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

I slam the door harder than necessary and listen to her footsteps fade down my porch steps. The silence that follows is familiar. Comfortable. The way I like it.

Except it doesn't feel comfortable right now.

"Damn it," I mutter, stalking to the kitchen and yanking open the refrigerator. I grab a beer, then reconsider and set it back. It's barely noon, and I've got three more hours of work on the Bennet job before I can call it a day.

I can't stop seeing her face. The way she flinched when our fingers brushed. The flash of panic in her eyes when I mentioned bears. The careful way she stood, like someone who's been pushed down too many times and is always braced for the next shove.

I know that stance. I perfected it by the time I was ten.

But it's not my problem. I've spent twelve years in this cabin building walls—not just the physical ones I repair for a living, but the ones that keep people at a distance. The ones that let me sleep at night without jerking awake at phantom sounds, without my father's voice echoing in my head.

I grab my work gloves from the hook by the door and head to the workshop attached to the back of my cabin.

The table saw whines as I feed through a length of cedar, the familiar motion soothing my jangled nerves.

Sawdust fills the air, coating my forearms, catching in my beard.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it—measure, mark, cut, sand. Repeat.

But the image of her keeps intruding. Elisa Lowell.

Young—too young, probably mid-twenties. Curves for days.

Brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail like she hadn't had time to brush it properly.

Eyes the color of moss in shadow, wary and tired.

A two-year-old son waiting for her in that wreck of a cabin.

That goddamn cabin. Hargrove has been trying to rent it out for years, and every time some unsuspecting tenant signs the lease, they're gone within a month. No electricity. Spotty plumbing. Drafty windows that let in every whisper of mountain wind. I should have warned her.

But that would mean getting involved. Getting involved means caring, and caring means leaving yourself open to all the ways people can hurt you.

I finish the last of the trim pieces for the Bennets' sunroom and stack them carefully. Outside, the afternoon light has shifted, lengthening the shadows across my yard. A jay scolds from the pine near my truck, its harsh cry breaking the silence.

I imagine her over there, trying to figure out that ancient generator in the growing darkness. With a child. A small, helpless child who didn't ask to be dragged up a mountain to live in a cabin that barely deserves the name.

"Not your problem, Carter," I say aloud, my voice startling in the empty workshop.

I clean up, sweeping sawdust into neat piles, wiping down my tools, everything in its place.

Order. Control. The things I never had growing up in my father's house, where chaos reigned and you never knew what might set him off—a dish left in the sink, a door closed too loudly, a question asked at the wrong moment.

I wash up at the utility sink, scrubbing sawdust from under my nails, from the creases of my palms, from the tattoos that cover my forearms—ink I started collecting at eighteen, marking myself as my own when I finally got away.

The running water drowns out all other sounds, which is why I don't hear the first knock.

The second one, though, cuts through the cabin like a rifle shot.

I dry my hands and move to the front door. Probably Bill Bennet wanting to know if his trim is ready early. The man has no concept of boundaries.

But when I open the door, there's no one there.

I step onto the porch, scanning the treeline, and that's when I hear it—a small, hiccuping sob coming from the direction of Hargrove's cabin. The sound raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's a child crying.

Before I can think about it, I'm off the porch and striding through the trees, following the path that connects our properties. The evening air is cooling rapidly, the way it does in the mountains, even in summer. Another sound joins the crying—a woman's voice, soft and strained, trying to comfort.

Hargrove's cabin comes into view, and I slow my pace. The last thing I want is to frighten her more than she already is. There's no light in the windows. No sound of a generator running.

"Hello?" I call, keeping my distance from the porch. "Elisa?"

The crying stops abruptly. A moment later, the door cracks open, and her face appears in the gap. Even in the fading light, I can see the relief that washes over her features, quickly replaced by wariness.

"Josh. Hi." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Did we disturb you? I'm sorry—"

"No." I cut her off, uncomfortable with her apology. "I just... I wanted to check if you got the generator running."

She hesitates, then pushes the door open wider. The little boy—Mason, she'd called him—is balanced on her hip, his face tear-streaked and red. He regards me with solemn eyes, a grubby stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest.

"I tried," she says, and there's frustration in her voice now. "I really did. I found the shed and put in the gas, but it won't start. I've pulled that cord until my arm feels like it's going to fall off."

I nod, unsurprised. "Hargrove never maintains anything. When's the last time a tenant was in here?"

"The listing said it was recently renovated." There's a bitter edge to her laugh.

"Hargrove's idea of renovation is slapping on a coat of paint and calling it good."

The boy whimpers again, burying his face in his mother's neck. I notice she's shivering slightly in the cooling air.

"I can take a look at it," I hear myself say. "The generator."

She blinks, clearly surprised by the offer. "You don't have to do that."

"I know." The words come out harsher than I intend, and I see her withdraw slightly. I try again, aiming for a softer tone. "It's not a problem. Got my tools in the truck."

She steps back, allowing me to enter the cabin.

It's even worse than I remembered—musty, with water stains on the ceiling and gaps in the floorboards where cold air seeps in.

The kitchenette is decades out of date, and the woodstove sits cold and empty.

No wonder the kid is crying. The place is freezing as the sun goes down.

"Show me the generator," I say, avoiding her eyes.

If I look at her too long in this dismal cabin, I might do something stupid like offer her my place instead. She leads me through the back door to the shed. The ancient generator sits like a rusted monument to neglect, exactly as I expected.

"You said you pulled the cord, right?" I ask, kneeling beside it.

She nods, shifting the boy to her other hip. He's watching me now, curiosity replacing some of his distress. "A million times. Nothing happens."

I examine the machine, quickly finding the problem. "Fuel line's cracked. Gas is leaking out before it reaches the engine." I glance up at her. "I've got parts back at my place. Won't take long to fix."

