Page 3 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Three

Daisy

" A nd that one?" I point to a brilliant orange flower peeking through the morning mist. "Please tell me it has a dramatic name. Something like Dragon's Breath or Sunset's Kiss."

"Butterfly weed," Rowan says, not breaking his stride.

I scribble in my notebook, adding a quick sketch. "That's disappointingly practical."

"Plants don't care what we call them."

"Says you." I hurry to catch up, which is harder than it should be in my new hiking boots. They're sturdy and sensible and completely adorable, even if Rowan rolled his eyes at the pale purple laces I swapped in this morning. "Everything deserves a little magic."

He glances back at me, and I swear I catch a hint of amusement in those forest-green eyes. "Even butterfly weed?"

"Especially butterfly weed." I flip to a fresh page, already imagining the possibilities. "Maybe it's actually a rare flower that only blooms when brave little butterflies complete their first solo flight."

Rascal yips in apparent agreement, straining at his leash to investigate yet another fascinating bush. I've already filled three pages with potential woodland characters inspired by his adventures.

"You're anthropomorphizing again," Rowan says, but there's less grump in his tone than yesterday.

"Big word for this early in the morning." I catch up to him at last, slightly out of breath. For someone who claims he's just here to keep me alive, he sets a pretty demanding pace. "And yes, I am. It's kind of my job."

He stops so suddenly I nearly run into him. "There's movement in those bushes. Watch."

I follow his gaze to where the undergrowth rustles slightly. A moment later, a small head pokes out. It’s a groundhog, its whiskers twitching as it surveys its domain.

"Oh," I breathe, frantically flipping pages. "Oh, he's perfect. Look at his little face! He needs a name. And a backstory. Maybe he's the mayor of the woodland council, all proper and important..."

"You're going to scare him," Rowan whispers, but he doesn't move away when I inch closer to his side for a better view.

"Gordon," I decide. "He looks like a Gordon. Very distinguished. Probably wears a waistcoat and pocket watch when humans aren't looking."

The groundhog sits up on its haunches, and I swear it's giving me the same exasperated look Rowan usually wears. Then it spots Rascal and darts back into its burrow.

"Gordon's shy," I note, adding detail to my sketch. "Probably because he's carrying the weight of all woodland governance on his tiny shoulders."

A sound suspiciously like a choked laugh comes from beside me. When I look up, Rowan's face is carefully neutral, but his eyes are dancing.

"What? You don't think groundhogs can be mayors?"

"I think," he says, starting down the trail again, "that you should focus on where you're putting your feet instead of making up political systems for rodents."

I follow him, adding a little top hat to Gordon's portrait. "You know, for someone who claims to dislike whimsy, you sure know a lot about these woods. Like a real-life field guide." I gasp as inspiration strikes. "Oh! You could be the mysterious narrator in my book! The voice of the forest, guiding young readers through?—"

"No."

"But—"

"Absolutely not."

"You wouldn't have to do anything," I wheedle, skipping ahead to walk backward in front of him. "Just share all your woodland wisdom. Like how you knew that cardinal was building a nest yesterday, or how you can tell which mushrooms are friendly..."

"Mushrooms aren't friendly or unfriendly. They're just funghi." But his lips twitch slightly. "And you're about to trip over that root."

Strong hands catch my elbows as I inevitably stumble. For a moment, we're close enough that I catch the scent of pine and something spicy. His soap, maybe. He steadies me but doesn't immediately let go.

"Thanks," I manage, suddenly very aware of how solid he is. "My hero."

He drops his hands like I've burned him. "You need to watch where you're going."

"Hard to do that when there's so much to see." I gesture at the forest around us, dappled in morning light. "Look at this place. It's like something out of a fairy tale."

"It's a normal forest."

"Nothing about this is normal." I spot a cluster of tiny purple flowers and dart over to investigate. "Everything here has a story. Like these little guys. They're definitely fairy tea cups."

"Wood sorrel."

"Boring. They're definitely fairy tea cups." I touch one delicate bloom. "Used for midnight ceremonies under the full moon..."

When I look up, Rowan's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. It's softer than his usual grumpiness, almost wistful.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "You really see magic in everything, don't you?"

"Don't you?" I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "I mean, look around. How can you walk these trails every day and not see the stories?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've finally pushed too far past his gruff exterior. But then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, "Mom used to say the same thing."

Something in his tone makes my heart squeeze. Before I can ask, a flash of movement catches my eye.

"Oh! Was that a rabbit? Quick, we have to follow it! It might be late for a very important date..."

Rowan groans, but he's already adjusting our course to track the rabbit. "You're exhausting, you know that?"

"You love it," I say without thinking, then feel my cheeks heat. "I mean, you know, for research purposes."

"Research. Right." Is it my imagination, or did his ears just turn pink? "Try to keep up, city girl. And stop naming the local wildlife."

"Never," I declare, already sketching the rabbit's potential tea party attire. "Every creature needs a name. Even grumpy forest guardians who pretend not to believe in magic."

This time I definitely hear him laugh, just a quick huff of amusement, but it feels like victory. Rascal barks happily, as if celebrating my success in cracking Rowan's facade.

"Come on," he says, but the grumpiness sounds forced now. "There's a clearing ahead where we sometimes see deer."

"Ooh, perfect! I need to interview some of Gordon's constituents about his mayorial policies..."

