Page 3 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

"Right. Thanks again. I should get back." I hoist the gas can, which already feels like it's pulling my arm from its socket. "Myson is asleep, and I don't want him to wake up alone in a strange place."

At the mention of Mason, Josh's expression hardens again as if I've confirmed something he suspected. "How old?"

"Two. Almost three." I don't mention the baby. I'm not showing much yet, and something tells me Josh Carter isn't the type to care about my personal circumstances.

He nods once more, then steps back, clearly dismissing me. "Generator shed's behind the cabin. Red door."

And with that, he closes his door, leaving me standing on his porch with a gas can and the distinct impression that my new neighbor would prefer I didn't exist.

As I make my way back to my cabin, I can't help but think that makes two of us. The less we interact with our neighbors, the better. The fewer people who know about us, the safer we'll be.

Because even with six hours and a mountain range between us, I know Jordan. He won't stay in the dark for long. He'll start looking. And when Jordan starts looking for something, he doesn't stop until he finds it.

Chapter 2 - Josh

I slam the door harder than necessary and listen to her footsteps fade down my porch steps. The silence that follows is familiar. Comfortable. The way I like it.

Except it doesn't feel comfortable right now.

"Damn it," I mutter, stalking to the kitchen and yanking open the refrigerator. I grab a beer, then reconsider and set it back. It's barely noon, and I've got three more hours of work on the Bennet job before I can call it a day.

I can't stop seeing her face. The way she flinched when our fingers brushed. The flash of panic in her eyes when I mentioned bears. The careful way she stood, like someone who's been pushed down too many times and is always braced for the next shove.

I know that stance. I perfected it by the time I was ten.

But it's not my problem. I've spent twelve years in this cabin building walls—not just the physical ones I repair for a living, but the ones that keep people at a distance. The ones that let me sleep at night without jerking awake at phantom sounds, without my father's voice echoing in my head.

I grab my work gloves from the hook by the door and head to the workshop attached to the back of my cabin. The table saw whines as I feed through a length of cedar, the familiar motion soothing my jangled nerves. Sawdust fills the air, coating my forearms, catching in my beard. I lose myself in the rhythm of it—measure, mark, cut, sand. Repeat.

But the image of her keeps intruding. Elisa Lowell. Young—too young, probably mid-twenties. Curves for days. Brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail like she hadn't had time to brushit properly. Eyes the color of moss in shadow, wary and tired. A two-year-old son waiting for her in that wreck of a cabin.

That goddamn cabin. Hargrove has been trying to rent it out for years, and every time some unsuspecting tenant signs the lease, they're gone within a month. No electricity. Spotty plumbing. Drafty windows that let in every whisper of mountain wind. I should have warned her.

But that would mean getting involved. Getting involved means caring, and caring means leaving yourself open to all the ways people can hurt you.

I finish the last of the trim pieces for the Bennets' sunroom and stack them carefully. Outside, the afternoon light has shifted, lengthening the shadows across my yard. A jay scolds from the pine near my truck, its harsh cry breaking the silence.

I imagine her over there, trying to figure out that ancient generator in the growing darkness. With a child. A small, helpless child who didn't ask to be dragged up a mountain to live in a cabin that barely deserves the name.

"Not your problem, Carter," I say aloud, my voice startling in the empty workshop.

I clean up, sweeping sawdust into neat piles, wiping down my tools, everything in its place. Order. Control. The things I never had growing up in my father's house, where chaos reigned and you never knew what might set him off—a dish left in the sink, a door closed too loudly, a question asked at the wrong moment.

I wash up at the utility sink, scrubbing sawdust from under my nails, from the creases of my palms, from the tattoos that cover my forearms—ink I started collecting at eighteen, marking myself as my own when I finally got away. The running water drowns out all other sounds, which is why I don't hear the first knock.

The second one, though, cuts through the cabin like a rifle shot.

I dry my hands and move to the front door. Probably Bill Bennet wanting to know if his trim is ready early. The man has no concept of boundaries.

But when I open the door, there's no one there.

I step onto the porch, scanning the treeline, and that's when I hear it—a small, hiccuping sob coming from the direction of Hargrove's cabin. The sound raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's a child crying.

Before I can think about it, I'm off the porch and striding through the trees, following the path that connects our properties. The evening air is cooling rapidly, the way it does in the mountains, even in summer. Another sound joins the crying—a woman's voice, soft and strained, trying to comfort.

Hargrove's cabin comes into view, and I slow my pace. The last thing I want is to frighten her more than she already is. There's no light in the windows. No sound of a generator running.

"Hello?" I call, keeping my distance from the porch. "Elisa?"

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