Blue Ridge Hideaway. Cynthia Thomason

It’s an outpost.”

      “Which is what exactly?”

      He explained the dual purpose of his camp. An outpost was a sort of refuge for folks on the trail, a spot where they could shower and sleep one night in a bed. But The Crooked Spruce would also serve as an outfitter’s store, a place where hikers could purchase gear they had forgotten or suddenly decided they needed.

      “So what’s your plan for attracting the jet-set crowd?” she asked.

      “I’m planning to cash in on one of the latest fads of corporate ladder climbers.”

      She snickered. “What fad is that? CEOs like freeze-dried food and sleeping bags now?”

      He shrugged. “As a matter of fact, they do. Believe it or not, Dorie, guys like to prove their mettle on the open trail under seemingly harsh conditions.”

      “Seemingly harsh?”

      “Oh, sure. The weather, the setting, the wildlife. All that can be harsh, but comfort is only a matter of the gear you invest in.”

      “And where do you find these adventurous CEOs?”

      He proceeded to tell her how he hoped to market his new enterprise by saturating the internet with advertising about his Blue Ridge Mountain outback experience. He’d started to put together a list of sites frequented by over-stressed executives and people looking for a different vacation experience, one that got them about as far away from city life as possible.

      “This part of the Blue Ridge, what’s called the old Timber Gap Trail, is just far enough from the well-traveled Appalachian Trail to be tempting to men wanting to hone their survival skills,” he explained. “On this mountain you won’t find campers every few hundred yards, so the guys who’ll come here are on their own until they hit The Crooked Spruce.”

      “And you think that’s what the modern executive is after?” She gave him a skeptical look. “What makes you think the Caribbean or Europe isn’t their destination of choice?”

      His eyes burned with a secret enthusiasm she had yet to fathom. “Look at all the reality shows on TV now,” he said. “Bosses disguising themselves as workers, millionaires going into ghettos, normal suburbanites taking on survival experiences. I’m telling you, the modern man secretly yearns to explore his wild side.”

      His excitement might have been infectious, but no way did Dorie believe folks used to comfort and convenience would enjoy trekking across a mountain that barely allowed her pickup to climb it. Still, she had seen some of those television shows and the guys who attempted a less civilized life didn’t want to come across as weak.

      “Maybe those execs you hope to attract will get a kick out of a night or two under the stars,” she said. “But I’m thinking that when their tootsies start to chafe in the cold and they find something curled up next to them in a sleeping bag, they’ll hightail it back to Asheville.”

      “That’s where the outfitter plan comes in,” Bret said. He pointed to the shelves lining one wall. “I’m going to fill those shelves with everything the guys might have neglected to buy in the first place, or replacements for anything that proved disappointing.” He enumerated on the fingers of his left hand. “All kinds of camping gear, warm clothing, meal packs, tools...”

      “Snake antivenom.”

      He ignored the comment. “Sleeping bags...”

      “Three-hundred-dollar sleeping bags, I’ll bet,” she said.

      “Right. And once the cabins are fixed up, I’ll have the facilities for warm beds and hot meals.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent on her face. “It’s my firm conviction, and my hope, that once the city boys get partway down the trail, they’ll spend whatever they have to in order to make it all the way to trail’s end and not come off looking like they don’t have what it takes.”

      “So the success of your little venture depends on the macho stubbornness of your customers combined with an inbred inability to adapt to this environment.” She raised her eyebrows and added, “And the extravagant use of their credit cards.”

      He gave her an admiring stare, apparently impressed that she’d zeroed in on the brilliance of his plan right away. In a way, the idea was brilliant if one didn’t consider that Bret Donovan had inherited the same scheming genes that dominated his father’s actions. But at least junior’s plan was legal, and he was only bilking those who could afford it.

      “You think it will work?” he asked.

      He wanted her opinion? Well, okay. She had one. “Maybe. There could be enough Paul Bunyan wannabes out there who might find your wilderness experience satisfying.” He started to respond, but she held up her hand. “But, honestly? I just don’t see the point.”

      “What do you mean?”

      She considered not telling him. She didn’t want to make an enemy of Bret Donovan. She needed him to make good on his father’s debt, but he had asked.

      “Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking that this place probably was a pretty good Boy Scout camp.”

      “I imagine so,” he said. “And I don’t disagree with you that places like The Crooked Spruce could help shape young lives. I’ve seen enough troubled kids in my former profession who might have benefited from the responsibility and work ethic that a youth camp could provide, but I’ve moved on from that life and its problems. And I wasn’t responsible for the Boy Scouts leaving. So if they don’t want to come here anymore, why shouldn’t I take advantage of what they left behind?

      “Bottom line,” he said. “The Crooked Spruce is mine now. I need to make a living, and this is what I want to do. This may have been a decent Boy Scout camp, but it’s going to be an even better outfitters.”

      “Yes, it will. Still it’s kind of a shame....”

      “Dorie, I can’t fix people. Lately I’ve barely been able to fix myself.”

      She shrugged. “Fine. Good luck. Now where do you suggest I bunk tonight?”

      “Pop and I sleep on the second floor. But you’ll be staying in the spare room down here.” He pointed toward the hallway where she’d gone to use the bathroom. “It’s the last door down on the right. Technically it’s a storeroom right now, but there’s a bed in there. Not fancy, but it’s clean. You can use the bathroom down here and avoid bumping into Pop and me.”

      “All right.”

      He walked slowly to the kitchen, favoring his right leg. Obviously the inactivity of the past few minutes had affected him. Before going in, he stopped and turned back to her. “I hope we can work this out,” he said. “What happened to you isn’t right.”

      “We agree on that.” She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she said, “So you never told me what’s wrong with your leg.”

      He paused as if debating whether or not to tell her. Finally he sighed and said, “A few months ago, when I was still a cop, I got shot in a botched liquor-store robbery.”

      She couldn’t control her reaction. A startled cry came from her throat.

      “I know,” he said. “Sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it? Liquor-store robbery in the middle of the night. But it happened. And I got a bullet in my thigh for my troubles.”

      Her mind flashed back to the details of Jack’s case. A convenience store robbery. Three teenagers. One gun. A downed store clerk. She flinched.

      “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, misinterpreting her reaction. “I’m getting better every day. You know the worst part? The shooter only got a light sentence. He’ll be out in three years if he doesn’t screw up.”

      He stared around the room, a faraway look in his eyes. “So, yeah, The Crooked Spruce used to be a Boy Scout camp, but here’s some irony for you that came out in the trial.