But any day, any day now, she’d hear from the Wharton School’s admissions office.
No flies on that girl. We made a mistake wait-listing her.
At the stop sign, Elizabeth shifted into first with a sigh. The heat waves rising off the road felt like her own weariness. Blake’s song ended as she let off the clutch and turned right onto First Avenue. Miranda Lambert came on, encouraging her to kick butt and take names.
“I’m trying, Miranda.”
She could deal with being tired. She’d excelled at pushing through tired. First, when she was sick for so long, interrupting her college career, then with her MIT course load. Colleges should hand out “Survived Tired” medals along with the diplomas.
A bang resonated from under the car, and the Beetle Bug swerved hard to the right. Elizabeth gripped the steering wheel and, with one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch, eased to the road’s shoulder.
A flat. Of all things. Walking around to the front, she knelt to inspect the damage, then popped the trunk. No spare. Dad told her to get one, but she forgot. She closed the lid, her exhaustion creeping higher.
Now what? She could call Pops or one of her cousins. But calling a Dorsey meant the whole family would get involved in this very minor incident. Dad and Mom would hear up in Boston, and Aunt Raelynn down in Jacksonville. Dad would text, “You didn’t get a spare?”
Peering down the road, she retrieved her backpack, locked the doors, and started jogging toward town. She’d been meaning to take up running.
On the way, she called Tina. “Hey, had a bit of car trouble—No, I’m fine. Flat tire.” She refused to admit she was hoofing it. Tina would send the fire department. “I’ll be there in a few.”
Hanging up, she picked up her pace. Calling for help had been a way of life for two long years. So for now, if it was okay with the rest of the world, she’d like to take care of herself.
It was good to be back home. Ryder Donovan raised his binoculars to scan a local camping area from the top of a dilapidated Cheatham Wildlife Management Area fire tower.
The weathered boards were twenty-seven years old and starting to rot. He had to skip every other step to rise to the top, but this was one of his favorite places in the whole reserve.
Yeah, sure, aerial surveillance did most of the fire-watching these days, but Ryder still preferred to climb the tower. Something about its ancient purpose connected him to all the rangers and officers who’d gone before him, watching over and protecting American soil.
From his perch, he had a good view of Cheatham Lock and Dam, the surrounding summer trees, and the picnic area where folks liked to spend a lazy afternoon stretched out in the shade.
Moving to his right, Ryder spotted a family packing up their campsite in the Right Bank Recreation Area. He zoomed in on the black coals of a firepit just as one of the male campers came around with a bucket of water. Good. Good. They’d seen the fire warnings posted throughout the reserve. It’d been what, five weeks since Middle Tennessee had a decent rain? Another week or two and they’d issue a fire ban.
The landscape of Middle Tennessee was nothing like the majestic Rocky Mountains, but the scent in the breeze, the miles and miles of lush green within Cheatham grounded Ryder to who he’d been. And maybe who he wanted to be.
He was climbing down the tower when his radio squawked. “Ryder?” It was Rick Haridopolos, his buddy, working the lake today, checking fishing licenses. “Go to five.”
Ryder switched the channel. “What’s up?”
“Just came from the office. Travis, man, you know he’s been on the warpath. Today he came in ranting and raving about the loggers hired to clean up after the storm. They cut down about fifty grand worth of white oak. Some of the oldest on the grounds.”
“What?” One tree was guessed to be at least a hundred and twenty-five years old. “How’d that happen?”
“Travis swears up and down you hired the guys. Without a contract.”
Ryder laughed, waiting for Rick to admit he was kidding. “Wait, you’re serious? I don’t contract workers.”
“Also, Travis claims you purchased some cherrywood from Dorsey? And some chicken baskets from Ella’s Diner for the kids’ fire-safety hour.”
“The chicken baskets, yes, but cherrywood? What would I do with cherry?”
“Fix up your house? Use it on the fire tower?”
Ever since he moved back to Hearts Bend from Colorado, his boss, Travis Vermeer—who hired him, by the way—scrutinized everything he did. Almost as if he suspected Ryder of sabotage. Initially, Travis had been angry when Ryder submitted a request to the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency to repair the fire tower. He claimed Ryder had gone over his head. Made him look bad. Apparently, the tower should’ve been repaired years ago.
“Thanks, Rick. I’m coming in.”
Ryder returned to the station, nodding to Travis’s secretary when he entered. “Is he around?” Might as well get it over with.
“Yep.” Cheryl tipped her head toward the office door and winked at him, her eyes heavy with false eyelashes. “And he’s in a mood.”
