Page 54 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
Afterwards, of course, I'd felt awful. I felt like I had become exactly that thing she had herself accused me of being in the kitchen, when we'd argued. She'd called me a "peeping Tom," and without knowing it, she'd ended up being right.
So now I need to talk to Luna. I can't let all this ill feeling fester. I have to resolve our issues somehow—not just for my own sake but for all of us. If I don't, the canker will grow and spread. I need to confess my sins to her and ask for her forgiveness. But I also need to ask her what her true intentions are. Is she for us, or against us? Is she really behind an attempt to get someone injured, or even killed? Or is she on our side?
Because from where I'm sitting, she can't just carry on sitting on the fence and playing both ends.
She has to decide?—
Us or them.
CHAPTER 18
Eric
I’m sitting at the picnic table, soaking up the last of the late-summer sun while I can. My laptop’s open in front of me, rows of numbers glaring back as I enter data on the trees I tagged in the weeks before the storm. It’s mind-numbing work. Necessary, yes—but about as exciting as watching sap dry.
Movement in the yard catches my eye. Luke strides out of the chainsaw shed, a saw in each hand, his gait steady and purposeful. He heads straight for one of the F-150s he’s pulled around from the barn. I watch him toss the saws into the truck bed with casual efficiency, then turn and head back toward the shed for more gear.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s up to—felling, delimbing, maybe more storm cleanup. I don’t know which. What I do know is I’m tired of staring at spreadsheets. Toby once told me Luke was a wizard with a saw, an artist even. Watching him work has to be better than staring at data cells until my eyes bleed.
“Hey, Luke.”
He turns, spots me at the table. “Yeah?”
“You going out to cut some trees?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I come? Just to watch?”
He pauses, studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “You interested in learning? Want to try?”
“Wait—you’d let me?” My voice comes out way more eager than I meant.
“Yeah. But we’ll have to get you kitted out first. PPE. Follow me.”
I snap my laptop shut. “Great. Thanks, Luke.”
Inside the shed, the smell of oil and metal hangs thick in the air. On one wall, rows of safety gear dangle from hooks, and shelves are stacked with spare equipment. Luke gives me a once-over, mutters, “Five-nine. Medium,” then looks me in the eye.
“Shoe size?”
“Eleven.”
“Good. You’ll need to put these on.” He hands me a pile of bright orange protective clothing. “Meanwhile, I’ll dig out some boots that should fit.”
I glance at the gear. “That’s okay, I’ve got my hiking boots. I can wear those.”
Luke raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Steel-toe-capped? Reinforced uppers rated for chainsaw cuts at chain speeds up to twenty-eight meters per second?” He waits. “No? Didn’t think so. Unless you don’t mind losing a couple of toes—or maybe your whole foot—you’d better wear these.”
I swallow. “Point taken.” I take the battered boots he hands me. Scuffed, well-worn, but solid. I sit down on the bench and start changing, trying not to feel like a little kid suiting up for his first day of Little League.
Soon I’m dressed in my borrowed PPE: bibbed pants with shoulder straps, a zip-up jacket, and gloves—oddly mismatched between right and left hands. I top it off with a helmet fitted with ear defenders and a thin mesh visor. It all feels oversized, heavy, and awkward.
I pull the helmet off for now and glance at Luke, who’s busy hauling more gear out to the truck. “These pants and jacket feel bulky as hell.”
Luke grins. “Yeah—bulky and hot. Try wearing them in midsummer, when it’s ninety degrees and there’s no breeze.”
“So why all the padding?”
