Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Read online

  Happy Trail

  Park Ranger Series Book #1

  Daisy Prescott

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition

  Contents

  A Note from Daisy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Baking Me Crazy, Donner Bakery Book #1 by Karla Sorensen

  Also by Daisy Prescott

  A Note from Daisy

  Thank you for reading Happy Trail, the first book in the all new Park Rangers series. The second book will release in 2020.

  Be sure to subscribe to my email list to receive updates on my writing and new release alerts for my future books.

  Happy Reading!

  Chapter One

  Jay

  Mid-October

  Great Smoky Mountains National Park

  Cades Cove, Tennessee

  “Yo, bro.” Jenni’s chirpy voice greets me when I answer my phone and I am immediately wary.

  “Hey.” I drawl the word out to stall the inevitability of finding out why she’s calling me in the middle of a Tuesday morning. “What’s up?”

  “Mom call you yet?”

  “No, why?” As soon as I ask, I know. “Ah, thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Jay.” Mimicking my drawl, she stretches out my name like she always does when she wants something from me. When we were little and she couldn’t really pronounce her J’s, my name was one never-ending A. It was adorable and annoying. My older sister is still both.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she whines.

  “I have to work,” I grumble.

  “Six months is plenty of notice to ask for time off.”

  “April is when the AT hikers begin coming through the park and it’s the start of the busy season with campers and school visits. Plus, all the spring bird migrations will be happening, not to mention, fawning season for the local deer. And the bears will be out of hibernation.”

  Muffled laughter reaches my ear.

  “What’s so funny? I’m presenting facts.”

  She mumbles something I can’t understand and more laughter follows.

  “Your facts are excuses. The birds and fawns will all be fine if you aren’t there. Nature doesn’t need you to babysit. The birds and the bees have been perfectly all right for many years without your help. Obaasan isn’t getting any younger, and the trip from Kyoto to Nashville is too long for her.”

  Ah, there it is—the guilt. My mother and sister are masters. If guilt were a martial art, they’d both have a black belt.

  She continues, unabated and building steam. “It would mean a lot to both Mom and Obaasan for us to both be there next year. You know how much Mom loves it when her family is all together, and she can show off her son, the doctor.”

  My laugh gets caught in my throat. “Always fun to remind them I’m not the right kind of doctor.”

  “You’ve saved lives before as a ranger. Kind of the same thing.”

  We both know it isn’t, not in a family of lawyers and corporate titans.

  “You’re the favorite,” I remind her. “Everyone loves and dotes on you. Meanwhile, Uncle Ken pretends to pat the top of my head and I hear the cousins calling me hāfu or gaijin like I don’t know what they mean.”

  “They’re just teasing you.”

  “Right.” I sigh. “Then why don’t they call you hāfu?”

  “How do you know they never do?” Her loud snort reverberates against my ear.

  She makes a good point, but it doesn’t sway me.

  “I’m sure the aunties place bets on my marriage prospects and the fertility of my uterus. I’m thirty-two.” She switches her voice to sound like an old woman, or a witch, saying, “Well past my prime. What man will want a shriveled-up, old prune?”

  I groan. “Ugh. Can you not put that image in my head, please?”

  “Which part? My anatomy or the dried, raisin-like quality of my over-the-hill womb?” She barely contains her giggling.

  “The latter. And you’re not old.”

  “Mom was twenty-two when she married Dad, twenty-three when she had me, twenty-five when you were born. Widowed at thirty-five.” Her voice trails off the way it always does when she brings up our father, wistful and apologetic.

  My brain flips through flashes of the day he died, but I tamp down the memories.

  In four years, I’ll be the same age. No wife or kids, no family of my own. I have a neat stack of diplomas and a closet full of uniforms to show for my life. Maudlin isn’t an emotion I enjoy, so I switch the subject back to visiting our grandmother in Japan.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Ask for the time off,” Jenni implores. “It will be fun. We can escape the disapproving glances together, take the fast train to Tokyo for a night of okonomiyaki and karaoke. Who can say no to either of those?”

  She knows my weakness for good street food. Why does putting something on a stick make it taste better? Same goes for fair food. My stomach rumbles at the thought of a corn dog. I skipped breakfast and am now regretting it.

  “I’ll think about it,” I repeat, not making promises I don’t plan on keeping.

  “Fine. I’ll tell Mom you’re ninety percent sure you’ll make it. She’ll be thrilled. Gotta go. Bye.”

  “Jenni!”

