"Thank you, no …” Sierra answered quickly. “I’m here to tell you that you can't cook with fire during the day. Do you have a permit?"
Sierra asked the question neutrally, curious to see how they’d play their cards. When people were genuinely clueless, she went easy. But when people knew the rules and didn’t follow them … well, that was a different story.
"Oh my gosh—we are so sorry!" The woman extended out the “oh” of her “so” in a way that reminded Sierra of how people talked back home.
"The guy we ran into at the bottom of the hill told us we didn't have to have one.” The second one crossed her arms as she chimed in. "He said we could pick one up at the ranger station.”
Sierra ran into this every day: hikers leading other hikers astray with misinformation.
"Fires are only permitted on some areas of the trail,” Sierra explained. “Part of why you have to get a fire permit is to confirm that you’ve read the full set of rules."
"That's not how the other ranger made it seem,” the second one challenged again.
“What other ranger?” Sierra narrowed her eyes.
“The guy ranger.” Her righteously indignant expression was replaced by a dreamy smile. “The hot one,” she clarified.
Her friend elbowed her.
“What? He was totally hot.”
“What did this ranger look like?” Sierra demanded. The parks were teeming with crews of scientists. Could be, one of them was giving hikers unauthorized advice.
"He had a uniform like yours, except blue …" The first one dug in her pocket. "Here. He took a selfie with us."
Sierra stepped forward with interest and craned her neck to get a glimpse. She scoffed in disdain when she saw it was Forrest. She scowled when she saw his smug, bearded smirk. He stood between the two women, both hands extended before him in a way that proved he’d held the phone for the selfie. His forearms weren’t visible, but his shoulders were. His shirt was snug-fitting—either that, or he just filled it out really nicely. Each of the two women cuffed a bicep so strong it dwarfed their hands.
Forrest Winters was, indeed,nota national park ranger. What he was, was a thorn in Sierra's side. The way he swung his big axe, fixed her with his chameleon gray eyes, and always talked about his jurisdiction had a way of breaking her concentration.
“He’s a fire marshal,” Sierra admitted. He wasthefire marshal, really—the one responsible for determining the cause of all of those suspicious fires. During any normal season, he’d have come around only once in a blue moon to personally inspect fire conditions. Since the investigation had started, he’d been around all the damn time.
“Either way …” She pulled out her card. “I’m a park ranger and I’m telling you to put your fire out. If you have any questions, you can call the number on this card or visit Sugarlands, the ranger station in Gatlinburg. For now, I’ll have to stay to make sure you properly extinguish this fire.”
And Sierra did stay, seething and smoldering much like the embers of the ruined fire, still hot even after the initial spark had died. The two hikers—who weren’t at all happy—may not have been the only ones headed to the ranger station to file a grievance. Sierra would have her cupcake—maybe two—before the day was done. But first she’d find Forrest, who really ought to quit charming hikers and get back to doing his own job. Forrest Winters would hear where he could shove his fool claims of sweeping jurisdiction. Before the sun set, Sierra would give him a piece of her mind.
