Page 7 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #2)

After breakfast, I insist on washing the dishes while Josh clears the table.

We move around each other in the kitchen with an ease that feels strangely familiar for people who met just two days ago.

Mason sits on the floor nearby, arranging wooden coasters in careful patterns and chatting to Hoppy about his architectural masterpiece.

"I should get our things from the other cabin," I say, rinsing soap from a plate. "If we're staying here."

Josh nods, wiping down the table with methodical strokes. "I'll drive you over. No sense in carrying everything."

"You don't have to—"

"It'll take ten minutes with the truck," he interrupts, his tone matter-of-fact. "An hour on foot."

I can't argue with his logic. "Thank you."

He nods again, accepting my gratitude without comment. I'm beginning to understand this about him—his tendency toward practical solutions, his discomfort with praise or thanks. It's as if he believes helping is simply what one does, not something that requires acknowledgment.

How different from Jordan, who kept a mental ledger of every favor, every kind act, tallying them up for later collection with interest.

"I need to stop in town later," Josh says, breaking into my thoughts. "Supplies for a job."

"I need it, too. I have to find a job as quickly as possible. Can you take me?"

"Yes. You need work. Mason might also like the park next to the library."

The thought that he's considered what might please my son is new. I’m not used to it. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

Josh disappears into another room, leaving me to finish the dishes and wonder at the strange turn my life has taken.

Two days ago, I was driving a packed Honda through unfamiliar mountain roads, my stomach knotted with fear and uncertainty.

Now I'm standing in a stranger's kitchen—no, not a stranger anymore—planning a day trip to town with him.

Is this reckless? Trusting him so quickly, accepting his help, moving into his home? Jordan would say so. Jordan would call me naive, foolish, setting myself up for disappointment or worse.

But Jordan also told me I was worthless, stupid, lucky to have him. And those were lies.

I press a hand to my growing belly, feeling the slight firmness beneath my palm. "What do you think, little one?" I whisper. "Are we making the right choice?"

No answer comes, of course, but I feel steadier nonetheless. My instincts got us out of Portland, away from Jordan. I have to trust they'll guide me now.

Josh returns wearing a different flannel shirt, this one a deep forest green that brings out flecks of amber in his dark eyes. He's combed his hair, I notice—a small concession to the trip to town, perhaps.

"Ready when you are," he says.

I nod, drying my hands on a dish towel. "Mason, honey, we're going to get our things from the other cabin. Can you put on your shoes?"

Mason looks up from his coaster construction, his expression serious. "Hoppy too?"

"Of course. Hoppy too."

This settled, Mason scrambles to his feet and runs to the guest room where his shoes wait.

I follow, helping him with the Velcro straps, smoothing his wild curls into some semblance of order.

My own reflection in the small mirror above the dresser gives me pause—I look different somehow.

Less haunted around the eyes, though it's only been forty-eight hours since we arrived in Cedar Falls.

When we emerge, Josh is waiting by the door, keys in hand. He holds it open for us, a courtesy so automatic it speaks of ingrained manners rather than conscious effort. Mason marches out proudly ahead of me, Hoppy clutched in one hand, and I follow, smiling at his confidence.

The morning is glorious—clear blue sky, air scented with pine and wildflowers, birdsong filling the spaces between trees. Josh's truck sits in the driveway, sunlight glinting off its blue paint. It's older but meticulously maintained, like everything else in his life.

"Do you have a car seat?" he asks, suddenly hesitant.

"In my car, at the other cabin," I assure him. "We can transfer it."

He nods, relieved and we climb into the truck. The interior smells of pine and leather and something indefinably masculine—sawdust, maybe, or the soap I've noticed on Josh's skin. Mason sits between us on the bench seat, seemingly delighted by this new adventure.

The drive to Hargrove's cabin takes less than five minutes. Josh parks beside my Honda, which looks small and vulnerable next to his sturdy truck.

"I'll get the car seat," he says, climbing out. "You grab what you need from inside."

I nod, lifting Mason from the seat and setting him on the ground. He immediately runs toward the cabin. I follow more slowly, taking in the shabby structure with new eyes. After less than two days, it already feels like a distant memory—a way station rather than a destination.

