"You called meyourcampground host,” I blurt out, emphasizing theyour.
He looks over at me, and there's the full smile, finally, the one I've been getting fractions of all week.It was soooo worth the wait.
"You are my campground host," he says. "For fourteen weeks."
When he drives away into the dark, I force myself not to watch his taillights disappear around the bend. It’s good that he’sleaving. Tate Benton makes me feel…confused? Unbalanced? All of the above?
I make my last round at ten. The camp has settled. Fires die down to orange embers, an owl hoots in the distance, and frogs begin their nighttime lullaby. When I’m back at the RV, I wash my face, pull on the shirt I sleep in, and write four hundred words of a new novel.The hero seems to resemble a handsome park ranger…
I push the thought aside and close my laptop.
I'm reaching for the light when I hear a noise outside my camper.
Something moves through the brush behind the host pad. A stick cracks. Then the specific, unmistakable scrape of claws testing the lid of my storage bay.
My RV, myhome,which has been my source of freedom for so long, suddenly feels unsafe with its thin walls.
The radio is on the counter, two steps away, the little green light steady in the dark. I take the two steps, and call Channel 3.
CHAPTER 4
Tate
Hervoicecomesoverchannel three at 10:52, and I'm reaching for my boots before she finishes saying my name.
"Tate, it's Neely at Ponderosa. Something big was clawing at my storage bay." A pause, and then, steadier than most trained people manage, "I'm inside, doors locked, food's properly stored.”
"Copy. Stay inside, keep your lights on, and make noise if it touches the rig again. Banging on a pot works well. I'm eight minutes out." I say all this as I’m dashing to the truck. Sliding behind the wheel, I add, "You did everything right."
"I know," she says.
I want to tell her how sexy her confidence is, but now’s not the time.
No time is the time, I remind myself.She’s the campground host. We have to work together. And she’s only here for a few months.
I make it to her campsite in six minutes flat.
Her lights are on, and I see her peering out at me through her kitchen window. I shine my spotlight around the campsite and see nothing. The bear seems to have moved on. I step out of the truck with the light in one hand and the air horn in the other and begin walking the perimeter of her site. The story's there in the dirt again.Second verse, same as the first…
There are tracks along the back of the pad. A smeared print and some scratches on the storage bay where he unsuccessfully tried to get in.
I spot more tracks, this time leading away toward Loop A. I follow them, walking with exaggerated, loud footsteps to keep from surprising the hungry bear. A few yards down, at site four, I find a bag of dry dog food sitting on the ground beside a truck. It’s been ripped open like a piñata.
The dog is losing its mind inside the camper, but the bear is long gone with a full belly.
Dammit. Why can’t people just follow the rules?
I walk back to Neely’s site and knock on her door with the flat of my hand, twice, easy. "Neely. It's me."
The door opens and she's there in sleep shorts and a worn gray shirt, hair loose, arms crossed. I had every intention of just calming her nerves after the bear encounter, but I’m too distracted by the sight of her bare legs and a thin shirt that clings enough to show the peaks of her nipples to say anything at all.
It’s a miracle I’m not drooling.
Her forehead furrows. “Well? See anything?”
I clear my throat. "He got into a bag of dog food that was left outside at site four. Your storage bay is fine. Just has a few scratches and a story to tell.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “That’s a relief, I guess.”
