Page 14 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

"It's getting late," I say finally, reluctant to break the spell but aware of how long we've imposed on his solitude. "We should go back to our cabin."

Josh looks at his watch, then out the window where full darkness has fallen. "It's after nine. Path's not lit between here and your place."

"Oh." I hadn't realized how much time had passed. "I have my phone. The flashlight—"

"It's steep in parts. Tricky even in daylight with a kid." He hesitates, then adds, "You could stay. If you want."

The offer catches me completely off guard. "Stay? Here?"

He nods toward Mason. "He's already out. The guest room has a double bed. Clean sheets."

"You have a guest room?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

One corner of his mouth lifts in that almost-smile. "Ironic, I know. Never used it."

I should say no. Should gather Mason up and make the short trek back to our cabin, where the generator hums and the woodstove needs feeding. I barely know this man, this mountain hermit with his gruff manner and guarded eyes.

But Mason is heavy with sleep, and the thought of disturbing him, of navigating the dark path while carrying him, suddenly seems exhausting. And beneath that is something else—a strange reluctance to leave this moment, this connection, however tenuous.

"If you're sure it's not an imposition," I finally tell him.

"Wouldn't have offered if it was."

I nod, accepting both his logic and his hospitality. "Thank you, then. We'll head back first thing in the morning."

"No rush," he says, rising from his chair. "I'll show you the room."

I stand, adjusting Mason in my arms. Josh moves as if to help, then seems to think better of it, his hands dropping back to his sides. He leads me down a short hallway to a room at the back of the cabin.

The guest room is simple but beautiful—a handcrafted bed with a patchwork quilt, a small dresser, and a rocking chairby the window. Like everything in Josh's home, it speaks of craftsmanship and care.

"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, hovering in the doorway. "Towels in the cabinet. If you need anything..." He trails off, awkward again now that we're standing in what is essentially a bedroom.

"We'll be fine," I assure him. "And really, thank you. For dinner, for letting us stay."

He nods once. "Night, then."

"Goodnight, Josh."

He turns to go, then pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. "Elisa?"

"Yes?"

"Your secret's safe. The baby, I mean. And whatever else you're running from." His eyes meet mine, steady and certain. "No one will hear it from me."

"Thank you," I whisper.

He nods again, then disappears down the hallway, his footsteps fading toward the other end of the cabin.

I lay Mason gently on the bed, removing his shoes and tucking him under the quilt. He sighs in his sleep, curling around Hoppy, entirely at peace. I watch him for a moment, overwhelmed by love and fear in equal measure. Then I slip off my shoes and lie beside him, on top of the covers.

In this stranger's home, surrounded by evidence of his solitary life, I should feel out of place. Anxious. Ready to flee at the first sign of danger, as I've trained myself to be.

Instead, I feel my muscles relaxing, tension draining from my body like water. Perhaps it's exhaustion from the move, constantvigilance, and carrying not just one life but two. Perhaps it's the simple security of solid walls and a locked door, of being somewhere Jordan could never find us.

Or perhaps it's knowing that across the hallway, in another room, is a man who looked at my broken pieces and didn't try to fix them or use them against me—just acknowledged them and offered what he could. His help. A safe place to sleep. A promise of silence.

It's more than I expected to find in Cedar Falls. More than I dared hope for.

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