Page 6 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #2)

I can't sleep. The ceiling above my bed has a knot in the pine that looks like an eye, staring down at me. I've stared back at it for twelve years, counting its rings when sleep won't come. Tonight, I get to twenty-seven before I give up and throw off the covers.

My cabin has never felt smaller than it does right now, knowing she's just down the hall. Her and her boy. And the unborn child she's carrying. Three lives under my roof when for years there's barely been one.

I move silently to the window, parting the curtain to look out at the night.

The moon is nearly full, casting silver light across the clearing, making the pines look like sentinels standing watch.

Riley and I used to sneak out on nights like this, when we were kids.

Before everything went to hell. Before he left.

"He left. When I was fourteen, he turned eighteen and joined the military. Got out of our father's house the first chance he had. Left me behind."

My own words echo in my head. Twenty years and the betrayal still tastes like copper in my mouth. But tonight, for the first time, another thought slides in alongside the familiar anger. Would I have done the same?

If I'd been the older brother, if I'd turned eighteen first, would I have taken the first ticket out and never looked back?

I press my forehead against the cool glass, letting the truth I've never wanted to face rise to the surface.

Maybe. Maybe I would have. Because living in that house was like drowning an inch at a time, day after day.

My father's rage was a storm that never passed, just gathered strength in the eerie calms between downpours.

And Riley—he took the worst of it, for years. Stood between me and our father more times than I can count. Until one day, he just... couldn't anymore.

I'd never considered it that way before. Never allowed myself to see his leaving as anything but abandonment. But now, with this woman and her son sleeping under my roof, having fled their own storm, I'm forced to look at it differently.

Running isn't always cowardice. Sometimes it's survival.

Still. He could have taken me with him. Could have found a way. Could have at least stayed in touch, made sure I was okay. Four years until I could follow him out the door—four years that stretched like decades, where each day was a gamble on which version of my father would come home.

But she wants her sons to be close. To have each other's backs. She fled to give them that chance, to break the cycle before it claimed another generation.

I move away from the window and sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.

Twenty years of silence between brothers.

Twenty years of pretending Riley Carter doesn't exist, even as his garage sits on Main Street, even as I hear snippets of his life from reluctant townsfolk who know better than to mention him to my face.

I wonder if he ever looks up at the mountain and thinks of me. If he regrets how things ended. If he ever drove halfway up the road to my cabin before turning back.

Eventually, I must drift off, because I wake to pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I'm disoriented—I never oversleep, never miss the first light. Then I remember: guests. Elisa. Mason. The conversation that dredged up decades of buried history.

The house is silent, but when I step into the hallway, I can sense their presence—a subtle shift in the air, a warmth that wasn't there before. The guest room door is still closed. They're still sleeping.

In the kitchen, I move on autopilot, starting coffee, pulling out ingredients for breakfast. I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage eggs and bacon, toast and jam.

It seems important, suddenly, to offer them a proper meal before they head back to Hargrove's cabin with its temperamental appliances and drafty windows.

As I crack eggs into a bowl, I find myself planning improvements for that place. A proper weather strip for the door. Insulation for the gaps in the floorboards. Maybe a new fitting for the woodstove to make it more efficient. Small things that would make a big difference when winter comes.

Winter. Which means they're planning to stay that long. The thought settles strangely in my chest—not unwelcome, but unfamiliar. Like a bird landing on an outstretched hand when you've only ever known the weight of tools and lumber.

I hear a door open and soft footsteps in the hallway. I straighten, spatula in hand, and turn to find Elisa standing in the kitchen doorway. Her hair is mussed from sleep, her dress wrinkled.

"Morning," I say, my voice rough from disuse.

"Good morning." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I smelled coffee."

I nod toward the pot. "Help yourself. Cups in the cabinet above."

She moves to the coffee pot. "Mason's still asleep. He had a restless night—new place, I guess."

"Understandable." I turn back to the stove, flipping bacon in the cast iron pan. "Breakfast'll be ready soon."

"You didn't have to cook for us."

I shrug. "Already making it for myself. Just added more."

"Still. Thank you." She pours coffee into a mug, then stands uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen as if unsure where she's allowed to be. "About last night..."

I tense, waiting.

"I'm sorry if I pushed too much. About your brother, your past. It wasn't my place to pry."

I keep my eyes on the bacon, watching it curl and crisp. "You didn't pry. I offered the information."

"Still." She sets her coffee down and steps closer into my peripheral vision. "I know what it's like to have parts of your history you don't want to discuss. I shouldn't have pressed."

I turn to look at her. In the morning light, with sleep still clinging to her edges, she seems both stronger and more fragile than she did last night. Like a sword that's been tempered by fire but could still shatter if struck the wrong way.

"It's fine," I say, meaning it. "Sometimes it's good to... put it out there. Makes it less powerful."

She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Yes. Exactly."

I transfer the bacon to a paper towel and start on the eggs, needing the motion, the focus of cooking.

"My father was a mean drunk," I hear myself say, the words coming easier now. "Not all the time—that was the trick of it. Sometimes, he was charming. Funny, even. But when he drank, which was most nights, he'd turn. Like a switch flipped."

Elisa is very still, listening.

"Riley protected me when he could. Took the hits sometimes. But he was just a kid himself." The eggs sizzle as they hit the hot pan. "When he turned eighteen, he enlisted. Left the same day. No warning, no goodbye. Just a note saying he'd send for me when he could."

"But he never did," she says softly.

