Page 3 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #2)

I close the door behind Josh and lean against it, exhaling slowly. The cabin feels different now—warmer, brighter, less intimidating. The generator hums steadily outside, powering the single overhead bulb that transforms the space from foreboding to merely shabby.

Mason tugs at my jeans, holding Hoppy up for inspection. "Bear gone?"

I smile, running my fingers through his soft curls. "Yes, baby. The bear is gone." I scoop him up, grateful for his solid weight in my arms. "But he was a nice bear, wasn't he? He helped us."

Mason considers this, then nods. "Nice bear."

The kettle whistles on the wood stove, and I carry Mason with me to make us both some tea—chamomile for him, heavily diluted and sweetened with the honey packets I'd grabbed from a gas station on our journey.

As I settle Mason on the worn sofa with his sippy cup of tea, I can't stop thinking about Josh's parting words.

“Because no one helped me when I needed it.” There was history in that statement, pain layered so deep I could hear it in every syllable. I recognize it because I carry the same kind of pain—wounds that aren't visible but shape every move you make, every decision, every interaction.

"What do you think, Mason?" I ask, sitting beside him and letting him curl against me. "Think we can make it work here?"

He looks up at me with Jordan's eyes—the only good thing his father gave him—and smiles around the spout of his cup.

"Nice bear," he says again, and I laugh despite everything.

"Yes, he is. A very grumpy, helpful bear." I kiss the top of his head. "Let's get you ready for bed, okay? It's been a big day."

The bedroom is still chilly, so I make a nest of blankets on the sofa instead, close to the woodstove's warmth. I change Mason into his pajamas and brush his teeth using bottled water, singing our usual bedtime song as I work. By the time I tuck him in, his eyelids are drooping.

"Love you to the moon," I whisper, our nightly ritual.

"An' back," he murmurs, already half-asleep.

I sit beside him until his breathing deepens, then carefully extract myself. The fire needs tending, and I should sort through our belongings—the hasty packing means everything is jumbled together in duffel bags and boxes.

Instead, I find myself at the cabin's front window, looking toward the trees that separate our property from Josh's. His cabin glows warmly in the darkness, a sturdy, well-maintained counterpoint to the ramshackle structure sheltering us.

I rest my hand on the slight swell of my belly, a gesture that's become automatic over the past few months. "We're going to be okay," I whisper, to the baby, to Mason, to myself. "We're going to make this work."

Even if I have no idea how.

The Next Day

Morning comes with birdsong and golden light filtering through curtainless windows.

I blink awake, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the woodsy smell, the hard cushions beneath me.

I'd given Mason the makeshift bed and taken the armchair, which seemed like a good idea at midnight but has left my neck stiff and my back aching.

Mason still sleeps, one arm flung above his head, the other clutching Hoppy.

I ease myself upright, wincing as my ribs protest. The fire has died down to embers, and the cabin is cool again, though not as damp as yesterday.

Outside, the generator has gone silent—must have run out of gas sometime during the night.

A rhythmic sound drifts through the open window—a solid, repetitive thunk followed by a crack. It stops, then starts again.

Thunk. Crack. Thunk. Crack.

I move to the window, curious. Through the trees, I can see movement near Josh's cabin, but can't make out details.

After checking on Mason one more time—still deeply asleep, as he always is in the morning—I slip on my shoes and cardigan.

I bend down to kiss his forehead, his skin warm and soft under my lips.

"Stay here, baby," I whisper, though I know he won't wake for at least another hour. "Don't leave unless Mommy calls you, okay?"

He mumbles something in his sleep, rolling over to press his face into Hoppy's well-loved fur. I smile, then quietly let myself out of the cabin.

The morning air is crisp and sweet, the kind of pure mountain oxygen that makes you realize how stale city air really is.

Dew sparkles on every surface, and somewhere nearby, a woodpecker rattles against a tree.

I follow the chopping sound, carefully picking my way along the path connecting our properties.

As I round a cluster of pines, I stop dead in my tracks.

Josh stands in a clearing beside his cabin, his back to me.

He's shirtless, wearing only jeans and boots, and the morning sun gilds his skin with amber light.

His shoulders—broad and muscular—flex as he raises an axe above his head, then brings it down in a perfect arc.

The log on the chopping block splits with a satisfying crack, and he kicks the pieces aside before positioning another.

I should turn around. I should go back to my cabin and wait for Mason to wake up. I should not be standing here watching my grumpy neighbor chop wood like some wilderness fantasy come to life.

But I can't seem to make my feet move.

Sweat trickles down his back, following the contours of his muscles. A tattoo covers his left shoulder blade—something intricate and dark that I can't make out from this distance. His hair is damp at the nape of his neck, curling slightly with moisture.

He positions another log, adjusts his stance, and swings. The axe bites deep, and the wood surrenders with a splintering crack. There's something mesmerizing about the power of his movements, the absolute certainty in every swing.

I must make some sound—a twig snapping underfoot, perhaps, or just an indrawn breath—because he suddenly stiffens and turns.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

His chest rises and falls with exertion, a sheen of sweat making his skin gleam in the sunlight.

