Page 9 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack

It's still better than where we came from. And right now, that's enough.

Chapter 4 - Josh

I watch her disappear into the trees, the piece of paper with my number probably already floating to the bottom of her pocket, forgotten. I'm not sure why I gave it to her. A momentary lapse in judgment, clearly. Something about the way she looked in the morning light, hair mussed from sleep, eyes soft but determined, dirt smudged on her cheek.

"Idiot," I mutter to myself, climbing into the truck. The engine roars to life, and I back up, then head down the narrow drive toward her cabin.

What the hell am I doing? Two days ago, my life was exactly how I wanted it. Quiet. Predictable. Empty of complications like single mothers with wary eyes and toddlers who call me "bear." Now I'm chopping extra firewood, fixing generators, offering my phone number like some eager teenager.

I pull up beside her cabin and cut the engine. Through the window, I can see the boy—Mason—standing on the sofa, face pressed against the glass. When he spots me, his small hand lifts in a wobbly wave. Without thinking, I wave back.

I’m definitely an idiot.

I unload the wood quickly, stacking it neatly against the side of the cabin where it'll stay relatively dry. As I work, I hear the door open and small footsteps approach.

"Bear!" Mason announces, sounding delighted.

I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. The kid stands a few feet away, still in pajamas, his stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand. His mother appears in the doorway behind him, looking slightly panicked.

"Mason! I told you to stay inside while I got dressed."

"It's fine," I say, though it's not. Nothing about this situation is fine. I don't know how to talk to children. I don't know how to be around people who look at me without the weight of history and rumor coloring their perception. "Almost done here."

She scoops up her son, balancing him on her hip. "Thank you for bringing the wood. You really didn't have to."

"Like I said. Needed doing." I load the last few logs onto the pile. "This should last you a few days. Nights are still getting cold, even in August."

She nods, shifting the boy's weight. He's watching me with full curiosity, none of the wariness his mother carries like a second skin.

"We're heading into town soon. Anything you need while we're there?" She asks me.

The question catches me off guard. When was the last time someone offered to pick something up for me? "No. I'm good."

"Okay." She smiles, "Well, thanks again."

I nod and head back to my truck, feeling her eyes on me as I drive away. In my rearview mirror, I see the boy wave again, his mother's hand gently guiding his in the motion.

Back at my cabin, I slam the door behind me as if I can physically shut out the strange feelings churning in my gut. I strip off my flannel shirt, still damp with sweat from the wood-chopping, and toss it in the laundry basket. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, then look at myself in the mirror.

Same face I've had for the past 10 years. Same dark eyes, same stubbled jaw, same grim set to my mouth. But something feels different, unsettled. Like ground shifting beneath my feet.

"Get it together, Carter," I tell my reflection. "You're not a helper. You're not a friend. You're just being a decent neighbor."

That's all this is. Basic human decency. Nothing more. I helped her because anyone would have. Because she has a kid. Because Hargrove's cabin is a disaster, and it was the right thing to do.

Not because something in her eyes reminds me of myself twenty years ago—lost, scared, trying to be brave. Not because the boy's innocent trust makes my chest ache in places I thought had gone numb long ago.

I have a system here. A routine. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. Repeat. Minimal interaction with the town below, just enough to get jobs and supplies. No friendships, no relationships, no complications. It's clean. Simple. Safe.

There's a reason no one from Cedar Falls ventures up the mountain to visit the Carter property. There's a reason I've cultivated my reputation as the grumpy lumberjack who's best left alone. Solitude is a choice I made long ago, and it has served me well.

So why did I give her my number?

I shake my head and grab a fresh shirt from the drawer. I've got work to do. The Bennet job needs finishing, and I've got three more bids to prepare before the end of the week. No time to be distracted by neighbors who'll probably be gone within the month anyway. Hargrove's cabin claims another victim every season—they never last.

She won't call. And that's exactly how I want it.

A few hours later…

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