Page 5 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Luke

I t feels good to be outside again.

This one had less rainfall than the storm back then, but the winds were just as fierce, and the number of downed trees across the hundred-mile area has caused absolute chaos.

Roads are blocked, and telephone lines are down.

Cell towers have either been damaged or—in one or two cases—completely blown away.

Rivers are jammed with debris, causing localized flooding.

The local radio stations keep us posted as to what's happening. The death toll’s already climbing: drownings, car accidents, people crushed under trees or hit by flying debris, even two direct lightning strikes.

On top of that, pregnant women can’t get to hospitals, and the sick and elderly can’t reach the care or medication they need.

Almost everyone’s affected. Kids can’t get to school, workers can’t reach their jobs, and stores can’t restock.

There are runs on bread, milk, meat, vegetables, and even toilet paper.

Emergency crews are working around the clock, rescuing people and clearing roads.

All in all, it’s a big fucking mess. I’m glad we’re isolated enough to avoid most of it. Well… “glad” is relative. We still took a hit, but at least we only have to clean up our own mess.

It’s still breezy, and drizzle lingers in the air, but nothing like last night.

Temperatures are back to normal for the season.

Stepping into the yard, I see the dumpsters have been blown clear across the concrete lot, now piled in a twisted heap at the base of some larches.

The fence is down in a few places—not hard to fix.

A couple of shutters are torn from their hinges, lying cracked on the ground.

One or two roof slates are shattered near the main lodge.

Luckily, we’ve got a whole stack of spares.

Some poor bastard will have to climb up there to replace them.

It won’t be me—I’m too heavy for roof work.

With any luck, Jack will send Toby up instead.

Chimney looks solid though, so we've no issues with the stove or the central heating boiler.

I cross the yard, gathering up stray bits of timber and debris, stacking them in a corner for later. Then I decide to check the vehicles. That’s supposed to be Toby’s job, but the asshole managed to wriggle out of it.

We keep everything parked in what we call “the barn.” It’s not a barn at all—just a steel frame with a domed aluminum roof.

No walls. We use it for temporary timber storage before hauling loads out.

A few weeks ago, it was packed. Now, most of the timber’s gone, leaving plenty of space for our vehicles.

The roof survived the storm intact, which is a relief.

We’ve got two battered, ten-year-old Ford F-150s for general use, plus the big boys: a forwarder, a skidder, a delimber, and a knuckleboom loader.

Two heavy flatbeds, hauled by a range of tractors.

And my favorite toy—the Honda FourTrax ATV, great fun on the right terrain.

All of it falls under Toby’s department. When he bothers.

I walk the line, checking each vehicle. Looks okay. Debris piled against the wheels, a few scratches in the paint, but nothing major. Keys are often left in the ignition—though technically we’re not supposed to—because who’s going to steal them way out here?

I slide into one of the F-150s and turn the key. It roars to life on the first try. Say what you want about Toby, but—lazy as he is—he knows how to keep the fleet in shape. At least we’ve got a roadworthy truck ready, if the roads are clear. Which they ain’t.

That’s my next job.

There are three tracks in and out of camp.

The main one is a two-lane asphalt road, shallow turns, low gradients—built for the big logging trucks.

Then there’s a single-lane shortcut, steeper, not good for heavy loads, but fine for the pickups.

Finally, there’s the forest trail—a network of dirt tracks we use for the tractors and our ATV when we’re working deep in the timber.

I check the main road first. If any route stands a chance of being open, it’s that one.

No such luck. Not five hundred yards down the hill, I run into a wall of destruction. Thirty or more big trees—Douglas fir, ponderosa pine, western hemlock—lying like scattered matchsticks. The hillside gave way too; several massive rocks have rolled into the road.

No one’s getting in or out that way for a while. Maybe our largest tractor can shift those boulders, but first we’d have to chainsaw a path through all that timber. Carefully, too. Just because a tree’s down doesn’t mean it’s safe.

In fact, most chainsaw accidents happen during cleanup, not felling.

People think once the trunk’s on the ground, the danger’s over.

Wrong. Limbs under tension can whip back without warning, trunks can roll, split, or spring.

That’s why pros like me don’t just fire up the saw and dive in.

We assess, we cut with precision, and we use ropes and tackle when needed.

That’s the difference between making it home alive and getting carried out in a body bag.

I try our sidetrack next, and it’s immediately clear this one’s in even worse shape than the main road.

Being a narrow, single-lane cut through steep ground, the storm tore it apart.

Trees are down the whole way, and with the slope working against us, the cleanup will be brutal.

Weeks of work, maybe more, before this track is usable again.

That leaves the back route.

I head across the yard and start up the steep trail into the forest. On paper, this track should be the worst of the three—it’s higher elevation, narrower, not as well maintained, and it winds through untouched parts of the forest. It doesn’t lead anywhere useful except deeper into the mountain.

Still, it’s got to be checked. We need a clear picture of the work ahead.

But I’ve got another reason for choosing this one last.

It’s where Southpaw led me last night—where I found her.

She’d fallen from one of our old rope walkways strung in the canopy.

I carried her out, banner and all, but the storm was screaming, rain blinding, and I needed to get her back safe.

I didn’t have time to search for anything else she might’ve dropped.

And she had to have been carrying more—no one treks into these woods with nothing.

I move slowly through the undergrowth, brushing aside broken limbs and wet brush, scanning the ground.

After twenty paces, I spot it: a large black backpack, zipped tight.