Up close, I can see that the tattoo on his shoulder is a stylized tree, its roots extending down his ribs, its branches reaching toward his neck.

Another tattoo circles his right bicep—what looks like a big clock or a bunch of clocks.

"Morning," he says finally, his voice rough. He leans the axe against the chopping block and reaches for a flannel shirt draped over a nearby stump.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I heard the chopping and wanted to see—I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

He shrugs into the shirt but doesn't button it. "You didn't. Just finishing up."

I nod, absurdly disappointed as the fabric covers his torso. "I, um, wanted to thank you again. For last night. The generator, the fire..."

"How'd it hold up?" he asks, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Generator, I mean."

"It ran out of gas sometime in the night, but it was fine until then. Kept the lights on while we got settled."

He nods, seemingly satisfied with this report. "I was going to bring you that gas can. For town." He gestures toward his cabin. "It's on the porch."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware that I'm in yesterday's clothes, sleep-rumpled and unwashed. "I'll head into town as soon as Mason wakes up."

Josh's eyes flick over me, a quick assessment that doesn't feel intrusive but still makes me want to smooth my hair, straighten my cardigan. "You sleep okay? That place gets cold at night."

The question surprises me—it's more personal than anything he said yesterday. "We managed. The woodstove helped a lot."

He picks up the axe again, and for a moment I think he's going to resume chopping, dismissing me. Instead, he nods toward the pile of split logs. "This is for you. Was going to bring it over later."

I stare at the stack of firewood—there must be enough for several days. "You... you chopped all that for us?"

He shrugs, the movement making his open shirt gape slightly, revealing a strip of tattooed skin. "Needed doing."

"But that must have taken hours." I can't wrap my mind around it—this stranger, this gruff, taciturn man, waking up early to chop wood for us.

"Not much else to do up here." He shifts, looking uncomfortable with my attention. "Your boy still sleeping?"

I nod. "He'll be up soon, though. I should get back."

"Right." Josh sets the axe down again and moves toward the woodpile. "I'll load some in my truck and drop it by your place."

"You don't have to do that. I can carry some—"

He gives me a look that clearly says he doesn't believe I can haul armloads of split logs back to my cabin. He's probably right, but something in me bristles at the assumption.

"I'm stronger than I look," I say, lifting my chin slightly.

"Never said you weren't." He selects a log from the pile and holds it out to me. "But it's a quarter mile to your place, and this is pine. Heavy when you're carrying a stack."

I take the log, the bark rough against my palms. It is heavier than it looks. "Fine. But I'm helping you load the truck."

One corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Suit yourself."

We work in silence, me carrying logs to his truck bed, him stacking them. This feels good after yesterday's emotional marathon. My hands will be dirty, my arms will ache, but there's satisfaction in the simple task.

"Why'd you pick Cedar Falls?" he asks suddenly, as we're nearly finished.

I almost drop the log I'm holding. It's the first personal question he's asked, and it catches me off guard. "I... it seemed peaceful. Away from everything."

He stares at me for a moment, like he knows I'm not telling the whole truth. "It's that, all right."

"And the rent was cheap," I add, which is true enough. "I needed to stretch my savings until I find work."

He nods, accepting this explanation. "Town's small, but there's usually jobs if you're not picky. Diner, like I said. Maybe the school needs help now that summer's ending."

"You've lived here long?" I ask, seizing the opportunity to learn more about him.

"Twelve years this cabin. Grew up about twenty miles down the mountain." His tone changes slightly—cooler, more distant—and I sense we've strayed into territory he'd rather avoid.

"I grew up in Seattle," I offer, not sure why I'm telling him this. "Never lived anywhere this rural before."

"Takes adjusting," he says, loading the last log. "Bears, generators, woodstoves. Different way of life."

"I'm a quick learner." I dust my hands on my jeans, leaving smudges of bark and dirt.

He closes the tailgate with a solid thunk. "Your boy's probably up by now."

It's a clear dismissal, but not an unkind one. "Right. I should go." I take a step back, toward the path to my cabin. "Thank you. For the wood."

Josh nods, then hesitates, like he's debating whether to say something more. Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper.

"My number," he says, holding it out to me. "In case the generator acts up again. Or if you..." He trails off, seeming uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say.

"Thank you."

He clears his throat. "Town's straight down the mountain road. Can't miss it. Just one main street."

"Got it." I tuck the paper into my pocket, oddly touched by this small gesture of connection. "I'll see you around, I guess."

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his damp hair, making it stand up slightly. "See you around."

As I walk back to my cabin, I can sense his eyes following my progress until the trees obscure his view. The piece of paper in my pocket feels significant, though I can't articulate why. It's just a phone number. Just a neighborly gesture.

But as I approach my cabin and see my son's face peering through the window, his expression brightening when he spots me, I find myself smiling.

For the first time since I fled Portland with nothing but a car full of hastily packed belongings and desperate hope, I feel like maybe—just maybe—we might be okay here.

Even if "here" is a rundown cabin with no electricity, in a town where I know no one, with only a grumpy lumberjack neighbor for support.

It's still better than where we came from. And right now, that's enough.