Chapter Sixteen

Logan

T he tires crunch over gravel as the forest clears and the cabin comes into view.

I ease my foot off the gas, letting the truck roll to a stop in the wide, open patch of dirt and pine needles we’ve always used as a makeshift driveway.

The air changes out here. It’s sharper. Wilder.

Pine and cold earth, with a hint of woodsmoke carried on the breeze. Trees stretch tall and proud on all sides. Douglas firs towering like green cathedrals, sugar pines creaking in the wind, needles glinting with frost from the morning melt.

Sunlight filters through the canopy in soft golden ribbons, casting dappled light over the truck hood, the porch, and Emma’s hair when she leans forward in her seat to get a better look.

And there it is.

The Kane family cabin.

Still standing. Still stubbornly, perfectly imperfect.

Weather-beaten wood. A rusted tin roof with a soft, steady drip from where the morning dew is melting off.

The porch railing is still crooked from when Cole launched a trout through it during a particularly heated fishing contest, and the old rocking chair Mom used to sit in is tipped sideways, half buried under a blanket of pine needles.

A gentle column of smoke curls from the chimney, and the scent hits me. Campfire and sap and the lingering memory of Sunday pancakes.

Home .

I cut the engine, but my fingers stay wrapped around the steering wheel for a second too long.

Emma turns toward me in the passenger seat, her face lit by that warm cabin glow.

“This it?” she asks, eyes wide as they look out the front window, a soft smile playing at her lips.

A squirrel darts across the clearing, scattering pine cones. Somewhere in the distance, a raven caws once, the sound so sharp and echoing I swear the whole place holds its breath.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “This is it.”

Two figures step out from behind the second truck parked beside mine. They’ve got coolers in one hand and fishing poles in the other, boots caked in red dirt.

Nate lifts a hand in greeting. Cole spots Emma and immediately lets out a loud, obnoxious whistle that echoes through the trees.

“Well, holy shit,” Cole, the youngest of the three of us, calls. “Did my grumpy-ass brother bring a woman ? And she’s hot? Excuse me lady, blink twice if he kidnapped you.”

My stomach twists.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so steady.

She’s never met them. Hell, I’ve never brought anyone here. This place isn’t just a cabin… it’s a fucking time capsule. A graveyard of old arguments and scarred memories.

And now… she’s in it.

I've thrown her right in the deep end.

What if she doesn’t fit?

What if she does ?

Nate walks over first, tall and solid as ever, his jaw grizzled with weekend stubble and that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s feeling too much.

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Glad you made it, brother. And you brought company?”

“This is Emma,” I say, stepping around to her side as she hops down from the truck.

She extends a hand to Nate, confident and warm. That's my girl.

“Nice to meet you," Emma says, smiling.

Nate eyes her, not with suspicion—just that Kane brand of silent evaluation. “You too,” he says after a pause, giving her hand a nod-worthy shake.

Cole bounds over, all restless energy and grinning mischief. He drapes an arm around me, then promptly shifts it to Emma’s shoulders like he’s known her ten years.

“Didn’t know Logan knew how to land a woman this pretty,” he says. “You sure you’re with the right Kane, sweetheart?”

Before I can growl, Emma smirks and steps out of his grip.

“Definitely sure. Your brother’s the only one on earth with enough patience to keep up with me.”

Cole clutches his chest like she shot him. “Wounded.”

“Still the same jackass?” I mutter under my breath.

“Always.” He tosses me a beer from the cooler. “You, on the other hand… look like you’ve been smiling lately. I barely recognize you. You dying or something?”

I laugh it off and give him a shove before sliding my hand around Emma’s waist. She leans into me so close that I manage to smell her hair without my brothers noticing.

We start unloading the truck. Emma grabs the snack bag and her weekend duffel, and I catch Nate watching her from the corner of his eye. Not in a bad way. Just… curious.

And I get it.

Because watching her now, moving through the clearing, hair glowing in the late-morning sun, cheeks pink from the mountain air… it hits me.

She fits here.

Like she belongs.

And that thought alone scares the shit out of me.

Last time I stood in this clearing, I was alone. Angry. Still reeling from missing Mom’s funeral because of a contract obligation.

At least, that's what I told myself was the reason I didn't go.

I came here and sat in the rain for three days, soaking wet and furious with the whole damn world. I swore I’d never bring anyone back. Never open my heart, never share this part of me.

And yet… here she is.

