Page 4 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #2)

I watch her disappear into the trees, the piece of paper with my number probably already floating to the bottom of her pocket, forgotten.

I'm not sure why I gave it to her. A momentary lapse in judgment, clearly.

Something about the way she looked in the morning light, hair mussed from sleep, eyes soft but determined, dirt smudged on her cheek.

"Idiot," I mutter to myself, climbing into the truck. The engine roars to life, and I back up, then head down the narrow drive toward her cabin.

What the hell am I doing? Two days ago, my life was exactly how I wanted it. Quiet. Predictable. Empty of complications like single mothers with wary eyes and toddlers who call me "bear." Now I'm chopping extra firewood, fixing generators, offering my phone number like some eager teenager.

I pull up beside her cabin and cut the engine. Through the window, I can see the boy—Mason—standing on the sofa, face pressed against the glass. When he spots me, his small hand lifts in a wobbly wave. Without thinking, I wave back.

I’m definitely an idiot.

I unload the wood quickly, stacking it neatly against the side of the cabin where it'll stay relatively dry. As I work, I hear the door open and small footsteps approach.

"Bear!" Mason announces, sounding delighted.

I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. The kid stands a few feet away, still in pajamas, his stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand. His mother appears in the doorway behind him, looking slightly panicked.

"Mason! I told you to stay inside while I got dressed."

"It's fine," I say, though it's not. Nothing about this situation is fine. I don't know how to talk to children. I don't know how to be around people who look at me without the weight of history and rumor coloring their perception. "Almost done here."

She scoops up her son, balancing him on her hip. "Thank you for bringing the wood. You really didn't have to."

"Like I said. Needed doing." I load the last few logs onto the pile. "This should last you a few days. Nights are still getting cold, even in August."

She nods, shifting the boy's weight. He's watching me with full curiosity, none of the wariness his mother carries like a second skin.

"We're heading into town soon. Anything you need while we're there?" She asks me.

The question catches me off guard. When was the last time someone offered to pick something up for me? "No. I'm good."

"Okay." She smiles, "Well, thanks again."

I nod and head back to my truck, feeling her eyes on me as I drive away. In my rearview mirror, I see the boy wave again, his mother's hand gently guiding his in the motion.

Back at my cabin, I slam the door behind me as if I can physically shut out the strange feelings churning in my gut.

I strip off my flannel shirt, still damp with sweat from the wood-chopping, and toss it in the laundry basket.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, then look at myself in the mirror.

Same face I've had for the past 10 years. Same dark eyes, same stubbled jaw, same grim set to my mouth. But something feels different, unsettled. Like ground shifting beneath my feet.

"Get it together, Carter," I tell my reflection. "You're not a helper. You're not a friend. You're just being a decent neighbor."

That's all this is. Basic human decency. Nothing more. I helped her because anyone would have. Because she has a kid. Because Hargrove's cabin is a disaster, and it was the right thing to do.

Not because something in her eyes reminds me of myself twenty years ago—lost, scared, trying to be brave. Not because the boy's innocent trust makes my chest ache in places I thought had gone numb long ago.

I have a system here. A routine. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. Repeat. Minimal interaction with the town below, just enough to get jobs and supplies. No friendships, no relationships, no complications. It's clean. Simple. Safe.

There's a reason no one from Cedar Falls ventures up the mountain to visit the Carter property. There's a reason I've cultivated my reputation as the grumpy lumberjack who's best left alone. Solitude is a choice I made long ago, and it has served me well.

So why did I give her my number?

I shake my head and grab a fresh shirt from the drawer.

I've got work to do. The Bennet job needs finishing, and I've got three more bids to prepare before the end of the week.

No time to be distracted by neighbors who'll probably be gone within the month anyway.

Hargrove's cabin claims another victim every season—they never last.

She won't call. And that's exactly how I want it.

A few hours later…

Sunset paints the mountains in shades of gold and purple, light spilling through my windows as I review the Bennet invoice. The final figures look good—better than I expected. Enough to get me through the next few months easily, especially with the Johnsons' roof repair coming up in September.

A movement outside catches my eye. I glance up, then freeze, pencil still poised over the paper.

Elisa is walking up my driveway, Mason balanced on her hip.

Her hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she's wearing different clothes than this morning—a simple blue dress that catches the last rays of sunlight.

Even from here, I can see she's cleaned up, a far cry from the sleep-rumpled woman who watched me chop wood.

"What the hell?" I mutter, setting down the pencil.

Did something happen? The generator broken down again? But why bring the kid if it was just a mechanical issue?

I stand, oddly conscious of my own appearance—worn jeans, faded t-shirt with a tear near the collar, three-day beard. I run a hand through my hair, which does nothing but mess it up more, then abandon the effort. What do I care how I look?

