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I hold my breath and brace myself.

“They’ve approved the permanent closure.” She taps the photos we took from the tower. “These helped, and so did James. He told the whole committee he nearly got buried up there, and he described the cracks in great detail. With hand gestures.”

Holt makes a low sound in his chest that might be a laugh.

“And the south loop?” I ask.

“Approved as designed. The boardwalk over the wet section, the rails, the overlooks, all of it.” She slides a sheet of paper across the desk. “I’ve booked Dale’s Earthworks for the footings. Dale will bring his little digger in on the old logging track off the creek road in week eight. The county is lending us a crew for the timber work after that.”

Week eight? I count on my fingers under the clipboard, and I don’t love the answer. That gives us about four weeks to build a whole trail before the Harvest Festival. Footings, boardwalk, rails, signs, all of it, in less time than it takes my hair dye to fade.

“That’s tight,” I say.

“It’s very tight.” Prue gives me her sternest look. “If the trail opens on time and on budget, and the crowds love it, I can take the numbers to council and fight for a permanent second officer. If it doesn’t, I can’t. It’s that simple.”

A permanent second officer. I grip my clipboard so I don’t do anything embarrassing.

“The old track will hold,” Holt says. “As long as the creek behaves. The old culvert under the track is the only weak spot. If it goes, the track goes.”

“Then let’s hope it behaves.” Prue puts her glasses back on. “Good work, both of you.”

“Thank you, Prue,” I say, in my most professional voice.

“Thanks,” Holt grunts.

We stand up at the same time. He reaches for the door handle, and I reach for the door handle, and our fingers bump. He snatches his hand back like the handle bit him, which is not how a man acts when he has nothing to hide.

Prue’s mouth twitches, but she doesn’t look up from her desk.

Out in the hallway, I wait until her door clicks shut. Then I hook my pinkie around his.

“Smooth, Ranger,” I whisper.

His ears go dark green at the tips. “Not a word.”

“You jumped a foot. Like I’d electrocuted you.”

He leans down until his tusk nearly brushes my ear. “Tonight,” he murmurs, “you can electrocute me all you like.”

Then he walks off down the hall, and I have to stand by the water cooler for a full minute and think very hard about culverts.

The best spot on the whole south loop is a slab of gray granite that sticks out over the creek like a diving board. I discovered it one day while counting fence posts. You come around a bend in the pines, and there it is.

The entire valley is spread out below you, the creek flashing silver at the bottom, the far ridge going blue in the haze.

I’ve been designing an overlook. I’ve filled half a sketchbook, and last night I actually dreamed about rail spacing. Is that normal? Probably not. Do I care? Not even a little.

“Okay,” I say, and I unroll my plans across a flat rock and pin the corners with stones. “I need you to go and stand on the edge.”

Holt looks at the edge. Then he looks at me. “Why?”

“Because you’re seven feet tall, and I forgot the survey rod.”

“You didn’t forget it. It’s in the truck.”

“The truck is all the way back at the gate.” I give him my sweetest smile. “And you’re right here. Being tall. Please?”

He sighs like I’ve asked him to carry a piano up the fire tower. Then he walks out to the lip of the shelf and stands there with his arms folded, scowling at the view.