I love the hat, and don’t even get me started on the badge and patches. They make me ridiculously happy. I never got to be a Girl Scout, but I would’ve rocked the badge sash.
Most of all, I love being able to wear pants every day.
For the first eighteen years of my life, I never wore pants.
Not in the sense of a “no pants” meme.
I mean I was only ever allowed to wear skirts or dresses and nightgowns. My thighs never experienced the joy of cloth-covered separation.
After I left home, one of the first things I bought with my own money was a pair of jeans. Apparently, they’re the gateway to jeggings and leggings and the most sinful of all—shorts.
I can’t fathom being a ranger without pants. Not a pantsless ranger—that I can imagine and whoa, no thank you. Hello, awkward.
I love finding historical black and white photos of women wearing trousers long before it became socially accepted. If clothes make the person, those rebellious women of the past centuries who wore trousers instead of skirts and petticoats are true heroines. There should be a patron saint of these trailblazers, a goddess of pants who smites thigh chafing and cold legs.
Clearly, I’ve given a lot of thought to cloth leg tubes. I’ve spent many quiet hours pondering the idea of modesty and body parts. If we’re all created in God’s image, why are men’s legs less sinful than women’s?
Being a park ranger allows for a lot of time to contemplate these types of questions, especially when I’m stuck manning the information desk at the visitor center on a slow Wednesday. There hasn’t been a single person with a question in over an hour, and I’ve organized the maps and pamphlets twice already. I’ve even written several tweets and posts for our social media.
Staring out the front window, I think about how different my life is now.
Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things.
Sleep in on Sunday mornings.
See movies. Watch TV. Use the internet.
Go to public school.
Wear pants.
My family belongs to a conservative church. I knew we were different than the random strangers we’d bump into at the store. Little girls with butterflies on their T-shirts and ruffles on their shorts would stare at us while we stared back. They probably thought we were strange in our modest, old-fashioned dresses and hair in identical braids.
In hindsight, we were definitely the weird ones.
A soft tone alerts me to someone entering the center. Standing, I slip on my friendly ranger expression, ready to welcome them to the park.
“Hello again.” Odin's voice is warm and oozes charm like honey, not molasses. That metaphor is forever ruined by the beverage that shall not be called coffee.
“Hello,” I reply, friendly but professionally reserved. We haven’t seen each other since our brief encounter at Genie’s, so I’m pretending I hardly remember him. I won't fall for his easy charm and those cheekbones he wields like weapons. “What can I do for you today?”
His warm brown eyes hold my gaze, a challenge or a concession in his expression. Perhaps both.
“I … ” He starts and then stops before beginning again, “I'm … ”
I wait for him to continue.
“I’m sorry, but didn’t we meet at the community center last month and again at Genie’s? Maybe I’m mistaking you for another Ranger Baum.” He points at my name tag.
“Oh, right. You have the pig,” I say with impressive casualness.
“You do remember me.” His mouth widens into a genuine smile. “Or at least Patsy.”
“She is memorable.”
He flinches slightly, probably not used to women not swooning over him and his charms. He worries his bottom lip and dips his chin, angling his face in a way that makes him appear less intimidating and sweeter.
Must remain impartial.
Griffin’s warning echoes through my head.
“Been hiking today?” I point to his backpack which appears to sag under its heavy weight. Maybe he’s training for a longer trek? We’re close to the Appalachian Trail and get a lot of long-distance hikers in the area, not that he seems the type. Whatever that means.
“Uh, yeah. Hit the Cooper trail area this morning before it got too warm out there. Guess I underestimated.” He lifts his cap and swipes a hand through his hair. The shaggy blond curls are mostly contained in a low pony tail but a few have escaped and cling to the damp skin of his neck.
Rangers are trained in basic emergency medicine, and I scan him for signs of heat exhaustion. Because I’m a professional. Not because I’m ogling.
Overall, he appears flushed. Sweat has dampened spots on his faded navy T-shirt and he’s wearing jeans, not shorts or hiking pants. A long-sleeved plaid shirt is tied around his waist.
He takes a hearty chug of water from the reusable bottle he slides out of a side pocket of the pack, his throat bobs as he swallows. Not all men have a well-defined Adam’s apple, but Odin does. It’s almost sculptural in its perfection of what an Adam’s apple should be.
Is there nothing flawed about his physical form? Can’t he have bunions or knobby knees? A third nipple? Something to prove he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.
Finished drinking, he wipes the back of his hand across his wide mouth and beard. My attention remains on his face, specifically his lips. I’m staring, and we both know it.
Needing a distraction to cut through the awkward silence between us, I glance behind his legs, half-expecting to see his pet pig. “No Patsy today?”
“No, I brought my dog with me. Want to meet him? I left him tied up outside next to the water bowl.” He points at the door. Sure enough there’s a brown and white mop of a dog staring at us through the glass.
“Okay.” I sound hesitant, probably because I’m still confused by Odin’s appearance. I’ve worked here for months and have never seen him. Now he’s randomly showing up and inviting me to meet his dog.
I’ve never gotten the feeling he particularly likes me, yet I find myself following him out the door. Who isn’t a sucker for a cute puppy?
Chapter Ten
Odin
“What kind of dog is he?” Daphne squats, stroking Roman’s side where he’s lying across her feet. Her fingers slip through the brown and white curls of his coat, and the jerk lifts his dark head and gives me a self-satisfied look.
Yeah, I might be jealous of my dog right now, and he knows it.
“He’s an Italian water dog.”
“I’ve never heard of that breed before.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.”
“Not really. Roman’s a working dog. Bonus that he doesn’t shed. Think of him like an Italian poodle. In a way, he is.”
“Like a noodle-doodle?” She laughs at her own joke.
I laugh despite not really getting the humor. “I guess?”
“You know … Goldendoodle, Labradoodle, Schnitzerdoodle—all the oodle mixes that are super popular right now? I can keep listing them if you’d find it helpful. You basically take a breed and add ‘oodle’ to the end.” At least she’s amusing herself.
“Got it. Think of him as the great-great-great-grandfather to the oodles of the world. He can trace his lineage back generations in Italy.”