Page 10 of Protected By the Lumberjack
The sharp crack of another log splitting echoes off the mountains around me as my axe cuts through the dry cedar.
It doesn't matter what's behind Honey. What matters now is what's ahead for her.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls me out of my thoughts. When I look up, I see the local deputy's official vehicle rolling to a stop in my driveway.
Something about the hard look on Hawk's face chases away all the peace I'd just managed to come to.
Sinking the axe head into the old oak round I use as a chopping block, I stand tall, wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and watch the other man walk toward me with strides far too purposeful to mean this is a casual visit.
The anxiety that has had me out here all afternoon creeps back up my spine, setting my senses on high alert.
"What's up?"
Ordinarily, I'd greet the man by name, offer him something cold from the fridge, make some jokes, and fall into some friendly bullshitting with the man whose more friend than law to most of the people on the Ridge.
Today, there's a cold feeling running in my blood that this visit is a from the deputy sheriff, not my buddy, Hawk.
"Honey around?"
I shake my head side to side; real slow.
"Museum. Helping Mable today."
He looks down at his polished boots and coughs.
"Just got a call." Hawk takes off his hat and worries it between his hands. "Someone showed up down there saying he knows your girl. Knows her real well. Says her real name is Evie."
Every muscle in my body is tense, poised for action. Cold sweat trickles down my spine, different from the one I worked up with the chopping.
"I think you oughta get in the truck, Carv. Let me take you down to her. This guy? He's got his lawyer with him. They're on their way up here."
I don't even bother locking up the house.
Hawkins races me back to his vehicle and doesn't wait for my seatbelt to click before peeling out of my drive.
"Let's find out if the siren on this thing even works," he tells me as he flips a switch on the dash.
In all my years on this mountain; I don't think I've ever heard a siren that wasn't for a fire.
Chapter Six
Honey
"Evie! Thank God!"
The stranger bursts through the door of the little retail space that serves as Moonshine Ridge's local history museum and visitor center.
It's just me and Mable Hart and we both look up when the bell on the door chimes.
Two men walk in. One in a suit, carrying a leather case. The other looks just as out of place for the remote mountain town. With his pressed slacks, button down shirt, leather loafers and clean shaven jaw-- he looks like his secretary was too busy to make his coffee run for him and he got lost trying to navigate the city streets on his own.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," Mable stands up and walks around her desk.
Mable Hart might hit five feet tall with her boots on. She always seems to be wearing boots; she has a preference for classic Doc Martens. She told me once they were good for stomping snakes, and I decided not to ask any more questions.
She's also close to ninety years old. With a bold, if odd, personal style that pairs those boots with lipstick in a truly unfortunate shade of pink and thick glasses with red frames.Today, there's a crocheted cover over a Ramones concert t-shirt that I think might have actually come from a Ramones concert.
I'd never heard of them, I had to look them up.
