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Galen Cooper knew perfectly well that his appearance could be terrifying to the unsuspecting. If he was a fairytale character, he’d be an ogre, or possibly a black-bearded pirate, pre-hook. If he was a tree, he’d be one of those gnarled oaks with thick bark and lichen dripping from its branches.
That lichen would be his hair and beard, both of which were dark and bushy and occasionally untended.
For the most part, he didn’t actually mind coming across as the Beast. His wild appearance made his guiding clients take him seriously. No one doubted that he knew his way around the wilderness. If he told someone not to keep their goddamn toothpaste in their tent because bears could smell that shit, they listened. In a way, his appearance saved lives. Not once had one of his clients so much as sustained an injury.
“Best wilderness guide in Minnesota,” the reviews said. “One of a kind.” “Don’t be scared off by his scowl. I’d trust my life to him.” “I nearly slid down a ravine but that dude hauled me up with one hand.” “Gnarly AF.” “I think even the bears are scared of him.”
There was only one thing that made Galen regret his mountain man looks. One person, actually.
Brenda McMurray Bogosian.
And there she was, at this very moment, walking her dog down Main Street, wearing joggers and clean white running shoes, along with bright pink socks. He’d noticed that she always had some flash of pink in her outfits, and wondered if that was to appeal to her fourth grade students.
Her hair, the glorious rust color of oak leaves in autumn, swung back and forth in a thick ponytail. Tendrils clung to her forehead. Sweat. She’d been sweating. The thought made him sweat slightly as well. She was usually so immaculate, so tidy. Even her sweat clung sweetly to her skin instead of dripping the way his did on a hot day on the trail.
From his location inside the office of Lake Bittersweet Wilderness Adventures, where he was checking in after the end of a long day, he tried not to stare at her longingly. But he knew it was hopeless. His crush on Brenda was probably written all over his face; good thing that face was covered up with so much beard. Yet one more advantage.
“That couple from Belgium left you a massive tip,” said Redbull, his business partner. Many people thought “Red Bull” was his tribal name, but in fact it was his nickname, based on his favorite energy drink addiction. He sat on the stool behind the computer, his black hair in a top knot, a Red Bull can by his elbow, squinting at the screen. The two of them had recently teamed up to open their own wilderness tour company and so far, so good. “They said you were the highlight of their entire trip. All fifty states, and you’re the standout.”
“Huh.” Galen grunted his response. He would have had more to say, but Brenda had stopped to chat with someone outside the SweetBitter Café. He craned his neck to see who it was. He lived in fear that another man would scoop her up before he’d even screwed up the nerve to ask her out.
“Just fucking ask her out.” The weary irritation in Redbull’s voice was all too familiar to Galen. All his friends used that tone sooner or later. They all knew about his hopeless crush. It was possible the entire town did, except for Brenda herself.
Hell, she might know too, and was simply too kind-hearted to show it.
As he entered information about the trip he’d just completed—bear sign spotted at the ten-mile point of Grace Ridge Trail, not surprising for September—he kept an eye on the flame-haired goddess across the street. Her dog was getting impatient and tugging on the leash. Since the pup was basically a cotton ball with paws, Brenda was unfazed. She ignored the tugging and kept chitchatting.
Why was it so easy for everyone else to talk to Brenda? He always clammed up and got sweaty and awkward. Other women didn’t have that effect on him. Only Brenda. And other people didn’t react to her that way. Only him.
In mid-conversation, Brenda lifted one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. In the process, she transferred the leash from one hand to the other, and Cotton Ball pounced on the opportunity. He lunged forward and yanked the leash from Brenda’s grasp. She tried to grab it, but it was too late. Her little dog raced across the street, barely missing a Ford truck going one way and a Prius going the other, and darted right through the front door of Lake Bittersweet Wilderness Adventures.
Galen dropped the clipboard onto the counter and stuck the pen behind his ear. Or really, just into his hair, so disheveled from the hike that it could have been an actual shrub.
Cotton Ball darted toward the cooler Galen had plopped onto the office floor. He and his clients had caught three rainbow trout in Muskee Stream. He’d offered to clean and filet them, which was his next task.
If they survived this attack.
The dog knocked over the cooler—one of those lightweight Styrofoam jobbers—and dug his little teeth into the foam, trying to rip off the lid. He was a lot more fierce than Galen had expected. Or she, judging by the little pink ribbon on its collar.
Galen came around the counter and lunged for the dog, only to stop in his tracks when it turned on him with a sharp bark.
“Let it alone,” said Redbull. “He’s a fish dog.”
“What’s a fish dog?”
“Dog that likes fish.”
Was that a real thing? Wouldn’t the fish bones hurt his little throat?
Snarling, the dog returned to the lid and worried at it until it popped off. Bloody water spilled onto the floor and the three trout slid out.
Galen had to try something.
“Hey Cotton Ball!” he shouted. “Stay away from the fish.”
The dog ignored him and pounced on one of the trout. The biggest one, Galen noticed with regret. Should he grab the dog by the collar? Drag him away? Sacrifice one trout? In the wild, he would know exactly what to do. He’d throw a stick or something, distract the dog, or scare it away.
