Page 6 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

I turn, hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct, her gaze steady despite her trembling voice.

I could lie. Say it's what neighbors do. Say it's not a big deal. But something about the candlelight and the crackling fire and the little boy watching me with those solemn eyes makes me tell the truth.

"Because no one helped me when I needed it."

Her expression softens, and for a moment I think she might reach out, might touch my arm or take my hand, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when she doesn't.

"Well, you're helping us now," she says quietly. "And I won't forget it."

I nod once, unable to find words and step out into the night. The air is clean and sharp, stars emerging in the clear mountain sky. From here, I can see my cabin through the trees, the warm light in the windows, the smoke from the chimney. The solitary life I've built for myself.

It's been enough. For twelve years, it's been enough.

But as I walk away from Elisa Lowell and her son, I can't shake the feeling that something has changed, like the first tremor before an avalanche. And for the first time in years, I'm not sure if the walls I've built are keeping others out—or keeping me in.

Chapter 3 - Elisa

I close the door behind Josh and lean against it, exhaling slowly. The cabin feels different now—warmer, brighter, less intimidating. The generator hums steadily outside, powering the single overhead bulb that transforms the space from foreboding to merely shabby.

Mason tugs at my jeans, holding Hoppy up for inspection. "Bear gone?"

I smile, running my fingers through his soft curls. "Yes, baby. The bear is gone." I scoop him up, grateful for his solid weight in my arms. "But he was a nice bear, wasn't he? He helped us."

Mason considers this, then nods. "Nice bear."

The kettle whistles on the wood stove, and I carry Mason with me to make us both some tea—chamomile for him, heavily diluted and sweetened with the honey packets I'd grabbed from a gas station on our journey.

As I settle Mason on the worn sofa with his sippy cup of tea, I can't stop thinking about Josh's parting words.

“Because no one helped me when I needed it.” There was history in that statement, pain layered so deep I could hear it in every syllable. I recognize it because I carry the same kind of pain—wounds that aren't visible but shape every move you make, every decision, every interaction.

"What do you think, Mason?" I ask, sitting beside him and letting him curl against me. "Think we can make it work here?"

He looks up at me with Jordan's eyes—the only good thing his father gave him—and smiles around the spout of his cup.

"Nice bear," he says again, and I laugh despite everything.

"Yes, he is. A very grumpy, helpful bear." I kiss the top of his head. "Let's get you ready for bed, okay? It's been a big day."

The bedroom is still chilly, so I make a nest of blankets on the sofa instead, close to the woodstove's warmth. I change Mason into his pajamas and brush his teeth using bottled water, singing our usual bedtime song as I work. By the time I tuck him in, his eyelids are drooping.

"Love you to the moon," I whisper, our nightly ritual.

"An' back," he murmurs, already half-asleep.

I sit beside him until his breathing deepens, then carefully extract myself. The fire needs tending, and I should sort through our belongings—the hasty packing means everything is jumbled together in duffel bags and boxes.

Instead, I find myself at the cabin's front window, looking toward the trees that separate our property from Josh's. His cabin glows warmly in the darkness, a sturdy, well-maintained counterpoint to the ramshackle structure sheltering us.

I rest my hand on the slight swell of my belly, a gesture that's become automatic over the past few months. "We're going to be okay," I whisper, to the baby, to Mason, to myself. "We're going to make this work."

Even if I have no idea how.

The Next Day

Morning comes with birdsong and golden light filtering through curtainless windows. I blink awake, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the woodsy smell, the hard cushions beneath me. I'd given Mason the makeshift bed and taken the armchair, which seemed like a good idea at midnight but has left my neck stiff and my back aching.

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