A soft knock sounds on my door. For a split second, I consider not answering. I could pretend I'm not home. But my truck is parked outside, and smoke rises from my chimney. She knows I'm here.

I open the door, keeping my expression neutral. "Problem with the generator?"

Elisa blinks, looking momentarily thrown by my greeting. "No, it's running fine. Thanks to you."

I wait, saying nothing. Mason peers at me from the shelter of his mother's arms, then holds up his rabbit in greeting.

"We, um..." Elisa shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "We brought you dinner. As a thank you. For everything."

That's when I notice she's holding a covered dish in her free hand. The scent of something savory wafts from beneath the foil.

"You didn't have to do that," I say, the words coming out more gruffly than intended.

"I know. But I wanted to." She holds out the dish. "It's just a casserole. Nothing fancy. But it's hot, and there's plenty."

I stare at the offering, unsure how to respond. When was the last time someone cooked for me? My mother, maybe, before everything fell apart. Thirty years ago? More?

"Unless you've already eaten," she adds hurriedly, misinterpreting my hesitation. "Which, of course you probably have. It's dinner time. I should have thought—"

"I haven't," I interrupt. "Eaten, I mean."

Relief crosses her face. "Oh. Good."

We stand there in awkward silence for a moment, the casserole between us like some strange peace offering. Mason breaks the tension by pointing at my cabin.

"Bear house?"

Despite myself, I feel one corner of my mouth twitch upward. "Yeah, kid. Bear house."

Elisa smiles, a real one this time, reaching her eyes. "We won't stay. I know you probably value your privacy. I just wanted to say thank you properly."

I should take the dish, thank her, and close the door. That would be the sensible thing to do. The safe thing.

Instead, I find myself stepping back, opening the door wider. "You want to come in? It's getting cold out there."

Surprise flickers across her face, followed by something that might be pleasure. "Are you sure? We don't want to impose."

No, I'm not sure. This is a terrible idea.

But the sun has dipped below the mountains, casting long shadows across my porch.

The temperature is dropping rapidly, as it always does up here after sunset.

And the boy is watching me with those trusting eyes, his tiny body shivering slightly in the evening chill.

"I'm sure," I say, though I'm anything but. "Come in."

She hesitates only a moment before stepping inside. Mason's eyes go wide as he takes in my cabin—so different from Hargrove's ramshackle rental. My place is solid. Built to last. Every piece of furniture handcrafted, every surface well-maintained.

"Your home is beautiful," Elisa says, looking around with genuine appreciation. "Did you build it yourself?"

I take the casserole from her, "Most of it. The original structure was here, but I gutted it, rebuilt from the inside out."

"That's amazing." She sets Mason down, keeping a close eye on him as he toddles toward the stone fireplace where flames crackle behind a sturdy screen. "You must be very skilled."

I shrug, always uncomfortable with the praise. "Just work. I'll get plates."

In the kitchen, I set down the casserole and take a moment to breathe. What am I doing? I don't invite people into my home. I don't share meals. I don't make small talk with young mothers and their curious children.

But when I return to the living room with plates and cutlery, something shifts in my chest at the sight of them. Elisa kneels beside Mason near the fireplace, pointing out the carved animals on the mantel—small wooden figures I whittled during long winter evenings when the silence grew too heavy.

"Look, Mason. A bear, just like Mr. Carter."

The boy reaches toward one of the carvings and then looks back at his mother, asking permission. She nods, and he picks up the wooden bear, turning it over in his small hands with a look of wonder.

"You can call me Josh," I say, setting the plates on the coffee table. "Mr. Carter was my father."

I don't know why I offer this. I don't invite familiarity. But something about the formality of "Mr. Carter" in her mouth feels wrong.

She looks up, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Josh, then." She stands, smoothing her dress. "And please, call me Elisa."

Mason toddles over to me, holding up the wooden bear. "Josh bear," he declares, looking immensely pleased with himself.

And despite everything—despite all my towering walls and practiced distance—I find myself smiling at this small person who sees the world in such simple, clear terms.

"That's right, buddy," I say, my voice rougher than usual. "Josh bear."

Elisa watches this exchange with an expression I half-recognize, half don’t—something soft and surprised and maybe a little sad. Then she clears her throat.

"The casserole will get cold. Shall we eat?"

I nod, and as I serve the simple meal onto plates, Mason climbs onto his mother's lap at my rarely-used dining table. And, as the last light fades from the sky outside my windows, I realize with startling clarity that this is the first time in twelve years I haven't eaten dinner alone.

And even more startling—I don't hate it.