Page 1 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #2)

The rickety wooden porch creaks under my weight as I adjust Mason on my hip. My free hand trembles as I turn the ancient brass key in the lock. It sticks, because of course it does.

"Come on," I whisper, jiggling the key. "Please."

Mason whimpers and presses his face into my neck, his toddler body still heavy with sleep after our six-hour drive. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in the comforting scent of his baby shampoo, and try the key again.

The lock finally gives, and the door swings open with a haunted-house creak. I step inside, and my heart sinks like a stone.

"Oh."

The interior is dim, with only patchy sunlight filtering through dirty windows.

A musty smell hangs in the air—not the cozy pine scent I'd imagined, but something closer to neglect.

The main room is small, with a kitchenette in one corner, a worn sofa pushed against the far wall, and a woodstove that looks like it dates back to the pioneer days.

"Home sweet home," I murmur, setting Mason down on the wooden floor. He immediately clutches my leg, wide eyes taking in our new surroundings.

"House?" he asks, his voice small.

"Yes, baby. Our new house." I force brightness into my voice, rubbing my lower back where it aches from the drive and the extra weight I'm carrying. "Do you want to help Mommy explore?"

He shakes his head, still clinging to my jeans.

I can't blame him. This place is a far cry from our apartment in Portland—the one with the sunny yellow kitchen where Mason's height chart is penciled on the wall, where his favorite park was just a block away.

The apartment I fled in the middle of the night three days ago, stuffing whatever I could into my Honda while Mason slept in his car seat, jumping at every sound on the street.

I pick up Mason again and push open the door to what must be the bedroom. A queen-sized bed with a faded quilt occupies most of the space. At least it looks clean. There's a small adjoining bathroom and a closet barely big enough for the clothes I brought.

"Look, Mason. This is where we'll sleep. Isn't it cozy?" I'm talking more to convince myself than him.

I set him down on the bed with his stuffed rabbit, which buys me a few minutes to check out the rest of the cabin.

The kitchen cupboards contain a few mismatched plates and cups, a dented pot, and a frying pan.

The refrigerator hums loudly when I open it—at least it works.

I check the tap, and water sputters out, brown at first, then running clear.

I try the light switch. Nothing happens.

I try again, flicking it up and down. Still nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, placing my hands on the slight swell of my belly in an unconscious gesture of protection. "No electricity?"

The listing had definitely mentioned utilities included. Had I been so desperate to escape that I'd missed some crucial detail? I pull out my phone to check the rental agreement, but there's no signal. Perfect.

Through the kitchen window, I can see the back of another cabin about fifty yards away through the trees. Smoke curls from its chimney, which means someone's home. A neighbor—my only neighbor, from what I can tell.

I swallow hard. Back in Portland, I'd trained myself never to ask for help, never to draw attention.

Attention meant questions. Questions meant someone might notice the bruises I worked so hard to hide.

Questions meant Jordan finding out I'd spoken to someone, which meant a closed fist and harsh whispers after Mason went to bed.

But this is Cedar Falls. I'm six hours and a mountain range away from Portland. From Jordan. He doesn't know where I am. Nobody does.

I need to be stronger now. For Mason. For the baby growing inside me.

I peek back into the bedroom. Mason has fallen asleep again, curled around his rabbit.

I grab my jacket and step outside, closing the door softly behind me.

The mountain air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and something earthy.

In any other circumstance, I might find it beautiful—the towering trees, the distant mountain peaks, the absolute quiet broken only by birdsong.

I follow a dirt path that seems to lead toward the neighboring cabin. As I get closer, I can see that it's larger than mine, sturdier-looking, with a wraparound porch and neatly stacked firewood along one side. A battered blue pickup truck sits in front.

My heart thuds in my chest as I approach the steps. I haven't voluntarily spoken to a stranger in... I can't even remember. Jordan always did the talking. Jordan made the decisions. Jordan controlled who I saw, where I went, what I wore.

Not anymore.

I lift my hand to knock, then hesitate. What if the neighbor is unfriendly? What if they're dangerous? What if they're a man?