"Daisy."

"Yes, O Serious One?"

He looks skyward like he's praying for patience. "Try not to fall into any more holes while politically polling the wildlife."

"No promises!" I sing-song, already imagining the deer's elaborate voting system. "But that's why I have you, right? My very own wilderness guide and walking field guide and?—"

"And someone who's seriously reconsidering his life choices," he mutters, but I catch that ghost of a smile again.

"You know what this clearing needs?" I tap my pen against my notebook thoughtfully. "A fairy ring. You know, those circles of mushrooms where magical creatures dance under the moonlight?"

"What it needs," Rowan says with exaggerated patience, "is for you to stay on the path I showed you."

"But the lighting is so much better over there." I point to a patch of sunlight dancing through the leaves. "Perfect for sketching. And Rascal wants to explore too, don't you buddy?"

My dog's already straining toward the inviting grass, tail wagging hopefully. Before Rowan can protest, I follow Rascal's lead, picking my way through what looks like perfectly innocent undergrowth.

"Daisy." Rowan's voice carries that special tone of exasperation he seems to reserve just for me. "That's not?—"

The ground suddenly turns squishy under my new boots. "Oh!" I take another step and feel the earth give way. "Definitely not solid!"

"That's what I was trying to tell you." Rowan's already moving toward us, looking thoroughly done with my existence. "It's a seasonal creek bed. The ground's still saturated from?—"

Rascal chooses this moment to spot something fascinating in the bushes. He lunges forward, yanking the leash from my surprised grip. I wobble, arms windmilling, and then?—

"Eep!"

Strong arms catch me as my feet slide out from under me. For a brief, mortifying moment, I'm pressed against Rowan's chest, my hands clutching his flannel shirt while my boots make sad squelching noises in the mud.

"Are you physically incapable of following directions?" He steadies me but doesn't immediately let go, probably because I'm still swaying like a drunk penguin. "Or do you just enjoy testing my reflexes?"

"Would you believe me if I said this was for research?" I try for an innocent smile. "You know, experiencing nature up close and personal?"

He makes that sound that's half groan, half laugh. "The only thing you're experiencing is mud. He looks over my shoulder and sighs heavily. "Your dog is tangled in brambles."

Sure enough, Rascal's managed to weave himself into what looks like the world's most complicated macramé project, his leash creating an impressive web through thorny bushes. He gives us his best 'I regret nothing' expression, tail still wagging.

"Oh, sweetie." I take a step toward him and nearly slip again.

"Stay." Rowan's command freezes me in place. "Don't move. At all. Let me handle this before you both end up requiring actual rescue."

I watch as he carefully picks his way through the boggy ground, moving with an ease that makes me deeply jealous. He reaches Rascal and starts gently working him free, those big hands impossibly careful with my tiny dog.

"You're kind of good at this," I observe, unable to help myself. "The whole rescuing thing. Very heroic. Like a rugged mountain version of a knight in shining?—"

"If you finish that sentence with 'armor,' I'm leaving you both out here."

"Flannel," I amend, grinning. "I was going to say flannel."

He shoots me a look that probably sends bears running for cover, but I notice he's still being incredibly gentle as he untangles Rascal's leash from the brambles.

"There should be a warning sign," I say, partly to distract myself from how attractive his competence is. "You know, 'Beware of Deceptively Squishy Ground' or 'Here There Be Mud' or?—"

"There is a sign." He points to a marker I definitely didn't notice earlier. "And a clearly marked path. Which you ignored."

"In my defense, the light really is better over here."

"The light." He finally frees Rascal, who immediately tries to chase a butterfly. "You left the safe, dry path for better light."

"I'm an artist! Light is important for capturing the magic of the forest. Why are you looking at me like that?"

His expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation. "I've known you for exactly three days, and I've already had to rescue you from getting lost, falling down a ravine, and now drowning in mud. How are you still alive?"

"Luck and charm?" I offer brightly. When his frown deepens, I add, "And apparently a very dedicated wilderness guide with excellent reflexes?"

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. "Back to the path. Now. And this time, try to remember that nature isn't actually a storybook setting. It's real, and occasionally dangerous, and—are you writing this down?"

I pause in my frantic scribbling. "Sorry! It's just that the way you said that was perfect. All growly and protective. My readers will love it when the forest guardian warns the young animals about?—"

"I'm not going in your book."

"You kind of already are." I hold up my sketch of a particularly grumpy-looking bear wearing flannel and hiking boots. "See? I captured your essence perfectly."

For a moment, I think I've finally pushed him too far. But then I catch it. That tiny quirk of his lips that he tries so hard to suppress.

"The path," he says firmly, holding out his hand to help me back to solid ground. "Now."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Forest Guardian, sir!" I salute with my pen, then promptly stumble again as my mud-caked boot slides.

He catches me—again—with a sigh that seems to come from his very soul. "Two weeks," I hear him mutter. "I have to keep her alive for two weeks."

"That's the spirit!" I chirp, secretly delighting in the way his eye twitches. "Though I should warn you, I haven't even started on the chapter about nighttime forest adventures yet."

The look of horror that crosses his face is absolutely worth the lecture about proper trail etiquette that follows. Besides, I think as I add a little more detail to my grumpy bear sketch, he's kind of adorable when he's being all serious and protective.

Not that I'll tell him that.