Page 24 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

Then I turn toward Riley's garage, my heart pounding like I'm about to march into battle.

In some ways, I am.

The garage is busy—two cars up on lifts, another with its hood open, and the sound of metal on metal, of pneumatic tools, of a radio playing classic rock. I step through the open bay doors, the familiar smells of oil and gasoline and hot metal washing over me. So different from the scents of my work—sawdust, varnish, and fresh-cut lumber—yet familiar in their own way, a callback to childhood days spent watching our father work on engines before the drinking got bad.

A mechanic in blue coveralls glances up as I enter, then does a double-take.

"Can I help you?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows who I am.

"Looking for Riley," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

The mechanic nods toward the back office, his eyes curious but not hostile. "In there. Doing paperwork."

I nod my thanks and move between the cars, aware of the other mechanics watching me, of the sudden drop in conversation level. Everyone in this garage knows who I am, knows the history—or thinks they do. Small towns have long memories and loose lips.

The office door is ajar. Through the gap, I can see Riley bent over a desk, a pen in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks older than when I last saw him—more gray in his hair, deeper lines around his eyes. But the resemblance to our father is still there, in the set of his jaw, the shape of his nose.

I knock once on the doorframe. Riley looks up, and for a moment, he just stares, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

"Josh," he says finally, his voice holding the same gravel-rough quality as mine. "This is... unexpected."

"Yeah." I step into the office but leave the door open, a tactical decision—harder to start shouting with an audience nearby. "Got a minute?"

Riley sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, his posture deliberately casual though I can see the tension on his shoulders. "For you? I've got as many as you need."

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I'd expected wariness, defensiveness, maybe even anger. Not this careful hope.

"Won't take long," I say, still standing. "Just thought it was time we talked."

"I've thought that for about twenty years now," Riley replies, a hint of bitterness creeping in. "What changed your mind?"

I consider lying, saying something vague about time and perspective. But I find I want to be honest, even if it makes me vulnerable. "A woman. And her kid."

Riley's eyebrows rise in surprise. "You've met someone?"

"Not like that," I say quickly, though even as I deny it, I wonder if that's entirely true. "New in town. Needed help. Got me thinking about family, brothers. The past."

Understanding dawns in Riley's eyes—eyes that are, I suddenly realize, exactly like mine. "Must be some woman."

"She is." The admission comes easily, naturally. "Anyway, I'm not here to talk about her. I'm here about us. About what happened."

Riley nods, his expression turning serious. "I've wanted to apologize for a long time, Josh. For leaving the way I did. For not coming back sooner. For... all of it."

"You left me with him," I say, the words coming out flatter than I feel them. "You knew what he was like, and you just... left."

Riley flinches as if I've struck him. "I know. I've lived with that every day since." He runs a hand through his hair—another gesture we share. "I told myself I was going to save up, get established, bring you to live with me. But then there was always another reason to delay—another deployment, not enough money, not enough space."

"You could have called. Written. Something." The old anger rises, familiar and hot. "Four years, Riley. Four fucking years with him getting worse every day."

"I know." He doesn't try to defend himself, which somehow makes it harder to stay angry. "I was a coward. I told myself you were probably fine, that it wasn't as bad as I remembered. That Dad was getting better." He shakes his head. "I lied to myself because the truth was too hard to face—that I abandoned my little brother when he needed me most."

The raw honesty in his voice takes the wind out of my sails. I'd expected excuses, justifications. Not this straightforward admission of guilt.

"Why didn't you come looking for me after?" I ask. "Years later."

"I did." Riley leans forward, elbows on his desk. "I asked around, tried to find you. But you were gone—moved from town to town, never staying long enough to put down roots. By the time I heard you were back in Cedar Falls, buying that cabin on the mountain, it felt like it was too late.."

"I was angry," I admit. "For a long time."

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