Page 19 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

"Of course. Hoppy too."

This settled, Mason scrambles to his feet and runs to the guest room where his shoes wait. I follow, helping him with the Velcro straps, smoothing his wild curls into some semblance of order. My own reflection in the small mirror above the dresser gives me pause—I look different somehow. Less haunted around the eyes, though it's only been forty-eight hours since we arrived in Cedar Falls.

When we emerge, Josh is waiting by the door, keys in hand. He holds it open for us, a courtesy so automatic it speaks of ingrained manners rather than conscious effort. Mason marches out proudly ahead of me, Hoppy clutched in one hand, and I follow, smiling at his confidence.

The morning is glorious—clear blue sky, air scented with pine and wildflowers, birdsong filling the spaces between trees. Josh's truck sits in the driveway, sunlight glinting off its blue paint. It's older but meticulously maintained, like everything else in his life.

"Do you have a car seat?" he asks, suddenly hesitant.

"In my car, at the other cabin," I assure him. "We can transfer it."

He nods, relieved and we climb into the truck. The interior smells of pine and leather and something indefinably masculine—sawdust, maybe, or the soap I've noticed on Josh's skin. Mason sits between us on the bench seat, seemingly delighted by this new adventure.

The drive to Hargrove's cabin takes less than five minutes. Josh parks beside my Honda, which looks small and vulnerable next to his sturdy truck.

"I'll get the car seat," he says, climbing out. "You grab what you need from inside."

I nod, lifting Mason from the seat and setting him on the ground. He immediately runs toward the cabin. I follow more slowly, taking in the shabby structure with new eyes. After less than two days, it already feels like a distant memory—a way station rather than a destination.

Inside, I gather our belongings, which thankfully we'd barely unpacked. Clothes, toiletries, Mason's toys and books, my meager collection of kitchen supplies. The few groceries I'd purchased in town. It all fits into two duffel bags and a box, our lives distilled to their portable essence.

Josh appears in the doorway, watching as I zip the last bag closed. "That everything?"

"Yes." I straighten, pushing hair from my face. "Not much to show for twenty-four years of life, is it?"

"Sometimes carrying less weight makes it easier to move forward."

The simple wisdom of this statement catches me off guard. I nod, unexpectedly touched. "I suppose that's true."

He steps forward and picks up both duffel bags before I can protest. "I've got these. You take the box."

Outside, he loads our belongings into the truck bed while I settle Mason in his newly installed car seat. The generator sits silent beside the cabin, a reminder of our first interaction—was it really only two days ago?

"Should I leave a note for Mr. Hargrove?" I ask as Josh closes the tailgate. "About breaking the lease?"

He shakes his head. "I'll talk to him. He owes me for work on his house in town anyway. We can settle up."

"I don't want to cost you—"

"You won't." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Hargrove's been renting that deathtrap for years knowing full well it's barely habitable. Consider it a public service, taking it off the market."

I laugh despite myself. "When you put it that way."

The drive to town takes about fifteen minutes, winding down the mountain road with its spectacular views of the valley below. Cedar Falls reveals itself gradually—first a church steeple, then rooftops, finally the full panorama of the small town nestled between mountains and river. It's picture-postcard perfect, the kind of place that appears unchanged by time.

"Pretty," I say, gazing out the window.

Josh grunts in agreement, his eyes on the road as we descend the final curve. "Different from Portland."

"In every possible way."

"Town's small. Everyone knows everyone's business. But they're good people, mostly. Will leave you alone if that's what you want."

"Is that what you want?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "To be left alone?"

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then, "It was. For a long time."

Was. Past tense. The implication has my heart racing, beads of sweat trickling down the curve of my breasts.

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