Page 15 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

As sleep claims me, my hand rests over the small swell of my belly. And for the first time in months, I don't dream of running.

Chapter 6 - Josh

I can't sleep. The ceiling above my bed has a knot in the pine that looks like an eye, staring down at me. I've stared back at it for twelve years, counting its rings when sleep won't come. Tonight, I get to twenty-seven before I give up and throw off the covers.

My cabin has never felt smaller than it does right now, knowing she's just down the hall. Her and her boy. And the unborn child she's carrying. Three lives under my roof when for years there's barely been one.

I move silently to the window, parting the curtain to look out at the night. The moon is nearly full, casting silver light across the clearing, making the pines look like sentinels standing watch. Riley and I used to sneak out on nights like this, when we were kids. Before everything went to hell. Before he left.

"He left. When I was fourteen, he turned eighteen and joined the military. Got out of our father's house the first chance he had. Left me behind."

My own words echo in my head. Twenty years and the betrayal still tastes like copper in my mouth. But tonight, for the first time, another thought slides in alongside the familiar anger. Would I have done the same?

If I'd been the older brother, if I'd turned eighteen first, would I have taken the first ticket out and never looked back?

I press my forehead against the cool glass, letting the truth I've never wanted to face rise to the surface. Maybe. Maybe I would have. Because living in that house was like drowning an inch at a time, day after day. My father's rage was a storm that never passed, just gathered strength in the eerie calms between downpours.

And Riley—he took the worst of it, for years. Stood between me and our father more times than I can count. Until one day, he just... couldn't anymore.

I'd never considered it that way before. Never allowed myself to see his leaving as anything but abandonment. But now, with this woman and her son sleeping under my roof, having fled their own storm, I'm forced to look at it differently.

Running isn't always cowardice. Sometimes it's survival.

Still. He could have taken me with him. Could have found a way. Could have at least stayed in touch, made sure I was okay. Four years until I could follow him out the door—four years that stretched like decades, where each day was a gamble on which version of my father would come home.

But she wants her sons to be close. To have each other's backs. She fled to give them that chance, to break the cycle before it claimed another generation.

I move away from the window and sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, head in hands. Twenty years of silence between brothers. Twenty years of pretending Riley Carter doesn't exist, even as his garage sits on Main Street, even as I hear snippets of his life from reluctant townsfolk who know better than to mention him to my face.

I wonder if he ever looks up at the mountain and thinks of me. If he regrets how things ended. If he ever drove halfway up the road to my cabin before turning back.

Eventually, I must drift off, because I wake to pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I'm disoriented—I never oversleep, never miss the first light. Then I remember: guests. Elisa. Mason. The conversation that dredged up decades of buried history.

The house is silent, but when I step into the hallway, I can sense their presence—a subtle shift in the air, a warmth that wasn't there before. The guest room door is still closed. They're still sleeping.

In the kitchen, I move on autopilot, starting coffee, pulling out ingredients for breakfast. I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage eggs and bacon, toast and jam. It seems important, suddenly, to offer them a proper meal before they head back to Hargrove's cabin with its temperamental appliances and drafty windows.

As I crack eggs into a bowl, I find myself planning improvements for that place. A proper weather strip for the door. Insulation for the gaps in the floorboards. Maybe a new fitting for the woodstove to make it more efficient. Small things that would make a big difference when winter comes.

Winter. Which means they're planning to stay that long. The thought settles strangely in my chest—not unwelcome, but unfamiliar. Like a bird landing on an outstretched hand when you've only ever known the weight of tools and lumber.

I hear a door open and soft footsteps in the hallway. I straighten, spatula in hand, and turn to find Elisa standing in the kitchen doorway. Her hair is mussed from sleep, her dress wrinkled.

"Morning," I say, my voice rough from disuse.

"Good morning." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I smelled coffee."

I nod toward the pot. "Help yourself. Cups in the cabinet above."

She moves to the coffee pot. "Mason's still asleep. He had a restless night—new place, I guess."

"Understandable." I turn back to the stove, flipping bacon in the cast iron pan. "Breakfast'll be ready soon."

"You didn't have to cook for us."

I shrug. "Already making it for myself. Just added more."

"Still. Thank you." She pours coffee into a mug, then stands uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen as if unsure where she's allowed to be. "About last night..."

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