Page 2 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Two

Rowan

" A bsolutely not."

I cross my arms, leaning against the maintenance shed where I was peacefully organizing equipment before Liam tracked me down. The morning sun filters through the pines, promising another clear day perfect for working on the back trails. Perfect for avoiding chatty guests with their ridiculous dogs and even more ridiculous story ideas.

"Come on, Row." Liam gives me his best older-brother look, the one he perfected after Dad died. "It's a simple request."

"Then you do it." I grab my work gloves, fully intending to escape to the far side of the property. "You're the one who's good with guests."

"I'm needed at the lodge. Besides," he adds with infuriating logic, "you're the one who knows these trails better than anyone. Even Connor."

"That's because I maintain them. Alone. The way I like it."

"Janet McKenzie specifically asked for our help." Mom's voice makes me freeze halfway through gathering my tools. She appears in the doorway of the shed, morning light catching the silver in her hair. "You remember Janet?"

Of course I remember Janet. She used to slip me extra cookies in the lodge's restaurant when I was hiding from guests as a kid, letting me read in the quiet corner booth until I was ready to face people again.

"The editor," I say, already knowing I'm fighting a losing battle.

"Daisy's editor," Mom confirms, her eyes twinkling in a way that makes me immediately suspicious. "She's been coming here for twenty years, Rowan. When she mentioned her newest author was struggling with inspiration..."

"Mom."

"...and needed someone who really knows these mountains..."

"Mom."

"...well, I couldn't say no." She steps into the shed, straightening my flannel collar the way she has since I was small. "Janet helped us through some rough times after your father passed. Those retreat bookings she sent our way kept the lodge going that first winter."

I close my eyes, already feeling my resolve crumbling. "The woman doesn't even have proper hiking boots."

"Then teach her what she needs." Mom's hand rests on my cheek, and I lean into it despite myself. "You used to love sharing the magic of these mountains, remember? Before..."

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to. Before Dad died. Before I retreated into the quiet work of maintaining the trails. Before I decided it was easier to keep my distance from everyone except family.

"She thinks she's in a romance novel," I mutter, which makes Liam snort.

"I saw her notebook," he says. "Covered in woodland creature stickers. And that dog of hers tried to chase one of the garden rabbits this morning."

"Rascal," I say without thinking, then catch Mom's knowing look. "The dog," I clarify quickly. "Its name is Rascal."

"Mhmm." Mom examines a rack of hiking poles. "You know, Janet mentioned Daisy's been having trouble with confidence lately. Bad breakup. Ex told her writing children's books wasn't a 'real' career."

"That's not my problem."

"No," Mom agrees mildly. "But you've always been good at helping lost things find their way. Remember that baby deer?"

"I was twelve, Mom."

"And you sat with it for hours until its mother came back." She selects a hiking pole, tests its weight. "You've got a gentle heart, Rowan Callahan, no matter how much you try to hide it under all that flannel."

"She's going to get herself hurt out there," I protest, but it's weak and we all know it.

"Then keep her safe." Liam claps me on the shoulder. "Show her the right trails. Teach her what she needs to know." He pauses. "And maybe try using more than three words at a time?"

I glare at him. "I can be social."

"Sure you can, little brother." He grins. "That's why you're hiding in the maintenance shed at nine in the morning."

"I'm not hiding. I'm working."

"Of course you are." Mom holds out the hiking pole. "Janet says Daisy needs about two weeks of research. That's all we're asking. Show her the safe trails, answer her questions about the local wildlife, make sure she doesn't wander off a cliff while writing about talking squirrels or whatever it is she's working on."

"Two weeks?" I take the pole, already resigned to my fate. "That's fourteen days of keeping a city girl with no survival instincts alive in the wilderness."

"Look at it this way," Liam says, clearly enjoying this too much. "It'll give you plenty of chances to practice your people skills."

I send him a look that would wither most people, but he just laughs. Oldest brothers are immune to that sort of thing.

"She's having breakfast on the terrace," Mom says, patting my arm. "I told her you'd meet her there at ten to discuss a research schedule."

"You what?"

"And I made sure the kitchen packed extra muffins." She rises on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. "Your favorites. The blueberry ones."

"That's playing dirty, Mom."

"I prefer to think of it as using all available resources." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Rowan? Try to smile occasionally. It won't kill you."

I watch them go, Mom's arm linked through Liam's, their heads bent together in conversation. Through the trees, I can make out the lodge's terrace, where a figure in another ridiculous sweater is sharing her slice of quiche with a certain sweater-wearing dog.

Two weeks.

I check my watch. Forty-five minutes until I have to attempt civil conversation with the walking disaster who thinks she's wandered into one of her romance novels.

Maybe I can convince her to write about something safer. Like butterflies. Or rocks.

Ten o'clock finds me standing at the edge of the terrace, watching Hurricane Daisy organize what appears to be the contents of a craft store across one of our rustic wooden tables. Colored pens spill from a woodland-themed pencil case, sticky notes flutter in the morning breeze, and at least three notebooks—all decorated with different forest animals—compete for space with her half-eaten breakfast.