"Really?"

"Yeah." I stand, brushing dirt from my jeans. "But even if we get it running, you need heat. Woodstove work?"

"I don't know. I haven't tried it."

"Let's check."

Back inside, I examine the woodstove while she sets the boy down on the worn sofa. He immediately slides off and toddles over to me, keeping a cautious distance but watching my every move with wide eyes.

"Chimney's clear," I report, peering up the flue. "Damper works. You got wood?"

She shakes her head. "There's none inside. I saw some stacked against the shed, but..." She trails off, and I get it. She didn't want to leave her son alone to go gathering firewood in a strange place as darkness fell.

"I'll bring some in. And the tools for the generator."

I'm halfway to the door when a small voice stops me.

"Bear?"

I turn to see the little boy pointing at me, his expression serious. His mother looks mortified.

"Mason, no, that's not—"

"It's fine," I say, and to my surprise, I mean it. The kid's not wrong. With my beard and size, I probably do look like a bear to him. "Yeah, buddy. Like a bear."

He considers this, then holds up his stuffed rabbit. "Hoppy."

Something long-dormant within me awakes. I nod solemnly. "Nice to meet you, Hoppy."

The boy grins, displaying tiny teeth, and something about that innocent smile makes it suddenly hard to breathe. I nod to Elisa and escape outside, gulping the cool mountain air.

What the hell am I doing? Fixing a generator is one thing, but talking to her kid? Getting involved?

I stride back to my cabin and grab my toolbox from the truck, then collect an armload of split wood from my neatly stacked pile. The physical labor helps calm me, gives my hands something to do besides clench into fists.

By the time I return to Hargrove's cabin, I've almost convinced myself this is just basic human decency.

Nothing more. I'd do it for anyone. The fact that she's young and vulnerable and has a child has nothing to do with it.

The fact that I recognize the haunted look in her eyes, the way she carries herself like someone expecting a blow—that's irrelevant.

I'm not my father. That's all this is. Proving to myself, for the thousandth time, that I'm nothing like him.

I drop the wood on the porch and knock, more gently this time. When she opens the door, the boy is back on her hip, and I can see she's lit a few candles—not enough for real light, but better than total darkness.

"Let's get you warm first," I say, carrying the wood inside and kneeling at the woodstove. I arrange kindling and smaller pieces, aware of them watching me. The boy has stopped crying, seemingly fascinated by my movements.

"Do you have matches?" I ask.

She rummages in her purse and produces a plastic lighter. I take it, and light the kindling. It catches quickly, and soon the wood is crackling, the first waves of heat beginning to emanate from the stove.

"Oh, thank God," she murmurs, stepping closer to the warmth. In the flickering light, I can see dark circles under her eyes, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She looks exhausted.

"I'll fix the generator now," I say, standing. "Keep feeding the fire. There's enough wood here for tonight, but you'll need more tomorrow."

"I'll figure it out." There's determination in her voice. "Thank you for this. Really."

I nod, uncomfortable with her gratitude, and head back outside to the generator. The repair is simple enough—I've fixed dozens of these over the years. I replace the cracked fuel line, clean the spark plug, and check the oil. Within twenty minutes, I've got it purring.

When I go back inside to tell her, the cabin already feels different. The fire has taken the damp chill from the air, and she's found an old kettle, which steams on top of the woodstove. The boy sits on a blanket spread on the floor, playing with his rabbit and what looks like a plastic dinosaur.

"Generator's running," I announce from the doorway. "I hooked it up to the cabin. You've got power for now."

She flips a switch, and a single overhead bulb flickers to life, casting a yellow glow over the room. Her smile is like sunrise breaking over the mountain—sudden and transformative.

"I can't thank you enough," she says, and there's a catch in her voice that makes me look away.

"It's nothing. Won't last forever, though. Generator needs gas every few hours if you're running lights. Less if you just need the refrigerator."

She nods, absorbing this information. "I'll go to town tomorrow. Get supplies."

"Bell's General," I remind her. "Ask for Marge. Tell her what you need."

"I will." She hesitates, then asks, "Do they have a laundromat in town? Or somewhere I could use a computer? I need to look for jobs."

"Laundromat's next to the diner. Library has computers. It's small, but they've got internet." I pause, then add, "Madeline's Diner might be hiring. Saw a sign in the window last week."

Her eyes light up. "Really? That would be perfect. I waitressed all through college."

I nod, oddly relieved that she has marketable skills. Then I catch myself—why should I care if she finds work or not? It's none of my business.

Except I'm standing in her cabin, having fixed her generator and built her fire, so maybe it is my business now, whether I like it or not.

"I should go," I say abruptly. "Generator's got enough gas to last till morning. I'll drop off the can tomorrow so you can refill it in town."

"Okay." She follows me to the door, the boy trailing behind her, still clutching his rabbit. "Josh?"

I turn, hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct, her gaze steady despite her trembling voice.

I could lie. Say it's what neighbors do. Say it's not a big deal. But something about the candlelight and the crackling fire and the little boy watching me with those solemn eyes makes me tell the truth.

"Because no one helped me when I needed it."

Her expression softens, and for a moment I think she might reach out, might touch my arm or take my hand, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when she doesn't.

"Well, you're helping us now," she says quietly. "And I won't forget it."

I nod once, unable to find words and step out into the night. The air is clean and sharp, stars emerging in the clear mountain sky. From here, I can see my cabin through the trees, the warm light in the windows, the smoke from the chimney. The solitary life I've built for myself.

It's been enough. For twelve years, it's been enough.

But as I walk away from Elisa Lowell and her son, I can't shake the feeling that something has changed, like the first tremor before an avalanche. And for the first time in years, I'm not sure if the walls I've built are keeping others out—or keeping me in.