Inside, I gather our belongings, which thankfully we'd barely unpacked. Clothes, toiletries, Mason's toys and books, my meager collection of kitchen supplies. The few groceries I'd purchased in town. It all fits into two duffel bags and a box, our lives distilled to their portable essence.

Josh appears in the doorway, watching as I zip the last bag closed. "That everything?"

"Yes." I straighten, pushing hair from my face. "Not much to show for twenty-four years of life, is it?"

"Sometimes carrying less weight makes it easier to move forward."

The simple wisdom of this statement catches me off guard. I nod, unexpectedly touched. "I suppose that's true."

He steps forward and picks up both duffel bags before I can protest. "I've got these. You take the box."

Outside, he loads our belongings into the truck bed while I settle Mason in his newly installed car seat. The generator sits silent beside the cabin, a reminder of our first interaction—was it really only two days ago?

"Should I leave a note for Mr. Hargrove?" I ask as Josh closes the tailgate. "About breaking the lease?"

He shakes his head. "I'll talk to him. He owes me for work on his house in town anyway. We can settle up."

"I don't want to cost you—"

"You won't." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Hargrove's been renting that deathtrap for years knowing full well it's barely habitable. Consider it a public service, taking it off the market."

I laugh despite myself. "When you put it that way."

The drive to town takes about fifteen minutes, winding down the mountain road with its spectacular views of the valley below.

Cedar Falls reveals itself gradually—first a church steeple, then rooftops, finally the full panorama of the small town nestled between mountains and river.

It's picture-postcard perfect, the kind of place that appears unchanged by time.

"Pretty," I say, gazing out the window.

Josh grunts in agreement, his eyes on the road as we descend the final curve. "Different from Portland."

"In every possible way."

"Town's small. Everyone knows everyone's business. But they're good people, mostly. Will leave you alone if that's what you want."

"Is that what you want?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "To be left alone?"

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then, "It was. For a long time."

Was. Past tense. The implication has my heart racing, beads of sweat trickling down the curve of my breasts.

We pull onto Main Street, which is exactly as a small-town main street should be—storefronts with striped awnings, hanging flower baskets, benches placed at strategic intervals. A hardware store, a bookshop, the flower shop with a cheerful display of sunflowers in the window.

And directly across from it, a garage with a sign that reads "Riley's Auto Repair." The letters are bold against the red brick building, impossible to miss.

Josh's jaw tightens as we pass, his eyes fixed deliberately forward. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel, the only visible sign of his inner turmoil.

"Is that...?" I begin hesitantly.

"Riley's place," he confirms, voice flat.

I study his profile—the hard set of his jaw, the slight muscle ticking in his cheek. Twenty years of silence between brothers. Twenty years of avoiding, pretending, maintaining a wound that never heals.

"Josh," I say carefully, "have you ever thought about just... talking to him? Clearing the air?"

He shoots me a sharp glance. "Told you. I tried that."

"No," I correct gently. "You said he tried that. Two years ago. And you told him to get off your property."

He says nothing, eyes back on the road, but I can tell he's listening.

"I know it's not my place," I continue. "I've known you for all of forty-eight hours. But..." I take a deep breath. "Life's too short for twenty-year grudges. Especially with family."

"It was harder than you might think," he says, but there's less edge to his voice than I expected.

"I know." I look back at the garage, now receding behind us. "And I know he left you when you needed him. And that was wrong. But I also know what it's like to be trapped somewhere, to feel like the only way to survive is to escape."

Josh pulls into a parking space and cuts the engine but makes no move to exit the truck. We stay still for a moment, the only sound Mason's soft humming from the back seat.

"What if it was Mason?" I ask quietly. "What if, twenty years from now, something had come between him and this baby?" I rest my hand on my belly. "I already know you’d want them to find their way back to each other."

Josh stares straight ahead, his profile carved in stone. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders slump. "You fight dirty," he mutters.

I smile slightly. "I'm a mother. We do what works."

He sighs, a sound that seems to come from deep within him. "I'm not saying I'll talk to him. Just... I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking." I reach over and squeeze his hand briefly before drawing back. "Thank you."