Page 8 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

I nod. "He'll be up soon, though. I should get back."

"Right." Josh sets the axe down again and moves toward the woodpile. "I'll load some in my truck and drop it by your place."

"You don't have to do that. I can carry some—"

He gives me a look that clearly says he doesn't believe I can haul armloads of split logs back to my cabin. He's probably right, but something in me bristles at the assumption.

"I'm stronger than I look," I say, lifting my chin slightly.

"Never said you weren't." He selects a log from the pile and holds it out to me. "But it's a quarter mile to your place, and this is pine. Heavy when you're carrying a stack."

I take the log, the bark rough against my palms. It is heavier than it looks. "Fine. But I'm helping you load the truck."

One corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Suit yourself."

We work in silence, me carrying logs to his truck bed, him stacking them. This feels good after yesterday's emotional marathon. My hands will be dirty, my arms will ache, but there's satisfaction in the simple task.

"Why'd you pick Cedar Falls?" he asks suddenly, as we're nearly finished.

I almost drop the log I'm holding. It's the first personal question he's asked, and it catches me off guard. "I... it seemed peaceful. Away from everything."

He stares at me for a moment, like he knows I'm not telling the whole truth. "It's that, all right."

"And the rent was cheap," I add, which is true enough. "I needed to stretch my savings until I find work."

He nods, accepting this explanation. "Town's small, but there's usually jobs if you're not picky. Diner, like I said. Maybe the school needs help now that summer's ending."

"You've lived here long?" I ask, seizing the opportunity to learn more about him.

"Twelve years this cabin. Grew up about twenty miles down the mountain." His tone changes slightly—cooler, more distant—and I sense we've strayed into territory he'd rather avoid.

"I grew up in Seattle," I offer, not sure why I'm telling him this. "Never lived anywhere this rural before."

"Takes adjusting," he says, loading the last log. "Bears, generators, woodstoves. Different way of life."

"I'm a quick learner." I dust my hands on my jeans, leaving smudges of bark and dirt.

He closes the tailgate with a solid thunk. "Your boy's probably up by now."

It's a clear dismissal, but not an unkind one. "Right. I should go." I take a step back, toward the path to my cabin. "Thank you. For the wood."

Josh nods, then hesitates, like he's debating whether to say something more. Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper.

"My number," he says, holding it out to me. "In case the generator acts up again. Or if you..." He trails off, seeming uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say.

"Thank you."

He clears his throat. "Town's straight down the mountain road. Can't miss it. Just one main street."

"Got it." I tuck the paper into my pocket, oddly touched by this small gesture of connection. "I'll see you around, I guess."

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his damp hair, making it stand up slightly. "See you around."

As I walk back to my cabin, I can sense his eyes following my progress until the trees obscure his view. The piece of paper in my pocket feels significant, though I can't articulate why. It's just a phone number. Just a neighborly gesture.

But as I approach my cabin and see my son's face peering through the window, his expression brightening when he spots me, I find myself smiling. For the first time since I fled Portland with nothing but a car full of hastily packed belongings and desperate hope, I feel like maybe—just maybe—we might be okay here.

Even if "here" is a rundown cabin with no electricity, in a town where I know no one, with only a grumpy lumberjack neighbor for support.

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