Page 16 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

I tense, waiting.

"I'm sorry if I pushed too much. About your brother, your past. It wasn't my place to pry."

I keep my eyes on the bacon, watching it curl and crisp. "You didn't pry. I offered the information."

"Still." She sets her coffee down and steps closer into my peripheral vision. "I know what it's like to have parts of your history you don't want to discuss. I shouldn't have pressed."

I turn to look at her. In the morning light, with sleep still clinging to her edges, she seems both stronger and more fragile than she did last night. Like a sword that's been tempered by fire but could still shatter if struck the wrong way.

"It's fine," I say, meaning it. "Sometimes it's good to... put it out there. Makes it less powerful."

She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Yes. Exactly."

I transfer the bacon to a paper towel and start on the eggs, needing the motion, the focus of cooking.

"My father was a mean drunk," I hear myself say, the words coming easier now. "Not all the time—that was the trick of it. Sometimes, he was charming. Funny, even. But when he drank, which was most nights, he'd turn. Like a switch flipped."

Elisa is very still, listening.

"Riley protected me when he could. Took the hits sometimes. But he was just a kid himself." The eggs sizzle as they hit the hotpan. "When he turned eighteen, he enlisted. Left the same day. No warning, no goodbye. Just a note saying he'd send for me when he could."

"But he never did," she says softly.

I shake my head. "He wrote a few times. Called once. But he never came back, not while our father was alive. And by the time the old man died, I was long gone too." I push the eggs around the pan. "Spent years moving from town to town, working construction, learning the trade. Never stayed anywhere long enough to put down roots."

"Until you came back."

"Yes." I scoop eggs onto plates and lay bacon beside them. "Came back twelve years ago, bought this place, fixed it up. Riley moved back a few years later. Opened his garage in town."

"Have you ever... tried to talk to him?" she asks, taking the plates from me and carrying them to the table.

I grab toast from the toaster and butter it. "He showed up here once, about two years ago. Wanted to 'clear the air,' he said."

"And?"

"I told him to get off my property." The memory is sharp—Riley standing on my porch, older, hair graying at the temples, the same eyes as our father. The rage that had surged through me, white-hot and blinding. "He left. Hasn't tried again."

She's quiet for a moment, processing this. Then, "Do you think you could ever forgive him?"

The question hangs in the air between us. In the silence, I hear small feet padding down the hallway. A moment later, Mason appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with balled fists, Hoppy dangling from one hand.

"Mama?" he says, spotting Elisa.

"Good morning, baby." She moves to him, scooping him up. "Did you sleep well in Josh's house?"

He nods, then spots me and offers a shy smile. "Josh bear."

"Morning, buddy," I say, surprised at how naturally the greeting comes. "Hungry?"

Another nod, more enthusiastic this time.

"I'll get him settled," Elisa says, carrying him to the table. To my surprise, he squirms to be put down, then climbs into a chair by himself, proudly displaying his independence.

I bring the last of the food to the table—jam, a pitcher of orange juice I found in the back of the refrigerator—and sit across from them. For a moment, no one speaks. Then Mason picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite, his face lighting up with delight.

"Good!" he declares.

Elisa laughs, the sound bright in the morning quiet. "Yes, it is. What do we say to Josh?"

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