Page 2 of Jealous Lumberjack

She’s mine.

Every stone, every tree, every shadow.

And I don’t share.

The pile of logs at my feet is already waist-high. My shirt’s been stripped since the first swing, sweat sliding down my back and chest.

My hands are leathered, scarred from more than splinters. My body’s carved the way it was back in the ring, but thicker now. Harder. Not trained for show under the Vegas lights, but for survival.

I live alone.

I eat alone.

I sleep alone.

Five years celibate. Eight years without stepping off this mountain for more than supplies. And you know what? That’s fine.

Women have come up here, sure. Groupie types who thought they’d tameThe Grizzlywith spread legs and false promises. At the beginning I took what I needed before I sent every last one packing.

These days I don’t even let them close.

Because I know myself.

I’ve got the same goddamn wiring as my father, his father, all of them. Addictive. Obsessive. A switch flips, and suddenly it’s not a drink or a needle in my blood—it’s a woman. A single scent, a soft body, and I’d tear myself open just to keep it close.

So I don’t touch and I don’t taste and astonishingly I shed that addiction too.

I grip the axe, swing hard, and watch another log split quicker than a twenty-dollar whore’s thighs. Not that I know what that looks like, of course. My tastes ran a little moreexpensive once upon a time. Until even that was cheapened with betrayal.

A low growl rumbles free, and I’m irritated with myself all over again for my inability to throttle my memories the way I throttled my opponents in the ring.

From up here, I can see the town. Little dots of rooftops clinging to the valley and smoke curling from chimneys, morning light catching church steeples. Pretty from a distance. Poison up close.

I know. I came from places like that. Grew up hearing bottles smash against walls, fists smash into skin and lies slurred through teeth. I was lucky enough to claw my way out, build a name, build a body too damn big to break.

And unlucky enough to find out names mean nothing when the people you trust are rotten at the core.

I roll my shoulders, plant another log. My heartbeat is steady, a heavy drum.

This is my life now. Steel traps around my property lines, a rifle on the porch, shelves stocked for winter. Anyone who steps foot past my boundaries will regret it. I’ve got snares, tripwires, things most people wouldn’t recognize until it’s too late.

Because the one thing Eagle’s Crown gives me more than peace?

Control. Stability.Honesty.

I lift the axe again, swing down, and the crack of splitting wood carries through the trees. A hawk screams above, slicing the sky.

The mountain and I—we’re both rugged and formidable. And we’ll gut you if you get too close.

I smack the toe of the axe into the stump and let my gaze roam my view, leaning on the axe handle, sweat dripping from my jaw, breath steaming in the crisp air. The sun’s climbing now, washing the peaks in pale gold.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

My eyes narrow.

Eagle’s Crown doesn’t do silence. Not like this. Not unless something’s wrong.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I scan the tree line, every muscle tight, waiting. There’s a weight in the air. A prickle in the dirt under my boots.