CHAPTER 1
Neely
IeasemyRVaround the last curve of the access road, and there it is, Ponderosa Flats Campground, forty-two sites tucked under pines so tall they make my rig look like a toy. The host site sits just past the entrance kiosk, with its level gravel pad, water and electric hookups, and a picnic table that looks recently sanded.
I back into the spot like a pro, nailing it on my first attempt, set the brake, and sit for a minute with my hands still on the wheel. I peer through the windshield to take in the beautiful view.
Home sweet home.For now, anyway.
This is stop number eleven. Or twelve, if I count the four days in Ouray that ended when the campground flooded and closed for the season.
"Idaho for fourteen weeks," I tell the dashboard. "Then on to Oregon."
The dashboard doesn't argue. It never does. That's one of its best qualities.
I've got the water hooked up, and I'm wrestling the sewer hose out of its bay when a green Forest Service truck rolls in and parks beside the campground kiosk. The park ranger who climbs out is the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Tall, broad through the shoulders, dark hair cut short…damn.His uniform fitsjustright, better than a tailored thousand-dollar suitevercould. The sleeves are rolled up, showcasing sexy-as-hell forearms.
Girl, you’re practically salivating over forearms. Get a hold of yourself.
"Neely Quinn?" he says.
"That's me." I straighten up, still holding the sewer hose, which is not the accessory I'd have chosen for this moment. "You must be the ranger."
"Tate Benton." He doesn't offer a handshake right away. Instead, he glances at my hookup, at the hose, at the angle of my rig on the pad, one quick pass, like he's cataloging every detail. Then he steps over, picks up the support cradle I hadn't gotten to yet, and sets it under the hose line where it needs to go. No comment. No lesson attached. He just does it and then holds out his hand.
"Welcome to Ponderosa Flats."
His grip is warm and careful, the handshake of a man who knows his strength and doesn’t want to intimidate. His eyes are the problem, though. They're steady on me in a way that feels less like a greeting and more like being read.
"Linda, the town manager, said you've hosted before," he says.
"Eleven campgrounds in four years. Colorado, Utah, Oregon, two summers in New Mexico." I brush my hands on my jeans. "I have lots of experience.”
"Good." His mouth quirks up at the corners, almost a smile. "Then this'll be fast."
It is not fast.
Tate Benton conducts an orientation the way I imagine he'd conduct a search and rescue. He’s extremely thorough, and no details are skipped. We walk the loops, checking out each campsite, while he talks. He informs me that quiet hours begin at 10:00 PM. We go through the fee station procedures. The vault toilets get serviced on Tuesdays, and if the pumper truck is late, I’m to call Ollie at the maintenance shop, not the county, because the county will put me on hold until September.
“Ollie’s the one who gets things done around here,” Tate says. “He’s a bit scatterbrained and tends to jump from one project to another, so you have to stay on him. But he’s a great guy and does great work.”
I bob my head. “Got it.”
At the day-use lot, he hands me a radio. "Cell service is non-existent here, so this is your lifeline. Channel one is dispatch, that's Tessa, she's faster than 911 up here. Channel three reaches me. Radio checks every morning at eight. If I don't hear from you by eight fifteen, I come looking.”
"Punctuality is very important to you. Got it.”
The corners of his mouth twitch again. Still, it’s not quite a smile. "It’s at least fourteen miles to the nearest spot with good cell service," he says. "Up here, a missed check-in could be really bad news. So, we take them seriously.”
I clip the radio to my belt and try not to notice how much I like the weight of it. It feels so…official.Like I’m a cop or something, and not just a temporary campground host.
We continue walking, and Tate moves on to the food storage lecture. Apparently, it’s even more important than the radio checks. Every site has a bear box made of steel and bolted to concrete. Anything with a scent goes in the box, which must be securely latched, or into a hard-sided vehicle. Coolers, trash, dog food, citronella candles, and even toothpastemustbe locked up tight to keep bears from hanging around the campground.
"Campers will tell you their fancy, overpriced cooler is bear-proof," he says. "It isn't. If you get pushback, you don't have to win the argument. You call me, and I’ll win it."
I bristle at that. "I can handle campers.”
"I believe you." He sounds sincere, which mollifies me a bit. "But there's a reason I'm being a pain about this one. We've had a young black bear in the area for about three weeks. He’s on his own. Probably just got kicked loose by his mother. He's found trash twice that we know of. Once at the campground, and once at the trailhead parking lot. Both times, it was due to human error."
