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 istechnicallytrue. Because Itechnicallyinvented 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.”
