“You saved someone’s life, Tate.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Before I can answer, Jonas barrels toward us in dinosaur rain boots, with Bianca chasing after him.
“Uncle Tate! Did the bear knock down the tree?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask in surprise.
“Bev heard about the tree from Ollie and sent a group text,” Biaca explains. “Jonas and I were awake, so we decided to head over to check on things.”
“Was it lightning?” Jonas asks.
“Nah,” I say. “Just the storm.”
“I heard the storm. It was loud,” Jonas says with wide eyes.
“Sure was.”
“But Uncle Tate, a bear could knock down a tree, right?”
“Maybe a small one. But bears sleep in trees, so it wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.”
“Jonas,” Bianca says, catching him by the hood of his raincoat, “let your uncle work.”
Neely crouches beside Jonas. “We need someone to help Mr. Ollie count the fallen branches near the bathroom. Think you can handle that?”
Jonas’s eyes widen. “Is that an official ranger job?”
“Very official,” Neely says.
Jonas takes off toward Ollie, who looks less than thrilled to have acquired an eight-year-old assistant. As scatterbrained as Ollie is, he finds it next to impossible to stay on task when kids are hurling questions at him left and right.
Neely watches him go with a smile.
She’s good here. Not just at the campground. In Whispering Pines. With my family and the campers and every oddball who crosses her path. She fits into my life so easily it scares the hell out of me.
By noon, we have the loops cleared enough for people to move around safely. Ollie brings in a chainsaw crew for the fallen tree. Neely organizes volunteers to collect branches and check every campsite for damage. She keeps people calm without making them feel managed, which is a skill I’ve never possessed.
The bear hasn’t returned.
The trail camera shows him heading north sometime before midnight, away from the campground and toward the berry patches on the ridge. Hopefully, last night’s beanbag round and the storm scared some sense into him.
By early afternoon, the sun breaks through the clouds. Steam rises from the wet road, and the campground comes back to life. Kids ride their bikes through puddles. Campers reset their tents. Someone starts cooking bacon.
Neely and I stand beside her RV while she updates the incident log.
“You should add that the campground host performed exceptionally well under pressure,” I tell her.
“I’ll be sure to note that the ranger was distracting but mostly competent.”
“Mostly?”
She closes the clipboard. “I caught you staring at me more than once.”
“I can’t help it. I know what you look like under those clothes.”
