stretches across my face. “One.”
"Uh huh,” she says, nodding her head. “And the twice-a-day patrols at the campground? Are those normal for you?”
“Oh, those,” I say, waving a hand. “That’s because of the bear.”
"Is it only because of the bear?”
“No,” I say, but don’t offer any other information. “Is there a reason for all the questions?”
She blinks up at me through thick lashes. “Mrs. Henderson says she and her husband stay at the campground for a month every summer, and they’ve never seen so much of you. She thinks you’re courting me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Courting?”
“Her word. Not mine,” Neely says quickly. “And the cashier at the hardware store said something along those lines as we were leaving.”
“Oh? What did she say?”
“That she’s never seen you come into the hardware store with a woman before.”
I consider how to respond. Should I play it cool and pretend that my interest in her is strictly business? Or should I admit that I’ve thought of her every waking minute since the moment we met?
"Mrs. Henderson," I say, "is a sharp woman."
Neely licks her lips, and now all I can do is stare at her mouth. The pull toward her is irresistible. I close the distance without meaning to, and she doesn’t back away.
And then I’m kissing Neely Quinn on Main Street in front of God, everyone on Main Street, and anyone looking out the big, front windows of The Pines Diner.
News will be all over town by the end of the day. And I don’t care.
Neely holds onto my shirt as she kisses me, pulling me closer as my tongue slides over hers. When we break apart, her eyes stay closed an extra second, like she’s savoring the moment.
Jesus, she’s perfect.
"Is kissing encouraged during supply runs?” she asks, her voice a bit unsteady.
I can’t help but grin. “Absolutely.”