Page 2 of Lumberjack John
A tiny bell jingled overhead as Frankie muscled open the heavy green door and entered the small log structure. It had taken her over an hour to locate the tiny park ranger's office, and that was after asking for directions three times. She'd learned the hard way that many of the small lumber roads that meandered through the area were really just rutted dirt paths through the thick, towering trees with few, if any, road signs. How anyone could navigate the area was beyond her.
She coughed lightly and waved at the puff of dust pluming around her, then blinked with a start and stumbled backwards, bumping into a small table as her eyes connected with a glassy stare from across the room. The dark amber beady eyes were buried deep in a coat of black fur and Frankie snickered at herinitial reaction. She had never seen a black bear in the wild, and while this particular animal was stuffed and mounted on a large nature pedestal, it was the closest she had ever been to one. In fact, she fought the urge to walk over and pet it.
"That there is Cecil."
Frankie nearly jumped out of her skin at the deep gravelly voice. "Oh my god! You gave me quite a fright. I didn't see you sitting there."
The pudgy, uniformed man, who looked like he was planted behind an ancient wooden desk, pointed at the large bear, ignoring her comment. "The bear, he's Cecil. Wandered around these woods for years until he died of old age. The townsfolk took care of him for the most part."
"Well." Frankie held a hand to her chest. "That's… that's a remarkable story, really. How old was he?"
"Bout twenty-five or so we reckon. One of the locals found him collapsed next to the lakeshore." The ranger squinted his eyes. "You're not from around here," he added accusingly.
"I'm not. Was it my accent that gave me away?" She teased as she clasped her hands at her waist to ward off the sudden wave of nervousness. Everyone had assured her that Americans were generally friendly, so this man's blunt, acerbic manner took her back a bit. "I'm from London. Just arrived this afternoon."
He grunted, unimpressed. "I'm Ranger Brooks. Can I help you?" His annoyed tone hinted that she did not belong there and was merely wasting his time.
"Oh, yes! Yes, you can." Frankie strolled toward the desk, wincing as the wooden-planked floor creaked beneath her. "My name is Frankie Evans and I'm from the British Arborist Society. We're researching reforestation methods and were impressed with the success you've found in this part of northern Wisconsin over the last century," she babbled, uncomfortable under hisstony gaze. When he didn't respond, she continued, "In fact, I'm looking for your conservator."
The old ranger’s face was carved in stone, not a muscle moving. He said nothing, just gave a blank stare.
"I believe his name is John Robbins?" she offered, her shoulders hunching toward her ears.
She jumped when the ranger barked an obnoxiously loud laugh. His chair creaked in protest when he leaned back and slouched to the side, strangely resembling a lumpy, green potato. "What do you want with Lumberjack John?"
She blinked; uncertain she’d heard the man correctly. "I beg your pardon. Lumberjack who? I'm not familiar with that name."
Ranger Brooks snorted. "Not surprising with you being from across the pond and all. Lumberjack John. That's what he's called in these parts." He smirked. "The Robbins family has managed these forests for generations."
"Exactly." Frankie bobbed her head. "That's why I wish to speak with him. We've received a substantial grant that will go a long way in our reforestation efforts. His expertise would be extremely helpful."
The ranger furrowed his brow and scratched his chin, eyes narrowing as he drawled, "You know, I’m well versed in forestry management. And if I'm not mistaken, the climate in Wisconsin is night and day from England’s. John’s knowhow won’t amount to a hill of beans."
Frankie blinked at the onslaught of metaphors draped in sarcasm and pulled in a reinforcing breath through her nose. Of course she knew all that. After all, she had a degree in environmental biochemistry for pity’s sake. But she wasn’t about to be brushed off so easily. "I am aware of that, Ranger Brooks. But I would like to meet with him anyway."
The ranger lifted a shoulder and sighed. "Well, if you insist." Frankie grimaced at the grating, metallic screech as the ranger swiveled in his chair and tore a rectangular sheet from an oversized pad, then swung back, plopping it on his desk with a loud smack.
Frankie stared at the large map of the Long Lake area. It was similar to ones she'd studied online before she'd left London.
"We're right here," he said in a slow tone that suggested she was less than competent, drawing a red 'X' at the bottom of the lake. He glanced up at her, making sure she was following along. "Take this road that winds around the east side of Long Lake. You'll go about four miles before you come to this bridge at the top of the lake. It goes over a creek that connects Long Lake to Mud Lake. The cutoff to his cabin is just after it on the left, no more than a quarter of a mile. It's difficult to spot, so don't go too fast. It's a little dirt road that trails along the west side of the lake for a couple of miles. The cabin will appear almost out of nowhere. You can't miss it."
Frankie bit back a groan.
Another bloody dirt road?
It was almost certain that she would miss it. She'd gotten lost so many times just trying to find this ranger station, she figured it would take a miracle to locate Mr. Robbins with these vague directions. But she'd find him—she had to. "I'll be careful. Thank you so much for your help."
"You're not planning to go up there right now, are you? We have weather moving in. Should hit in thirty minutes or so, maybe sooner according to the weather radio."
"I'm from England, Ranger Brooks. I'm not afraid of a little rain," Frankie responded, offhandedly. Her mind was already tracing the route around the lake.
"Well, respectfully ma'am, this will be more than just a little rain. It's a cold front dipping down from Canada. They estimatewe'll get up to three inches of rain, maybe more, before it ices over. Just depends on how fast the temperature drops. Then it'll turn to snow. Plus, it's almost four o'clock. It'll be dark in a couple of hours. Trust me, you haven’t experienced darkness until you drive around here at night. You should wait until tomorrow or even the next day until this front has moved through and the roads have been cleared." Worry played over the old ranger’s face and, for a second, Frankie almost believed he was actually concerned for her. More likely, he was more worried about having to rescue her if she ran into any trouble.
“Not to worry,” she answered with confidence. “I’ll find Mr. Robbins, ask a few questions, and then be on my way back to town. Thank you again for your help.” She pivoted and with one last glance at Cecil, whose flat stare followed her progress, heaved open the old oak door that led out of the station.
A cold blast of air hit, making her shiver. The temperature must have dropped by at least ten degrees in the short time she’d been inside. But Frankie pressed on.
I’ll meet with Mr. Robbins. Ask some questions, and then get back to the inn. I can do this.
