Page 11 of Heartwood and Hardware
"The modern Hansel and Gretel," I quip. "Breadcrumbs are so last century."
His laugh is unexpected and warm, like the cedar scent surrounding us. For a moment, we're just standing there grinning at each other, connected by nothing more than shared humor and scattered wood chips.
It feels like the beginning of something.
I clutch the fox a little tighter, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it really is good luck after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEAN
I watch Riley examine the dragon carving, her eyes widening as she notices the details like the individually carved scales, the wings poised mid-unfurl, and the tiny golden eyes made from inlaid amber.
"This is incredible," she breathes, leaning closer. "How long did it take you to make this?"
"About three weeks, working evenings." I run my hand along Smaug's spine, remembering the hours spent hunched over my workbench. "The scales were the trickiest part."
"I can imagine." She points to the pile of coins beneath the dragon's claws. "You even carved the treasure hoard."
"Can't have Smaug without his gold." I smile, watching her fascination. It's refreshing—the genuine appreciation without the usual platitudes people offer when they think they should admire art but don't really get it.
Riley understands what she's seeing. Her eyes follow the same lines my hands did, seeing the technical challenges, the solutions found in the grain. She doesn't just look—she sees.
"I'm doing another demonstration in about an hour," I find myself saying. "If you want to stick around. It's less noisy than the chainsaw part. I'll be doing detail work on the bear."
She hesitates, and I immediately regret the invitation. Of course she has other plans. She's probably supposed to be networking, not watching some guy carve wood.
"I'd like that," she says, surprising me. "If you don't mind an audience."
"Just you wouldn't be an audience. More like..." I search for the right word, something that doesn't sound presumptuous or weird. "Company."
Her smile reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners. "Company. I like that."
"So how did you get into coding?" I ask, genuinely curious about her path.
Riley settles back into the chair, getting comfortable. The fox carving remains in her hand, her thumb absently stroking its back.
"I built my first website when I was twelve," she says. "It was terrible. Blinking text, auto-playing music, the works. But I was hooked on the idea that I could create something from nothing, just with words that told a computer what to do."
"That's how I feel about carving," I admit. "Taking something raw and revealing what's inside it."
She nods eagerly. "Yes! That's it exactly. Code feels like... like finding the hidden patterns and bringing them to life." She pauses, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about this stuff."
"Don't apologize. It's good hearing someone talk about what they love."
Her smile turns shy. "What about you? How did you end up carving dragons with chainsaws?"
I lean against my workbench, considering how to explain. "My uncle was a carpenter. Traditional stuff like furniture and cabinets. He taught me the basics when I was a kid." The memory warms me—Uncle John's workshop smelling of pineand pipe tobacco, his patient hands guiding mine. "After he died, I found his old carving tools in the garage. Started messing around with them."
"And the chainsaw part?"
"That came later. I was working construction, clearing land. Saw a fallen oak and just... saw something in it. Borrowed a chainsaw from work and roughed out a hawk." I shrug, downplaying what had been a pivotal moment. "It was terrible, but I was hooked."
"So you're self-taught?" There's admiration in her voice.
"Mostly. Took some classes eventually, learned proper techniques. But a lot of it is just practice. Thousands of hours of making mistakes and figuring out how to fix them."
"That's coding too." She laughs softly. "My work is basically breaking things and then fixing them, over and over, until it finally does what I want."