The most gorgeous woman on the planet, laughing with Cole in a way no one ever does. She's wiping her hands on her jeans and offering to help Nate stack firewood, gathering sticks already like she's done this all before.

Cole cracks open another beer and hands it toward Emma. Before she can take it, I swipe it from his hand and replace it with a bottle of water.

She gives me a knowing look. “What, I can’t hang with the big boys?”

“Hydrate first,” I mutter, holding up my own water bottle and giving it a shake. “Tease me later.”

She snorts. Nate lifts a brow. And Cole cackles like he just found his new favorite sport.

“Fuck, man. You’re gonna regret bringing her,” he tells me with a wink.

“No,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “I’m really not.”

A few hours later, the sun's dipped low enough to turn the treetops gold, and the clearing’s taken on that kind of warm glow that makes everything look like it belongs in a postcard.

Emma’s inside, dropping her weekend bag onto the tiny double bed in the back room of the cabin.

The walls are paneled in knotty pine, and the windows are warped from decades of snow and summer storms, but the view outside, with the lake just visible through the trees, makes up for every imperfection.

Or maybe it’s just her.

She runs her fingers over the patchwork quilt, smiling like she’s stumbled into some fairytale.

“This place is adorable,” she murmurs, then turns to me with a crooked grin. “But… only one bed, huh?”

I shrug, letting my fingers brush hers as I step in close. “Told you it was rustic.”

She arches a brow. “You planning to behave?”

I reach across and playfully slap her ass. “Absolutely not, baby.”

She laughs and I press a kiss to her cheek before we head back outside.

Nate and Cole are already by the water’s edge, sorting through tangled lines like they haven’t changed their technique since high school.

The lake glitters beneath the sun, still glassy in some places, rippling in others.

I hand Emma a spare rod, one we always kept in the shed for “extras,” and show her how to check the reel tension.

Her fingers fumble at first, and she squints at the line.

“Okay. This is more complicated than it looks,” she mutters.

Cole, already six beers in and waist-deep in sarcasm, calls out from a log he’s perched on. “He’s never been that gentle teaching me. Guess I didn’t bat my lashes hard enough.”

I step behind Emma, guiding her arms gently as she prepares to cast.

“It’s all in the wrist. Don’t overthink it.”

She goes for it, but the lure just plops into the water like a sad stone.

“That was practice,” she says quickly. “Next one’s the real deal.”

Cole leans back dramatically, hands behind his head as he looks to Nate with a grin.

“Never thought I’d see the day Logan Kane turned into a patient man. Look at him, all soft and romantic.”

“And yet I can still throw you in the lake,” I call back.

Emma laughs, and the sound bubbles through the trees like the first warm day of spring.

She tries casting again. Better this time. I step back, letting her handle it on her own, and she beams when the line arcs in a perfect loop.

“ There it is,” I say, trying not to sound as proud as I feel.

We settle into an easy rhythm, casting lines and swapping stories for the next hour.

It's mostly Cole doing the storytelling, of course. He never fucking shuts up.

He’s now deep into some exaggerated version of the time I face-planted into the river when we were thirteen.

“Thought Mom was gonna wring his neck,” Cole says, grinning and slurping another beer. “Showed up at the cabin soaking wet with a fish flopping out of his shirt.”

Emma nearly doubles over laughing, clutching her stomach like she can’t breathe. “I don’t know if I trust any of you near water.”

“Smart girl,” Nate mutters, lips twitching.

The sun keeps dipping lower, the shadows stretching longer, and soon we’ve got a small catch laid out for dinner. Nothing huge—mostly trout and perch—but enough to feed us for the night.

We grill the fish over an open flame, the scent of lemon and herbs filling the clearing. Smoke curls into the trees as the fire crackles, and for the first time in what feels like months, I’m not thinking about practice schedules or injury reports.

Not even the trade rumors.

That is… until Nate breaks the silence.

“So, man, how you holding up with all the trade talk?”

I glance across the fire.

Emma’s still inside, rummaging through the pantry for the marshmallows she brought. I still haven't mentioned it to her, mostly because I don't know what I would say even if I did bring it up.

“I’ve never listened to outside noise,” I say. “Not about to start now.”

Nate gives me a long look, but doesn’t push. He just flips a fish and nods.

Cole, naturally, has to chime in. “Fuck it, bro. You’re the Icehawks’ heart. If you ask me, they trade you in… they’re brain-dead. And blind.”

"Nobody is asking you, Cole," Nate deadpans, throwing a lemon wedge at his head.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to.