Page 7 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

Mason still sleeps, one arm flung above his head, the other clutching Hoppy. I ease myself upright, wincing as my ribs protest. The fire has died down to embers, and the cabin is cool again, though not as damp as yesterday. Outside, the generator has gone silent—must have run out of gas sometime during the night.

A rhythmic sound drifts through the open window—a solid, repetitive thunk followed by a crack. It stops, then starts again.

Thunk. Crack. Thunk. Crack.

I move to the window, curious. Through the trees, I can see movement near Josh's cabin, but can't make out details. After checking on Mason one more time—still deeply asleep, as he always is in the morning—I slip on my shoes and cardigan. I bend down to kiss his forehead, his skin warm and soft under my lips.

"Stay here, baby," I whisper, though I know he won't wake for at least another hour. "Don't leave unless Mommy calls you, okay?"

He mumbles something in his sleep, rolling over to press his face into Hoppy's well-loved fur. I smile, then quietly let myself out of the cabin.

The morning air is crisp and sweet, the kind of pure mountain oxygen that makes you realize how stale city air really is. Dew sparkles on every surface, and somewhere nearby, a woodpecker rattles against a tree. I follow the chopping sound, carefully picking my way along the path connecting our properties.

As I round a cluster of pines, I stop dead in my tracks.

Josh stands in a clearing beside his cabin, his back to me. He's shirtless, wearing only jeans and boots, and the morning sun gilds his skin with amber light. His shoulders—broad and muscular—flex as he raises an axe above his head, then brings itdown in a perfect arc. The log on the chopping block splits with a satisfying crack, and he kicks the pieces aside before positioning another.

I should turn around. I should go back to my cabin and wait for Mason to wake up. I should not be standing here watching my grumpy neighbor chop wood like some wilderness fantasy come to life.

But I can't seem to make my feet move.

Sweat trickles down his back, following the contours of his muscles. A tattoo covers his left shoulder blade—something intricate and dark that I can't make out from this distance. His hair is damp at the nape of his neck, curling slightly with moisture.

He positions another log, adjusts his stance, and swings. The axe bites deep, and the wood surrenders with a splintering crack. There's something mesmerizing about the power of his movements, the absolute certainty in every swing.

I must make some sound—a twig snapping underfoot, perhaps, or just an indrawn breath—because he suddenly stiffens and turns.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. His chest rises and falls with exertion, a sheen of sweat making his skin gleam in the sunlight. Up close, I can see that the tattoo on his shoulder is a stylized tree, its roots extending down his ribs, its branches reaching toward his neck. Another tattoo circles his right bicep—what looks like a big clock or a bunch of clocks.

"Morning," he says finally, his voice rough. He leans the axe against the chopping block and reaches for a flannel shirt draped over a nearby stump.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I heard the chopping and wanted to see—I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

He shrugs into the shirt but doesn't button it. "You didn't. Just finishing up."

I nod, absurdly disappointed as the fabric covers his torso. "I, um, wanted to thank you again. For last night. The generator, the fire..."

"How'd it hold up?" he asks, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Generator, I mean."

"It ran out of gas sometime in the night, but it was fine until then. Kept the lights on while we got settled."

He nods, seemingly satisfied with this report. "I was going to bring you that gas can. For town." He gestures toward his cabin. "It's on the porch."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware that I'm in yesterday's clothes, sleep-rumpled and unwashed. "I'll head into town as soon as Mason wakes up."

Josh's eyes flick over me, a quick assessment that doesn't feel intrusive but still makes me want to smooth my hair, straighten my cardigan. "You sleep okay? That place gets cold at night."

The question surprises me—it's more personal than anything he said yesterday. "We managed. The woodstove helped a lot."

He picks up the axe again, and for a moment I think he's going to resume chopping, dismissing me. Instead, he nods toward the pile of split logs. "This is for you. Was going to bring it over later."

I stare at the stack of firewood—there must be enough for several days. "You... you chopped all that for us?"

He shrugs, the movement making his open shirt gape slightly, revealing a strip of tattooed skin. "Needed doing."

"But that must have taken hours." I can't wrap my mind around it—this stranger, this gruff, taciturn man, waking up early to chop wood for us.

"Not much else to do up here." He shifts, looking uncomfortable with my attention. "Your boy still sleeping?"

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