Page 1 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

Chapter 1 - Elisa

The rickety wooden porch creaks under my weight as I adjust Mason on my hip. My free hand trembles as I turn the ancient brass key in the lock. It sticks, because of course it does.

"Come on," I whisper, jiggling the key. "Please."

Mason whimpers and presses his face into my neck, his toddler body still heavy with sleep after our six-hour drive. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in the comforting scent of his baby shampoo, and try the key again.

Cedar Falls was supposed to be our fresh start. This cabin—this supposedly charming mountain retreat—was supposed to be our sanctuary. The online listing had described it as "rustic" and "secluded," which had sounded perfect when I was desperately scrolling through rental sites at 3 AM, one hand pressed against my barely-showing belly, the other clutching my phone with shaking fingers.

The lock finally gives, and the door swings open with a haunted-house creak. I step inside, and my heart sinks like a stone.

"Oh."

The interior is dim, with only patchy sunlight filtering through dirty windows. A musty smell hangs in the air—not the cozy pine scent I'd imagined, but something closer to neglect. The main room is small, with a kitchenette in one corner, a worn sofa pushed against the far wall, and a woodstove that looks like it dates back to the pioneer days.

"Home sweet home," I murmur, setting Mason down on the wooden floor. He immediately clutches my leg, wide eyes taking in our new surroundings.

"House?" he asks, his voice small.

"Yes, baby. Our new house." I force brightness into my voice, rubbing my lower back where it aches from the drive and the extra weight I'm carrying. "Do you want to help Mommy explore?"

He shakes his head, still clinging to my jeans. I can't blame him. This place is a far cry from our apartment in Portland—the one with the sunny yellow kitchen where Mason's height chart is penciled on the wall, where his favorite park was just a block away. The apartment I fled in the middle of the night three days ago, stuffing whatever I could into my Honda while Mason slept in his car seat, jumping at every sound on the street.

I pick up Mason again and push open the door to what must be the bedroom. A queen-sized bed with a faded quilt occupies most of the space. At least it looks clean. There's a small adjoining bathroom and a closet barely big enough for the clothes I brought.

"Look, Mason. This is where we'll sleep. Isn't it cozy?" I'm talking more to convince myself than him.

I set him down on the bed with his stuffed rabbit, which buys me a few minutes to check out the rest of the cabin. The kitchen cupboards contain a few mismatched plates and cups, a dented pot, and a frying pan. The refrigerator hums loudly when I open it—at least it works. I check the tap, and water sputters out, brown at first, then running clear.

I try the light switch. Nothing happens.

I try again, flicking it up and down. Still nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, placing my hands on the slight swell of my belly in an unconscious gesture of protection. "No electricity?"

The listing had definitely mentioned utilities included. Had I been so desperate to escape that I'd missed some crucial detail? I pull out my phone to check the rental agreement, but there's no signal. Perfect.

Through the kitchen window, I can see the back of another cabin about fifty yards away through the trees. Smoke curls from its chimney, which means someone's home. A neighbor—my only neighbor, from what I can tell.

I swallow hard. Back in Portland, I'd trained myself never to ask for help, never to draw attention. Attention meant questions. Questions meant someone might notice the bruises I worked so hard to hide. Questions meant Jordan finding out I'd spoken to someone, which meant a closed fist and harsh whispers after Mason went to bed.

But this is Cedar Falls. I'm six hours and a mountain range away from Portland. From Jordan. He doesn't know where I am. Nobody does.

I need to be stronger now. For Mason. For the baby growing inside me.

I peek back into the bedroom. Mason has fallen asleep again, curled around his rabbit. I grab my jacket and step outside, closing the door softly behind me. The mountain air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and something earthy. In any other circumstance, I might find it beautiful—the towering trees, the distant mountain peaks, the absolute quiet broken only by birdsong.

I follow a dirt path that seems to lead toward the neighboring cabin. As I get closer, I can see that it's larger than mine, sturdier-looking, with a wraparound porch and neatly stacked firewood along one side. A battered blue pickup truck sits in front.

My heart thuds in my chest as I approach the steps. I haven't voluntarily spoken to a stranger in... I can't even remember. Jordan always did the talking. Jordan made the decisions. Jordan controlled who I saw, where I went, what I wore.

Not anymore.

I lift my hand to knock, then hesitate. What if the neighbor is unfriendly? What if they're dangerous? What if they're a man?

I take a deep breath, feel the slight roundness of my belly beneath my oversized sweater. Four months along. Sixteen weeks of secret hope, of hidden ultrasound pictures, of silent promises that this child would never know what their father was capable of.

I knock. Three quick raps, then step back, ready to flee if necessary.

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