I shake my head. "He wrote a few times. Called once.

But he never came back, not while our father was alive.

And by the time the old man died, I was long gone too.

" I push the eggs around the pan. "Spent years moving from town to town, working construction, learning the trade.

Never stayed anywhere long enough to put down roots. "

"Until you came back."

"Yes." I scoop eggs onto plates and lay bacon beside them. "Came back twelve years ago, bought this place, fixed it up. Riley moved back a few years later. Opened his garage in town."

"Have you ever... tried to talk to him?" she asks, taking the plates from me and carrying them to the table.

I grab toast from the toaster and butter it. "He showed up here once, about two years ago. Wanted to 'clear the air,' he said."

"And?"

"I told him to get off my property." The memory is sharp—Riley standing on my porch, older, hair graying at the temples, the same eyes as our father. The rage that had surged through me, white-hot and blinding. "He left. Hasn't tried again."

She's quiet for a moment, processing this. Then, "Do you think you could ever forgive him?"

The question hangs in the air between us. In the silence, I hear small feet padding down the hallway. A moment later, Mason appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with balled fists, Hoppy dangling from one hand.

"Mama?" he says, spotting Elisa.

"Good morning, baby." She moves to him, scooping him up. "Did you sleep well in Josh's house?"

He nods, then spots me and offers a shy smile. "Josh bear."

"Morning, buddy," I say, surprised at how naturally the greeting comes. "Hungry?"

Another nod, more enthusiastic this time.

"I'll get him settled," Elisa says, carrying him to the table. To my surprise, he squirms to be put down, then climbs into a chair by himself, proudly displaying his independence.

I bring the last of the food to the table—jam, a pitcher of orange juice I found in the back of the refrigerator—and sit across from them. For a moment, no one speaks. Then Mason picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite, his face lighting up with delight.

"Good!" he declares.

Elisa laughs, the sound bright in the morning quiet. "Yes, it is. What do we say to Josh?"

"Thank you," Mason says around his mouthful of bacon.

"You're welcome," I reply, and I'm struck by how normal this feels. How right, somehow, to have them at my table, in my space.

I watch Elisa help Mason with his eggs, cutting them into manageable pieces, wiping his chin when juice dribbles. Her earlier question still hovers between us, unanswered.

"Do you think you could ever forgive him?"

"I don't know," I say finally, meeting her eyes over Mason's head. "About Riley. Forgiveness. I don't know if I can."

She nods, not pushing, just accepting. "It's not a simple thing. Forgiveness."

"No." I take a sip of coffee. "But I've been thinking. About what you said, about your boys."

Her hand moves to her belly.

"Family's complicated," I continue, taking my time to choose my words. "But it matters. Having someone who shares your history, who knows where you came from. Even when it's... difficult."

"Yes," she says softly. "It does."

"I wouldn't want your sons to end up like Riley and me. Twenty years of silence." I set down my coffee cup. "Whatever happens between them—fights, disagreements—they should always find their way back to each other."

Elisa's eyes shine bright. "That's what I want for them. To know they always have each other, no matter what."

I nod, unable to articulate the rest of what I'm feeling—the regret for years wasted in anger, the hollow space where a brother should be. Instead, I offer more toast, refill her coffee cup.

"Will you go back to your cabin today?" I ask, changing the subject.

She hesitates, then nods. "We should. I've taken advantage of your hospitality enough."

"It's not—" I stop, unsure how to explain that their presence doesn't feel like an imposition. That in some strange way, it feels like the opposite. "You're welcome to stay longer. If you want."

Surprise flickers across her face. "That's very kind, but—"

"The generator needs constant refueling," I continue, practical reasons being easier to voice than the inexplicable emptiness I feel at the thought of them leaving. "And that woodstove is temperamental. At least here there's reliable heat, electricity."

"Are you sure? We'd be in your way."

"I'm gone most days, working. Cabin's empty anyway."

Mason, finished with his breakfast, slides from his chair and toddles over to the window, pressing his nose against the glass to look out at the forest.

"It would be easier," she admits finally. "At least until I can find work, save up for a better place." She meets my eyes. "But I'd insist on contributing—cooking, cleaning, whatever you need."

"Don't need anything," I say.

She smiles, "Everyone needs something, Josh. Even mountain hermits."

I can't argue with that, though I'm not sure I could name what I need. I haven't allowed myself to consider it for a very long time.

"So," she says, "is it settled? We'll stay? Just until I get on my feet, find a job, a better place."

I nod, relief washing through me. "It's settled."

Mason turns from the window, apparently having made his own decision. He marches over to me, Hoppy clutched in one hand, and raises his arms in the universal child's gesture for "pick me up."

I freeze, looking to Elisa for guidance. She seems as surprised as I am but nods encouragingly.

Slowly, as if handling something infinitely precious and breakable, I lift Mason onto my lap. He immediately settles against my chest, a warm, solid weight, and holds up his rabbit for my inspection.

"Hoppy hungry," he announces.

"Is he?" I ask, my voice oddly rough. "What does Hoppy like to eat?"

"Carrots," Mason says definitively. "And ice cream."

"Quite a combination," I observe, earning a giggle.

Across the table, Elisa watches us, and there's something in her tender look. Something that might be hope or fear, or both intertwined so tightly they've become the same emotion.

"This will work," she says softly, as much to herself as to me. "For all of us."

And despite every instinct honed over years of solitude, despite all the walls I've built and maintained, I find myself believing her.

For the first time in a very long time, I want to believe.