  She doesn’t hear me because she’s already ended the call.

  Shaking my phone in frustration, I curse under my breath.

  “What about time off in April?” Gaia asks from behind me. “Sorry—it’s hard to not listen to your conversation in this tiny office.”

  “Nothing.” I spin my chair to face her, my knees barely avoiding bumping hers in the tight space between our desks. “My sister is bugging me about a family reunion.”

  “Are you close with your family?”

  “Not outside of my mom and sister. Mom’s family lives far away, and we don’t see them much. I barely know them.” I never talk about personal stuff at work. Not sure if it’s a
matter of being private or avoiding the awkward questions and comments.

  “Yeah, I get that. At least you have your sister. My parents each have four siblings. Big families are like living inside a circus run by the monkeys.”

  The image makes me chuckle.

  “Sure, laugh, but I have three cousins named Bobby. Not Robert or Bob. Bobby. They all go by Bobby. Grown men, too, which should tell you everything you need to know about my family.” She rolls her hazel eyes toward the ceiling. “Speaking of annoying idiots, Griffin is telling people it’s skunk season again.”

  “Someone needs to take away his press privileges,” I suggest.

  “He’s forbidden from speaking to journalists or writing releases, but found a way around the ban by calling into Cletus Winston’s podcast.”

  “Thought Cletus banned him after he showed up at the studio uninvited back when Dr. Runous was out of town.”

  Gaia rubs her temples as if she might be able to erase The Great Skunk Makeup fiasco from memory.

  “Send him into the backcountry to check on the Appalachian Trail hikers. Keep him out of cell phone range.” I tug on my beard to fight my laughter.

  The dark, coarse hair is in need of a trim and I could use a haircut soon. No one is complaining, though probably because there’s no one in my life who cares if my whiskers are too long or my hair brushes my collar. Rangers have a dress code when it comes to our uniforms, but as long as we’re not scaring the kids, personal grooming is left up to us.

  “Trying to get out of your turn?” She gives me a knowing arch of her eyebrow.

  “Nah. I love escaping the confines of this cage.”

  I’m not cut out to spend my life working in an office, lab, or classroom. Anything with four walls, a floor, and a ceiling is a box. No, thanks. I’m much happier with the sky overhead and dirt beneath my boots.

  “Guess we’ll find out at the staff meeting. You ready?” Gaia stands and picks up a clipboard.

  We all call her Guy out of laziness and because she’s the only female ranger amongst our motley crew. It’s become a lame inside joke. She’s the most senior staff member, right after our boss Ed.

  We join the others in the staff lounge and go over the week’s schedule.

  “We’re getting reports of a sizable storm heading this way from the Gulf. Could bring some nasty rain and wind. The last of the hikers should be coming through soon and we’ll need to set up patrols of the trail to make sure everyone is safe and healthy.” Ranger Ed pushes his glasses up his nose. In his late fifties, he still has the air of the high school biology teacher he was for twenty years before joining the Park Service.

  I refill my thermos of coffee. “Thank goodness. Feels like this year’s been cursed with accidents and weird idiosyncrasies. Will be nice when the snow comes and we don’t have to worry about the ATs until spring.”

  Guy nods. “Still have the day hikers and leaf peepers to worry about, at least for another month or so. Of course, if the snow shows up early, people will lose interest in finding themselves in nature.”

  After a busy summer and September, we’re tired. The college kids who work with us during their break have left, and so we’re down to full-time staff only. Burned out, all five of us are ready for the quiet of the coming winter and a much-deserved break.

  “Who wants to take the first patrol?” Griffin asks from his spot on the hideous plaid that has been in headquarters longer than any of us. Totally possible the sofa is original to the building.

  “I will. I could use some time in the mountains.” I sip the semi-burnt coffee before adding half-and-half from the carton in the fridge. It’s godawful, but it’s still better than the concoction involving molasses and vinegar Cletus Winston used to drink when he visited his brother Jethro.

  Since Ranger Winston’s retired, we rarely see either brother unless they’re visiting Dr. Runous, who’s married to their sister. Green Valley’s a small town, and there are enough Winstons around the area to make it practically impossible to not know at least one or two of them. Despite what the local gossips say, they’re good people.

  Ed’s still talking and I realize he’s focused on me. Having no idea what he’s said, I sip my coffee and nod as I pretend to know what I’m agreeing with.

  He gives me a pointed look. “Plan for an overnight trip, but bring enough supplies for a couple of days in case the storm hits early. Head north toward Clingmans Dome.”