I take a deep breath, feel the slight roundness of my belly beneath my oversized sweater. Four months along. Sixteen weeks of secret hope, of hidden ultrasound pictures, of silent promises that this child would never know what their father was capable of.

I knock. Three quick raps, then step back, ready to flee if necessary.

Nothing happens. I wait, counting my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Just as I'm about to turn and leave, I hear heavy footsteps inside. The door swings open, and I immediately take another step back.

The man filling the doorway is enormous.

At least six-foot-three, with broad shoulders that strain against a flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms covered in tattoos.

Dark hair, slightly too long, frames a face that hasn't seen a razor in days.

His beard is thick but not wild, and beneath heavy brows, eyes the color of strong coffee regard me with suspicion.

"What?" The word comes out like a growl.

All my rehearsed questions evaporate. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His scowl deepens, and I notice a smudge of what looks like sawdust across his cheek. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of a tidy interior, so at odds with his rough appearance.

"I—" I clear my throat. "I just moved in. Next door." I point vaguely in the direction of my cabin. "The electricity isn't working, and I was wondering if you knew—"

"There isn't any." His voice is deep, the words clipped.

I blink at him. "Excuse me?"

"No electricity. Not in that cabin."

"But the listing said utilities included."

His expression doesn't change. "Utilities means the well and the woodstove. Propane for the fridge and water heater."

I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. No electricity? How am I supposed to—? I must look as devastated as I feel, because something in his face shifts slightly.

"There's a generator," he adds, almost reluctantly. "In the shed behind your place. Probably needs gas."

Relief floods through me. "Oh. Thank you. I don't suppose you know where I could get some? Gas, I mean." I realize I haven't seen a gas station since turning off the main highway, twenty minutes ago.

He sighs, a sound of profound irritation. "I've got a can. Wait here."

Before I can respond, he disappears back into his cabin, leaving the door open.

I stand awkwardly on his porch, taking in more details of his home through the doorway.

It's sparse but organized. A large wooden table covered with papers.

Bookshelves lined with what look like field guides and repair manuals.

A pair of heavy boots by the door, neatly placed.

He reappears a moment later, carrying a red gas can. "This should be enough to get you through tonight. Town's fifteen minutes down the mountain. Bell's General has everything you need."

I reach for the gas can, but it's heavier than I expect.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm Elisa, by the way. Elisa Lowell."

He regards me for a long moment, as if debating whether to offer his name in return. Finally, he nods once. "Josh Carter."

"Nice to meet you, Josh." The words come out in a rush.

He doesn't return the sentiment. Instead, he gestures toward the gas can.

"Cap's tight, but don't tip it. Generator's simple. On/off switch and a pull cord, like a lawn mower."

I nod, trying to absorb the instructions. I've never operated a generator in my life.

"Is there... is there anything else I should know? About the cabin, I mean."

I don't know why I'm prolonging this interaction. There's something oddly comforting about this gruff man who seems to want nothing to do with me. No fake smiles, no hidden agendas.

Josh runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it slightly mussed. "Nights get cold, even in summer. Don't let the woodstove go out completely. Bears sometimes get into the trash, so keep it in the shed until collection day. Thursdays."

"Bears?" My voice comes out as a squeak.

"They're more scared of you than you are of them."

I seriously doubt that.

"Right. Thanks again. I should get back." I hoist the gas can, which already feels like it's pulling my arm from its socket. "My son is asleep, and I don't want him to wake up alone in a strange place."

At the mention of Mason, Josh's expression hardens again as if I've confirmed something he suspected. "How old?"

"Two. Almost three." I don't mention the baby. I'm not showing much yet, and something tells me Josh Carter isn't the type to care about my personal circumstances.

He nods once more, then steps back, clearly dismissing me. "Generator shed's behind the cabin. Red door."

And with that, he closes his door, leaving me standing on his porch with a gas can and the distinct impression that my new neighbor would prefer I didn't exist.

As I make my way back to my cabin, I can't help but think that makes two of us. The less we interact with our neighbors, the better. The fewer people who know about us, the safer we'll be.

Because even with six hours and a mountain range between us, I know Jordan. He won't stay in the dark for long. He'll start looking. And when Jordan starts looking for something, he doesn't stop until he finds it.