Feels half-empty, like it had been packed heavier before—maybe with the banner I peeled off her.

I try to sling it over my shoulder, but it’s small. The label reads “Size S.” No kidding.

I keep searching for another fifteen minutes. Nothing else. I’m about ready to give it up when the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time all day. A thin beam slants down through the canopy, striking a patch of ground a few feet away. Something glints.

I walk over and stoop. Half-hidden in the grass lies a pair of wire cutters. Not the cheap kind either—industrial-grade, heavy-duty. I pick them up, turn them in my hand.

Strange.

They’re new but already rusted, like they were bought fresh and then left out in the rain. They’ve been lying here for days, maybe a week. Not from last night.

What the hell would she need these for?

I drop them into my pocket and head back.

Now I’ve got a decision to make.

If I take the backpack straight to Jack, he’ll give it back without question.

The honorable thing, sure. But is it the smart thing?

Poor bastard took one look at her asleep and went all soft.

Thinks it’s love at first sight. He’s not to blame—Army life doesn’t exactly prepare a man for women—but still, he’s blinded.

Eric’s neutral—he hasn’t even met her yet.

Toby’s the opposite. He’ll screw anything that smiles at him. Always flirting, always chasing. He’s already circling this girl like a hound in heat. Trouble waiting to happen.

And me? I’m not saying she isn’t pretty—hell, she is. But we don’t know her. What we do know is that she trespassed onto our land with an anti-logging banner. That’s enemy action, plain and simple. No matter how sweet her smile is, she’s bad news. She needs watching.

So yeah, I feel justified in cracking open that backpack before handing it over. Better to know what we’re dealing with.

Truth is, she could be anyone. A lost hiker? Sure, it's possible. But why would she be up in our walkway? No, almost certainly she came here deliberately. Her banner tells us that much. Was she here just for the banner? Or could she have been sent here to cause even more mischief?

I can't take the risk. I have to keep my eye on her throughout her stay, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid.

Actually, thinking about it, climbing a twenty-meter-high walkway in the middle of a particularly vicious thunderstorm is stupid.

So let me rephrase myself and say I'll make sure she doesn’t do anything else stupid.

Meantime, I want to check out the bag too.

I take the backpack back to my chainsaw shed, shut the door, throw the bolt, and drop it on the bench. Time to have a look inside.

I drop the bag on the bench and unzip it.

Side pockets first. I pull out a crumpled flyer: Kill Climate Change — Stand Against Logging Now .

Big block letters, dramatic photos of tree clearance, and a website URL splashed across the bottom.

Classic propaganda, staged for maximum outrage.

Well, that confirms her intentions if it wasn’t already obvious from the banner I found wrapped around her yesterday.

Next comes a cell phone. It powers on, but it’s locked, and the battery’s nearly dead. Not that it matters—there’s no signal with the towers down.

A dirty, crumpled receipt from a hotel in Portland turns up next.

SleepEZ, it says. I’ve never heard of it, but judging from the cheap room rate, I doubt it’s much.

The date’s about a week ago. That lines up with those wire cutters, based on the rust, but not with our guest. Did she come out here once already, leave, and then come back again?

Digging deeper, I find a second invoice for the same hotel.

This one’s clean and fresh, dated the night before last. Okay…

that at least explains her most recent movements.

But then what was the deal with that earlier stay?

Two trips, two receipts, two timelines that don’t quite fit. Doesn’t sit right with me.

Time for the main compartment. Inside: a phone charger, a cotton hoodie, a couple of changes of underwear, tampons, a half-finished twenty-eight-day–day pack of Apri birth control pills, a half-eaten bag of trail mix, a nearly empty water bottle, and a travel pack of tissues.

Pretty standard for a young woman on the move.

Then I notice a small hidden zipper pocket sewn into the lining, the kind meant to keep pickpockets out. That’s where people stash the things they don’t want found.

Inside is a slim canvas wallet. Finally, something useful.

There’s cash: a few tens and twenties, even a crisp fifty. Several high-end credit cards, too—an Amex Platinum and a Chase Sapphire Reserve. Not the kind of plastic ordinary folks carry. These are the cards rich people use, people who don’t need to check their balance before swiping.

The name on them: Laura Wilder.

The driver’s license tucked behind them says the same. Date of birth 02/03/2001. That makes her twenty-four.

But what really catches my eye is the little gold-colored metal tag riveted inside the wallet:

Property of Luna Wildchild. $100 Reward for Finding.

It even lists a phone number.

I smirk, doubting she’ll be in much of a hurry to hand me a hundred bucks for returning her own stuff.

Then there are those wire cutters I'd found separately on the ground nearby.

I take them out of my pocket and examine them once more.

Just a normal pair of heavy-duty wire cutters that look the same as any other.

They also look like they've hardly been used since purchase, with no damage on them at all or signs of any wear and tear aside from a small and recent appearance of rust. Nothing that might have come either from constant handling, or from lying around in a man's drawer or a toolbag.

I'll keep the wire cutters for now and not mention them. See what happens.

Right now, what I know is this: she’s not just some pink-haired tree-hugger. She’s Laura Wilder. And Laura Wilder doesn’t sound like someone who grew up scraping by. She sounds like someone with money, means, and connections.

Which begs the real question—what the hell is she really doing here? And why does it feel like she didn’t just stumble onto our land, but was sent here to make trouble?

Yes, I'll hang on to those wire cutters for now. No need to mention them… yet.