Page 1 of Made for Wilde

ONE

KODA

The ax splitsthe pine log with a satisfying crack. The impact vibrates through my arms.

I’ve been at this for nearly two hours. My shoulder is sore, and my t-shirt is already soaked with sweat despite the March chill that clings to the Wyoming mountains. The pile of split wood grows steadily beside me.

But I have no intention of stopping.

Physical pain is a blessing compared to the alternative.

I set up another log on the stump.

Position. Inhale. Swing. Split. Repeat.

There’s comfort in the rhythm, in knowing exactly what comes next.

No surprises. No disappointments.

Just me, the ax, and the satisfying ache building in my muscles.

A bead of sweat rolls down my temple despite the cold. I pause to wipe my brow with my forearm and look out across the valley below my cabin.

From up here, Cooper Heights looks like a toy town with miniature buildings nestled between the mountains and forest.It’s close enough to access when necessary, but far enough to keep its noise and complications at bay.

That’s why I built my cabin here. The silence lets me hear my own thoughts or drown them out with physical labor when they become too loud.

Up here, I answer to no one but myself and the changing seasons.

Suddenly, the distant sound of a car engine cuts through the steady thud of the ax.

I stop mid-swing and listen as the sound grows louder, echoing off the mountainside. Few people come up this way, and even fewer without calling first.

I lower the ax and watch as a sleek black sedan navigates the narrow dirt road that leads to my property. The car looks out of place against the rugged landscape, like a high heel in a hiking trail.

I already know who it is before the car pulls to a stop in the clearing beside my truck.

A few seconds later, my sister, Dana, steps out in a tailored navy suit and heels that sink immediately into the soft earth.

I can’t help but chuckle.

“Might as well turn around now,” I call out to her. I rest the ax handle against the chopping block. “You’re going to ruin your shoes if you keep walking over here.”

Dana glances down at her mud-caked heels and shrugs.

“They’re last season anyway.”

I grab a rag from my back pocket and wipe my hands while she tiptoes her way carefully across the yard toward me.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek knot, and not a strand is out of place despite the mountain breeze. We share the same brown eyes, but where mine are usually narrowed in concentration or caution, hers sparkle with ambition and mischief.

“See,” she says triumphantly as she reaches me. “Barely a scratch on them. These Italian designers know what they’re doing.”

I ignore her comment and lean against the chopping block.

“What do you want, Dana?”

She smiles, unfazed by my bluntness.