Page 38 of Jealous Lumberjack

“You always this bossy?” I ask after a long silence, needing to break the heavy quiet.

“Only when people try to die on my mountain,” he mutters.

“Not my fault your trap mangled me.”

“Your fault for trespassing.”

I huff but don’t argue further.

The undergrowth thickens as we near the slope where I first fell.

My chest tightens at the memory of the rope snapping around me, the terror of hanging there helpless, waiting for whoever—or whatever—had set it.

“You do this often?” I ask, voice lighter than I feel. “Set traps, wait for some poor soul to come stumbling through?”

“No.” He glances at me, dark eyes unreadable. “Surprisingly, you’re the first.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach flip.

We trekfor nearly an hour before we reach a fallen log near a rocky outcrop I vaguely remember.

“Wait here,” he rumbles when I mention it.

He sits me down on a large rock, then roams about, his footsteps alarmingly quiet for a man of his size.

A true predator.

My heart jumps and my pussy dampens as I watch him crouch, angle his massive body this way and that, follow tracks I can’t spot.

After a moment, he sets off in a straight line and reaches into a thick underbrush.

And there it is, half-buried under leaves and dirt, straps torn but intact. My dark purple backpack.

Relief floods me, stupidly fierce.

It looks small and delicate in Bear’s big hand as he tugs it free, brushes the debris off, and returns to drop it at my feet.

I smile up at him. “Thank you.”

His eyes darken, and his nostrils flare, but he simply nods.

Inside are my spare clothes, underwear, toiletries, a battered wallet with forty dollars and some coins. I mourn the phone I discarded at the truck stop, but that can’t be helped.

I sense Bear looming above me, massive shadow falling over the bag and me alike. He says nothing, but I know he’s inspecting every inch, watching me for what exactly, I’m not sure.

“It’s just mine,” I whisper, pulling the strap close. “No secrets.”

His silence presses heavier than any accusation.

I glance up at him. “You think I’m hiding something? But the truth is... I don’t have much to hide.”

He tilts his head, studying me.

“I don’t have family,” I admit quietly. “Not anymore. My parents died when I was young. And I... I have a hard time making friends.” The stark admission makes my chest ache. But I push on; again, I’m not sure why I feel the need to reassure him. “So no siblings. Not even a friend to call if I need help.”

His eyes sharpen, the weight of his stare pinning me in place.

Finally, he rumbles, “Same.”