  “Roger that. I’ll pack up tonight and start tomorrow.” Looking forward to the time outdoors, I begin a mental list of supplies I’ll need to restock before heading out.

  “Don’t forget a bear can.” Griffin reminds me. “Cooler weather means they’ll be more active. Whatever you do, don’t pack honey. Or a picnic basket.”

  Then he laughs at his lame joke. At least one person finds him funny.

  “I don’t get it,” Guy says.

  Griffin’s grin falters. “Are you kidding? Yogi Bear? Come on. It’s only the greatest cartoon about rangers ever. Jay? Ed? Help me out here.”

  Ignoring Griffin, I nod at Ed. “Gotcha. I’ll grab a canister from here in the morning.”

  Next day, I’m packed and ready. The bear can and my bivy tent take up most of the space in my bag, but I don’t need a change of clothes for the quick trip. Bedroll strapped to the bottom of my day pack, food and water, warm socks and a fleece, and I’m set to go.

  After checking in with the team, I verify my radio is charged and working before heading into the woods.

  For the first few hours of the hike, I’m alone on the trail. No signs of bear tracks. Birds chirp in the colorful canopy of leaves and wind whistles through the mountains under a blue sky.

  This is why I love being a ranger in the Great Smoky Mountains: peace, quiet, and an endless vista of nothing but trees and mountains. No houses, businesses, or even a church steeple. This feels like America before the settlers and colonies. I can lose myself in the idea that I’ve traveled back in time to a land without McDonald’s and Walmart. There’s no such thing as a strip mall, let alone strip-mining to mar the perfect landscape.

  I climb up through the dense woods to an elevation that affords me a view of the surrounding valleys. Pausing to drink from my water bottle, I hear the sound of human voices approaching from around a bend in the trail.

  The Appalachian Trail hikers have a certain look to them at this point in their journey. Unlike the fresh and eager spring starters, the southbound summer hikers have almost two thousand miles behind them. They’re in the home stretch by the time they hit Tennessee and can practically taste the victory awaiting them just over a hundred miles from here in Georgia at the official end of the trail.

  Two thin, wiry, young guys with long, scraggly beards and shaggy, dark hair come into view. Large packs and gear strapped to their backs, they both use hiking poles to navigate the uneven surface of the trail.

  “Morning.” I greet them with a friendly smile.

  “Ah, a sight for sore thighs.” One of them chuckles at his joke. “A ranger by any other name wouldn’t smell so sweet.”

  Did I mention these hikers get a little odd after months of walking?

  “How are you gentlemen doing? Need any assistance?” Scanning for any visible signs of injuries, I note neither appears to have a limp or obvious bandages, nor are they too thin or visibly disoriented. No sign of illness either.

  Before saying more, both take long drinks from the straws of their camel-style water bags.

  “We’re doing good.” The younger of the two gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Where’d you start?” I ask.

  “Katahdin in May,” he replies, subtly shifting his shoulders to adjust his pack.

  I catch the flash of the red thru-hikers tag.

  “Whoa. You’re hardcore.” Hiking in either direction isn’t easy, but beginning in the snow-covered mountains of Maine in spring is considered the more challenging route.

  “First time hiking the AT?” I ask, usin
g the abbreviation favored by most hikers.

  The one with a red bandana holding his hair back answers. “Yep. We graduated from Bowdoin College and headed out the next week.”

  “You’ve made good time,” I tell them, the compliment sincere. Given it takes most hikers five months or more to complete the trail, this is impressive.

  “Once we decided to do the AT, we trained with hikes in the White Mountains for a year,” his friend explains, removing his baseball cap to swipe his brow with the back of his hand.

  The morning started off cool, but the sun is stronger at this altitude and heats up the day, despite the tree cover.

  We chat for a minute or two more before they get restless, eager to continue with their trek.

  As we part, I ask, “Pass any other hikers today?”

  “We stayed at a hut north of Clingmans Dome night before last with three others. You’ll probably encounter them at some point. Two older men and a woman,” Baseball Cap replies.

  “Everyone healthy?” The more information I can get from these two, the better prepared I’ll be if there’s an issue up ahead.

  I’m hopeful the three hikers behind these two will be down from the highest elevation before the storm hits. It’s rare, but snow isn’t out of the question below five thousand feet. The Park Service would all feel better if the AT folks spent a night or two off the trail if the storm’s going to be as bad as predicted.