"You're early!" She beams up at me like I'm a gift the universe has personally delivered. "I was getting my research setup ready."

I eye a stack of what appear to be romance novels with suspicious-looking mountain men on their covers. "Research?"

"Oh, these?" She blushes slightly, tucking them under a notebook covered in cartoon bears. "Background material. For atmosphere."

Rascal, who's been dozing in a patch of sunlight, perks up at my arrival. He bounces over, tangling himself in the legs of three different chairs before reaching me.

"Traitor," Daisy mutters as I automatically bend to scratch behind his ears. "He usually takes days to warm up to people."

"Dogs are good judges of character." I straighten up, trying to ignore how her answering smile makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "We need to go over some basics before I let you anywhere near the trails again."

"Let me?" One eyebrow arches challengingly. "I don't actually need permission to walk in the woods, you know."

"No, but you do need a guide if you want to access the private trails." I tap the trail map spread across her table. "The ones with the best wildlife viewing spots. The ones you won't find on public maps."

She practically bounces in her seat. "There are secret trails?"

"Private," I correct, but she's already scribbling in one of her notebooks.

"The mysterious guardian of the forest protects ancient pathways..." she mutters as she writes.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking notes! This is perfect for my story. The grumpy forest spirit who?—"

"I'm not a forest spirit." I drag over a chair, trying to maintain my last shred of patience. "I'm the groundskeeper. And you need proper gear before we go anywhere."

Daisy looks down at her current outfit. She’s wearing another oversized sweater, this one with tiny embroidered mushrooms, and what appear to be leggings covered in constellations. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Everything." I pull out the list I made earlier. "You need real hiking boots. Moisture-wicking layers. A proper daypack with emergency supplies. A compass?—"

"I have a phone."

"Phones die. Batteries fail. Electronics aren't reliable in the backcountry."

"Backcountry?" Her eyes widen. "That sounds intense."

"It's what's beyond the marked trails." I try not to notice how the morning light brings out gold flecks in her hazel eyes. "Where the real wildlife is. Where you'll actually see the kinds of interactions you want to write about."

She leans forward eagerly, and a strand of hair escapes her messy bun. I resist the inexplicable urge to tuck it back.

"Like what?"

"Like deer teaching their fawns to forage. Fox kits playing. Bears?—"

"Bears?" Rascal's head pops up from where he's been investigating my boots.

"They're more scared of you than you are of them." I pause. "Usually."

She narrows her eyes. "Are you messing with me?"

"Would I do that?"

"Yes," she says immediately. "You absolutely would. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"That barely-there smile that means you're secretly laughing at the city girl." She props her chin on her hand. "I'm very observant, you know. It's a writer thing."

I force my expression back to neutral, ignoring the way my lips want to curve up. "Are you going to let me teach you about wilderness safety or not?"

"Fine." She pulls out a fresh notebook—this one decorated with owls—and uncaps a pen topped with a fuzzy pompom. "Teach me, O Wise Guardian of the Secret Trails."

"Private trails."

"That's what I said." She grins. "And I promise to take excellent notes. Even if you're not actually a mysterious forest spirit."

"I'm not mysterious anything."

"Says the man who literally emerged from the woods to rescue me yesterday."

"I was marking trail boundaries."

"Mhmm." She actually winks at me. "That's exactly what a mysterious forest guardian would say."

I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But something about her infectious enthusiasm makes it hard to maintain my usual wall of gruff indifference.

"First rule," I say firmly, trying to get us back on track. "Always tell someone where you're going and when you'll be back."

She scribbles in her notebook, then holds it up to show me a doodle of what appears to be a very grumpy bear wearing flannel. "Like this?"

"Are you actually taking notes, or just drawing me as woodland creatures?"

"Both?" She adds a little trail marker to her doodle. "I'm a visual learner."

I drag a hand down my face. "This is going to be a long two weeks."

"Oh, come on." She nudges my boot with her impractical shoe. "Think how boring your day would be without me to rescue."

"Peaceful," I correct. "The word you're looking for is peaceful."

But she's already moved on, sketching what might be Rascal chasing a squirrel while simultaneously adding another sticky note to her research pile. Her energy is exhausting. And absolutely not endearing. At all.

"Second rule," I say, mostly to distract myself from the way she bites her lip when she's concentrating. "Proper gear is non-negotiable."

She looks up through her lashes. "Does this mean we're going shopping?"

"This means I'm taking you to the activity center to get properly equipped before you break an ankle in those..." I gesture at her current footwear.

"They're boots!"

"They're fashion statements with delusions of grandeur."

That startles a laugh out of her, bright and genuine, and something in my chest tightens. This is exactly what I don't need. Two weeks of sunshine and chaos disrupting my carefully ordered world.

"Fine," she says, gathering her explosion of research materials. "Lead the way, Grumpy Bear."

"Don't call me that."

"Would you prefer Mysterious Forest Spirit? Guardian of the Ancient Paths? Flannel-Clad Protector of?—"

"Rowan," I cut in. "My name is Rowan."

She falls into step beside me, Rascal prancing between us. "For now," she says with another of those dangerous smiles. "But I reserve the right to upgrade you to forest guardian status in my book."