Page 29 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Toby

S omething’s happened.

I don’t know exactly what, but something’s happened. Something… weird.

For a start, Southpaw’s vanished. Nothing weird about that, actually—he does it all the time. He might wander back in ten minutes, or he might disappear for a month and a half. But no one’s seen him since yesterday morning.

That’s not the strange part, though. The strange part is the others. All of them.

Starting with Eric.

He strolls into the kitchen with a grin plastered on his face like he’s just gotten laid—which, let’s be real, maybe he has—and he actually joins in with the conversation.

He tells us an anecdote about a girl in his year slipping a pair of panties into a good-looking lecturer’s jacket pocket during a boring class.

The guy didn’t notice, wore them home, and apparently, his wife found them the next morning and lost her mind.

Since when does Eric tell anecdotes? The guy usually speaks like a textbook come to life. “Page forty-seven, paragraph two: bore your audience to death.” But this morning? He’s laughing. Loosening up. Coming out of his shell.

I gotta say—it suits him.

And then there’s Luke.

Even stranger. Luke actually laughed at Eric’s story. No joke—laughed out loud, like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all year. To be fair, it probably was the funniest thing he’d heard all year. Chainsaws aren’t known for their razor wit or banter.

But wait—it gets weirder. He made Luna a special vegan breakfast. I kid you not.

Hot oats with maple syrup, chopped nuts, cinnamon, and the last goddamn banana in the lodge.

And Luna? She said, “Thank you, sweetie,” kissed him on the cheek, and Luke turned red as a schoolboy caught looking at dirty magazines.

Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes for a full five minutes.

And then we’ve got Jack.

My big brother looks like somebody’s lifted a two-ton weight off his shoulders. Suddenly, he’s younger, lighter, friskier. He’s cracking jokes, grinning like a loon, and when I asked about the quarterly financial report that’s due today, he says—and I quote—“Screw it. They’ll have to wait.”

Now, normally that sort of thing would have Jack up until two in the morning, cross-checking numbers with military precision. Today? He shrugs it off like he doesn’t give a damn.

Who is this man, and what’s he done with my brother?

Which just leaves Luna.

Weirdest of the lot. At breakfast, she announced she’s resigning from Kill Climate Change. Said she’s been thinking things through, and she might go back to college, maybe start forestry management and conservation. Wants to “actually do some good for once, instead of just yelling at everyone.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. I laughed and said, “Why quit the only thing you’re good at?” She flipped me the finger and told me to swivel on it. So yeah, she hasn’t changed that much. But still. She’s different.

More relaxed. More at home. She made coffee, washed the dishes, then tore into Jack for spilling milk on the tables she’d just cleaned.

She’s been spring-cleaning ever since, stomping around like she owns the place, bossing us all out.

Told us to “fuck off into the woods and screw rabbits” until lunchtime. Charming.

As for me… I thought it’d be just another day. But apparently I woke up in some kind of alternate universe—one where everyone’s the same, but a little different. And honestly? I kinda like this version. No shouting. I got coffee made and dishes washed. Works for me.

I head to the barn. Today’s job is overdue maintenance on the F-150s—oil change, new filters. Not difficult, but one of those “getting around to it” things that’s been waiting too long.

First, warm the engine for ten minutes so the oil flows more easily, then shut it down and wait a couple more minutes for the oil to settle. After that, down into the pit, container in place, drain plug out. Clean, quick, simple.

I use SAE 5W-30. It’s thicker than 5W-20—less fuel efficient, technically, but with the way we thrash those trucks, who cares? Better to preserve the engines.

An hour and a half later, job done. Good. On to the next one.

Luke’s been thinning the western red cedar stand for a couple of days.

He’s up there again this morning. I gave him a head start, but now it’s time to haul the timber he’s already cut.

Juvenile growth, sure, so not a massive yield—but solid stuff.

Naturally resistant to decay and bugs, and good-looking timber too.

Decking, fencing—stuff people pay decent money for.

Luke’s already taken the loader up. I hitch one of the low-loader trailers to the John Deere tractor I serviced the other day, and get ready to join him. He and I will delimb what’s been felled, load it up, and bring it back down.

It should be a fun-filled day.

It’s late afternoon, and it’s been hard work, but Luke and I have had a productive day.

He’s felled a hundred and twenty trees, opening the stand up so the rest can get more light and nutrients.

Meanwhile, we’ve delimbed the whole lot, and half of them are stacked on the trailer, ready to haul back.

Tomorrow, we’ll come back up to deal with the brush and limb piles, chip them into FIBCs—big woven polypropylene bags the biomass plant buys for pellet production.

