We dance and laugh until I’m a breathless heap on the couch. He sits next to me, a happy smile on his flushed face.
“Thank you. That was fun.”
“You’re welcome. Glad you enjoyed yourself. Still nervous about the party?” He picks up my legs and swings them over his lap.
“Is the rest of your family as wonderful as you?”
His happy energy disappears.
“I’m the black sheep,” he says flatly. “The prodigal son without the triumphant welcome upon my return.”
“Aren’t you the one who was called when your cousin was hustling pool at Genie’s?”
“Only because Joe knows me well, which isn’t a great character reference.”
I persist. “He must think you’re responsible enough to take care of Gracie. Why not call your aunt?”
His brows draw together. “Samantha wouldn’t be … ” He pauses. “Sympathetic, let’s say, to getting that phone call. More likely to make things much worse for Gracie. As it was, her sister Willa arrived as I was escorting her out of the bar.”
“You’re not proving me wrong.” I give him a satisfied grin. “If anything, you’ve solidified my opinion.”
“Willa had her own wild streak. Ran away from home as a teenager. I’d already been gone a couple years.”
“Sounds like the Hills have a reputation for being wild teens.”
“Bad apples fallen from the same family tree.”
“What about as grown-ups?” I ask, still curious.
“Some of us settle down sooner than others.” He shrugs, dismissing my attempt to pry for more and muttering something too quiet for me to hear.
I give him a sharp look.
“Stop making me out to be some sort of hero. There was a long span of my life where I was the last person you’d call if you needed a hand, a favor, or a friend. Looking back at my early twenties, I don’t have many bridges left intact.”
Silently, I wait him out.
“Every generation of Hill men has a black sheep, and the general consensus among the family is I’m the lucky bastard this go-around. Samantha’s husband, my father’s brother, was—is—? Who knows if he’s even still alive—the black sheep for their generation. Left his wife and four daughters behind in Green Valley and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work.” I’m mad on their behalf.
“The difference between my uncle and me is he stayed gone like last week’s garbage. I came back.”
“Isn’t the same true for your cousin Willa?”
He reluctantly agrees. “I guess our roots are here. Anyway, enough about me and my messed up family. Where’s home for you?”
Ignoring the bigger question, I go for the simple answer. “You already know this—I live in the ranger cabins.”
I cringe at the memory of him finding me in the woods, high on Benadryl and smelling of skunk.
“That’s not what I asked. Where is your soul’s home? Where do you feel most like yourself?”
I blink at him and then close my lids, trying to imagine the feeling he described. Forests and rock-strewn streams come to mind, but I can’t decide on one particular place. After a few seconds, I open my eyes and refocus on him.
He waits for my answer with lifted brows.
“I’m not sure. I’ve moved around a lot, not staying in one place for a long time.”
“Maybe you haven’t found your dirt yet.”
“Right now, I’d say the Smokies, but it’s a big area. Two years ago, I might’ve said Yellowstone. Before that, the Grand Canyon.”
He considers me, dragging his thumb along the patch of skin between his bottom lip and the edge of his beard.
I feel like I’ve failed an important test. “Can I give my answer another time?”
“It’s no big deal. Not everyone thinks the way I do. Most people who manage to leave this area never come back. Teachers encourage their best and brightest students to go off to college, probably knowing once the kids get a taste of the world, they’ll have a better life outside of Appalachia. I imagine people lost money when I decided to return.”
“What do you mean?” He speaks in riddles and clues. I want to piece him together and solve the puzzle of Odin.
“I blew out of town at seventeen, an angry tornado, weaving a random path of destruction wherever I landed. Didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone, only cared about getting away from here. I burned my bridges and left nothing but ashes and scorched earth behind me.” He sweeps his hand over his jaw and then scratches near his temple. “Funny thing about that metaphor.”
“What’s that?” My voice remains calm, but inside I’m hopeful he’ll reveal more about himself.
“Have you ever seen a forest after a fire?”
I nod. “Fire training is part of ranger academy.”
“Of course. Then you know soil becomes more fertile after a fire. A burn will clear out the crowded undergrowth, sparing some of the mature trees. Scorched earth doesn’t mean nothing will ever grow again. In fact, it’s a good thing.”
“Unlike a lava flow.”
“Exactly. A devastating eruption destroys all life in its path.”
“Be a fire, not a volcano.”
He nods, a small, knowing smile curling his lips. “I thought I was a volcano. I wanted to leave destruction in my wake so I could never return to the same place.”
“And instead?”
“I came back.” He gives another one of his dismissive shrugs.
“And?” I prompt again.
“I rediscovered myself in the ashes of my former life. Not in my childhood—those deep roots and giant trunks remaine—but in the life I thought I wanted, which turned out to be nothing but kindling for the blaze that nearly incinerated my existence.”
Our eyes lock. He’s telling me everything, and yet I know nothing more than I did a moment ago.
His attention slips over my shoulder. “Did you know a few years ago there was a huge fire in the Smokies? Thousands of acres burned.”
“I remember hearing about it. I was in Montana then, or was it Arizona?” My years blur together unless I can place myself by location.
“Do you know what came after the fire?”
There are several answers I could give, but somehow I sense all of them will be wrong.
“Morels.”
“The mushroom?”
“Exactly. One of the best seasons in recent memory. Huge, glorious morels pushed their caps through the blackened, ash-coated soil. The flavor was incredible, like nothing I’ve tasted before or since.”
“You talk about fungi the way some men speak about women.”
His eyes light up. “A man should have more than one passion in life.”
He pounces, playfully pressing me into the couch cushions, pinning me with his hips as he lays a row of hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck.
I decide in this moment I could get burned by Odin Hill and be okay.
Whatever pain and heartache I’d face would be worth having him look at me like I’m his.
Chapter Twenty-Nine