Page 1 of Cherished by the Fearless Mountain Man (Lumberjacks of Timber Peak Valley #5)

Brock

The massive pine log sits in front of me like a challenge.

It’s about twenty feet long, thick as a barrel, and knotted in all the wrong places.

It’s the kind of timber that separates the experienced lumberjacks from the rookies.

One wrong move and the chainsaw will kick back hard enough to break bones.

I don’t have anything to worry about, though.

I’m not being cocky, but I’ve been cutting timber for fifteen years.

I know what I’m doing. This log doesn’t scare me one bit.

The saw roars to life, and I grin. This is what life’s all about. Me, the guys, and a powerful chainsaw to wrangle these logs into submission.

My brother Archer is working on the smaller logs twenty feet away, Silas is spraying sawdust off the equipment with the air compressor, and Crew and Jace are stacking finished lumber by the loading dock. Just another Tuesday morning at the yard.

I line up my cut and check the angle twice. The knot in the wood is going to make this tricky, but I’ve handled worse. I press the blade into the bark, feeling the saw bite deep into the wood. It all goes smoothly, but then the chainsaw kicks back harder than I expect.

The blade tears through my jeans and into my thigh like it’s cutting through butter. White-hot pain explodes up my leg, and I can’t stop the roar that rips from my throat. It’s part rage, part agony, but all primal. The saw flies from my hands and dies when it hits the ground.

“Fuck!” I scream.

I stare down at my thigh and the growing pool of blood soaking through the shredded denim. The pain is immediate and brutal, like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my leg.

“Fucking hell,” I cry out again.

“Brock!” Crew’s voice cuts through the lumber yard from across the stack of logs. “You good over there?”

“No,” I call back, doing my best to press my hand against the gash, but it’s no use. Blood keeps seeping between my fingers. “Fuck.”

Within seconds, the guys are rushing over to me. Archer reaches me first, his face going white when he sees the damage.

“Jesus Christ, Brock.” My brother drops to his knees beside me, his usual smart-ass grin nowhere to be found. “How deep is it?”

I lift my hand to check. The cut runs from mid-thigh down toward my knee, maybe six inches long. Deep enough that I can see things I don’t want to see. Shit. I need to look away before I throw up.

“Deep.” I grab a clean rag from my pocket and press it against the wound. The contact sends another wave of fire through my leg, and I bite back another curse. “Hurts like hell.”

Crew, Silas, and Jace all appear at my side.

“Ambulance?” Crew asks, already pulling out his phone to dial 911.

“No. Archer can drive me. That’ll be way faster than waiting for an ambulance to get here.”

“You sure, man?” Silas frowns at the blood now dripping steadily onto the ground. “That cut looks pretty bad.”

“I’m sure.”

I struggle to get up, flashes of hot pain coursing through me as I try to find my balance. Archer throws his arm around me, helping me up. My leg holds, but I barely do. I let out another primal curse. I might lose consciousness soon if I keep bleeding like this.

The walk to the parking area feels like walking through hell. Each step sends shockwaves of pain up my leg, and by the time Archer helps me into the passenger seat, I’m gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The rag is soaked through, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded from blood loss.

“Don’t you dare bleed all over my upholstery,” Archer jokes as he fires up the engine. “I just got the interior detailed.”

“I’ll try to keep it contained,” I mutter, pressing harder against the wound.

“Good. Because if you ruin my seats, I’m making you pay for the cleanup.” He throws the truck into reverse, gravel spraying as we peel out of the lot. “And you know how expensive blood is to get out of leather.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. Leave it to Archer to crack jokes while I’m bleeding all over his truck.

The drive to the local clinic goes by in a daze. Archer could’ve driven me to a big hospital, but that would’ve taken ages. I’m grateful he chose to head to Timber Peak Grace Clinic instead, even though it’s rather small.

My brother helps me out of his truck after sloppily parking the car in front of the emergency room. The glass doors slide open, and Archer practically drags me inside. My jeans are soaked with blood, and I’m close to collapsing.

“Help!” Archer calls out. “Logging injury. Deep cut to the leg.”

The nurse at the front desk jumps to her feet, her eyes widening for a second before her training kicks in.

“Exam room three!” she barks, grabbing a pair of gloves. “Doc Willis! We’ve got a bleeder!”

Two staff members rush to meet us, one of them wheeling over a gurney.

“I can walk,” I mutter, teeth clenched, but the next step nearly buckles my knee.

“Nope, you’re done walking,” the nurse says firmly. “Sit. Now.”

I drop onto the gurney with a grunt, gripping the sides as they wheel me down a hall that smells like antiseptic and pine cleaner. A tall, graying doctor meets us outside the exam room, snapping on gloves.

“I’m Doctor Willis. Tell me what happened,” he says.

“Chainsaw kicked back,” I grit out.

“That’ll do it.”

The doctor and nurses work fast. They cut my jeans away, clean the wound, and flush it with something that feels like fire. I swear loud enough to shake the windows, but neither the doctor nor the nurses flinches.

“Muscle damage, but you missed the artery,” he says, inspecting the gash. “You’ll live, though your ego might not.”

After twenty-some stitches, a fresh bandage, and a tetanus shot, I’m sitting upright with my leg propped on a foam block. I feel wrung out and more than ready to go home.

“Now, this is the kind of wound that needs daily attention,” Doctor Willis says. “We’ll send a home nurse to check it each morning and change the dressing.”

I shake my head immediately. “No. I’m good.”

“You’re not good,” the nurse says, arms crossed. “You’re stubborn and lucky, and if you screw this up, we’ll be sawing your leg off next week. But of course, if that’s what you want, then sure, refuse the home nurse.”

Archer raises an eyebrow. “Come on, man. Think of it as a hot nurse showing up to take care of you.”

I shoot him a glare. “What about you and Callie? Siblings are supposed to help each other out.”

Archer shrugs. “We would if we could, but we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. This isn’t like pulling a splinter or slapping on a band-aid. You need someone who knows how to keep that thing clean so it doesn’t get infected.”

The nurse nods, clearly pleased with my brother’s reasoning. “Exactly. You need someone who studied and trained for situations like these.”

I sigh. The last thing I want is some old, nosy nurse walking around my cabin like I’m one bad day away from a retirement home.

Fussing over me, telling me to elevate my leg, drink more water, maybe lecture me about the state of my fridge, which I know isn’t good, but I’m a grown man.

I can take care of myself. Then again, I’m not stupid.

This thing could turn bad fast if I mess around and don’t get the appropriate care. I don’t want to lose my leg.

I grit my teeth. “Fine. Send the damn nurse to my house.”

The doctor nods approvingly as he scribbles something on the chart. “We’ll schedule you for two weeks, but depending on how the wound heals, we can extend it.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Can’t wait.”