Nothing goes to waste if we can help it.

We like to leave the stand tidy, like no one was ever here—except for the missing trees, obviously.

Then we’ll load the other sixty stems and call it a wrap. Even Jack will be pleased.

My stomach’s been complaining for the last two hours—we skipped lunch.

Luke’s running on fumes, too. We call it a day and head for the lodge.

When we left this morning, Luna had been threatening to cook us a vegan dinner.

None of us was exactly enthusiastic, though we all faked polite noises.

Luke and I even made a secret pact: if dinner turned out to be a disaster, we’d raid the freezer for sausages and rolls and make hot dogs in the dark like fugitives.

I’m a mustard man. Luke likes his with tomato relish. We’ve got both—no problem there.

But when we step inside the lodge, the smells hitting us aren’t the watery kale-and-lentil nightmares we’d been dreading. They’re… good. Really good. Garlic, warm spices, smoky tomato.

Luke sniffs twice, his brows drawing together. “Is that… chili?”

“Smells better than the yogurt muesli I was expecting,” I say.

“Yogurt’s dairy. She wouldn’t touch it.”

“Dry muesli, then.”

We pull our boots off and head for the kitchen, tired, hungry, but suddenly… hopeful.

Jack’s already at the table, ladle in hand like a commander about to issue rations. Eric—predictably—is at Luna’s side, wearing an apron covered in cartoon mushrooms, for Christ’s sake, handing her bowls like he’s auditioning for sous chef of the year.

“You two gonna stand there gawking, or come eat?” Jack rumbles.

“Depends,” I hedge, peering into the big steaming pot. “Are we still strictly in the plant kingdom, or did Luna finally cave and add something that once had a face?”

Luna spins, spoon in hand, like she’s ready to clock me with it. “Fuck you, Toby. And no—zero faces. Nothing had to die for your fat ass tonight. But I promise you won’t miss it. It’s smoky three-bean chili. Black beans, kidneys, pintos. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, paprika, cumin, chili powder?—”

“Hold up,” I cut in. “Where’d all this come from? Last time I checked the cupboards, I found beef ramen and a dog biscuit. Which is weird, since we don’t even have a dog.”

“What’d you do with it?”

“I ate it.”

“No—the dog biscuit, moron.”

“Oh. Gave it to Southpaw.”

“And?”

“He stared at me like I’d insulted his ancestors, stepped over it, and left. Can’t say I blame him. Didn’t look that appetizing.”

Luna shakes her head. “Most of it was shoved to the back. ‘Use by’ dates are suggestions, not orders.”

Jack, Luke, and I trade looks. Eric beams and keeps ferrying bowls. He’s completely under her command, like a happy little academic soldier.

Still… the smell is damn good.

“There’s a secret ingredient, too.”

We all freeze, forks halfway.

“What is it?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

“Not sure you deserve to know…”

“Aw, come on. Spill. A man has to know what’s going in his mouth. Well—this one does. These cavemen? Not so picky.”

She smirks. “Fine. Maple syrup. Just a splash.”

Luke groans. “You put syrup in chili?”

“It cuts the acid,” she says smugly. “Trust me.”

Luke and I glance at each other like condemned men walking to the gallows.

Jack dives in first, chews, and grunts. “Could use meat. But… not bad. Not bad at all.”

Eric practically purrs, “This is incredible, Luna. The spice balance is perfect.”

I take a tentative spoonful. Then another. Then another. I chew. Swallow. Narrow my eyes.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “I hate to admit this… but this isn’t terrible.”

Luna bows. “High praise, coming from the self-declared gourmet who I know for a fact has been raiding the freezer for cheeseburgers all week.”

“Hey!” Jack cuts in. “So that’s where the fries keep going. They don’t grow on trees, Toby.”

“Come on, bro, it’s not like I’ve been stealing caviar.”

“We have caviar?” Eric asks, genuinely surprised.

I roll my eyes. “No, genius.”

Luke chews like he’s waiting for tofu to ambush him, but eventually shrugs. “I’m not saying I’m turning in my man card and going vegan. But… yeah. It’s alright.”

We clear our bowls. Jack even goes back for seconds. Then Luna reappears with a skillet of cornbread—golden, crisp-edged, smelling like sin itself.

I eye it with new respect. “Who are you, and what have you done with the annoying activist chick we pulled out of a tree?”

She smirks. “Oh, she’s still here. She just realized food gets her farther than yelling.”

We laugh. Even Luke chuckles.