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"I wasn't going to fall—"
"From two thousand and seven to two thousand and eighteen, three-hundred-and-thirty-five people died in falls and slips on National Park Land."
"Really? How many people have died from falls inthispark?"
"One less today, thanks to me."
I huff out a breath against his bare neck and goosebumps rise on his skin. "You're the one who almost made me fall. I was perfectly okay until-"
"All it took was a few words from me and you almost fell to your death. What if a deer had come crashing through the brush or a squirrel dropped an acorn on your head? What if a big gust of wind made you lose your balance? The gusts against the cliff side can be fierce and create an updraft and—"
"Uncle." I drop my head against his back.
"Huh?"
"If I promise never to stand so close to the edge of a cliff again, will you please, for the love of nut-eating squirrels, shut the hell up?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Yup."
"Fine. I solemnly swear, Ranger whose name I hope to never know, that I will never, ever stand on the edge of a cliff again. My life will be less exciting and I'll miss the beauty of feeling like I'm standing on the edge of the world—"
Ranger lets go of my legs and I hang onto his shoulders for a second before I lose my grip and slide down his back.
I land on my ass in a pile of dust.
"What the hell, Ranger? You can't—"
"Pack your shit," he says. "I'll carry you to your car."
One look at the area around us and I realize we're back at the campsite. Clearly, I was nowhere near as lost as I thought I was. I'd actually been worried I'd be stuck wandering the woods all day.
Not that I'd tried too hard to find my way back. I'd hoped Ranger would get bored waiting for me or called out on an emergency, like a camper peeing within a hundred feet of a hiking trail.
I push to stand, any residual dizziness gone, but my stomach roils with the movement. "I wasn't trying to kill myself." I take a few tentative steps toward my sleeping bag and pack, but the lightheadedness returns and I stumble. Before I have food and coffee in the morning, I'm pretty useless.
"Sit," Ranger growls. "I'll pack up for you."
"I'm fine. I can pack my own bag."
He ignores me, kneels next to my sleeping bag, and starts rolling it up.
I sit and let him do it, because it's clear he's neither listening to me nor interested in my opinion. God, I hate guys like him. Men who think women are pretty props who should shut up and let the big strong guys protect them.
He rolls my sleeping bag, neatly and quickly, with no excess bag poking out like there always is when I do it. He must roll sleeping bags a lot. Probably the sleeping bags of all the poor tourists he kicks out of his campsites.
I am not embarrassed when he stuffs my water bottle and ereader into my ratty backpack and three fingers of his right hand poke through a hole. Not at all.
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, before pulling his hand back through and grabbing my sleeping bag.
"Wow," I say. "I didn't realize forest rangers are such snobs."
"Not a snob." He puts my sleeping bag into my pack in such a way that it blocks the hole. "Just wondering how much trash fell out of that hole and into my forest while you were stumbling around in it."
"Nowhere near as much trash as comes out of your mouth on a daily basis if I have to guess."
"At least I limit my trash to verbiage and not literal trash I wear and drop all over the forest."
I jump to my feet with an outraged huff and grab my bag before he can finish zipping it up.
