Page 10 of Mountain Man Claimed (Hard Timber Mountain Men #4)

ROWAN

By nine the next morning, my inbox had learned my mood and arranged itself accordingly.

Permit revisions at the top. Vendor confirmations for the Founders Festival underneath.

There were three emails from residents who wanted to know if Main Street could accommodate a pumpkin trebuchet.

The answer was no, and I wrote up a polite reply with a link to park guidelines that explained projectile limits in plain English.

I typed with mechanical precision, the rhythm almost enough to drown out the voice in my head: I don’t blur lines. I don’t do this. The other night was an anomaly. A lapse. Not a precedent.

The packet from The Woodshed sat open on my desk, sheets aligned, every signature where it belonged.

The new certificate named the courts and listed the town as an additional insured.

The notice affidavit was correct. The lighting cut sheets matched the fixture specs we required. Dane had done everything I asked.

Even so, it was irrelevant. I refused to let personal bleed into professional. That was how cracks started.

I drafted the memo to council. Recreational use consistent with the zone. Conditions attached. Minor dogleg adjustment on the ADA path. Stamped stormwater plan included. I stopped my pen on the last line and stared at the dot of ink. If I kept my eyes on the paper, everything stayed simple.

“Still breathing in here?”

I looked up. Gillian stood in the doorway, her headset crooked around her neck and a pencil stabbed through her bun.

“I’ve been covering phones while Petra’s at the DMV,” she said. “You’ve been typing like the building’s on fire. Want me to bring you a sandwich or a sedative?”

“I’m fine,” I said, eager to get back to work.

“Hmm.” Her grin was pure mischief. “You’ve got that look. The one where you’re pretending forms can’t break your heart.”

“They can’t. That’s the point.”

“Sure.” She disappeared down the hall humming, leaving the faint smell of peppermint tea in her wake.

I pulled my shoulders straighter. Over-controlled was safe. Distance was even safer.

“Hey, Rowan?” Petra, the admin from the clerk’s office, leaned into my doorway a half hour later.

“The Timber Mill Inn called. They want someone from town hall to check their parade-day staging plan. Also, a podcaster is in the lobby asking who approves public recordings on Main during the Founders’ Festival. ”

“Recordings on public sidewalks don’t require approval.” I stood and rolled my shoulders. “I’ll stop at the Inn on my way to lunch.”

Petra grimaced. “He’s… enthusiastic.”

They usually were.

I filed the packet for The Woodshed, slid my arms into my jacket, and walked out into a late-summer afternoon that smelled like coffee and cedar.

Main Street was already shifting toward festival mode.

Store windows sprouted hand-lettered signs about apple bars and flannel discounts.

Kids chalked trees on the sidewalk. Sabrina had a crate of mums out in front of Morning Wood and a line stretching to the corner.

The Timber Mill Inn sat at the far end of the block like it had decided a century ago to hold the town’s stories until someone asked for them back.

I loved the place even when it made my job complicated.

Inside, the lobby had been staged for the upcoming festival.

A banner board listed events. A display table held brochures, a jar of peppermints, and a stack of glossy cards printed with a microphone and a title: The Ex List: Hard Timber Uncut.

I was still processing that when the owner of the inn, Mrs. Qualle, came out of her office.

“Rowan, I’m so glad you could stop by.” She smoothed a hand over the front of her dress and offered me a warm smile.

“I haven’t had to deal with the details of The Founders’ Festival for quite a while.

Sabrina used to handle it before she left to start the coffee shop.

Could you check over everything to make sure we’re in compliance? ”

“I’d be happy to, but that’s also literally my job.” I rocked back on my heels and tried to will away the beginning twinges of a tension headache.

“Fantastic. I have the map in the conference room. In full disclosure, the map is actually three maps taped together with a note from our night manager about not letting the axe throwing team block the elevator.”

“That’s an excellent note,” I said.

She smiled. The skin at her temples tightened for a second and then smoothed. “If you hear the words The Ex-List, please pretend my hands aren’t shaking. It’s been a circus since he checked in.”

I didn’t need to ask who he was. Laughter came from the lounge and a man’s voice followed, bright, practiced, and carrying without effort. “—and you’re saying the Butterfly is a real person. Tell our listeners what makes him so… portable.”

Portable. I held still, very aware of my pulse.

Mrs. Qualle’s eyes shifted toward the sound and back. “He’s promised a tasteful series. He hasn’t delivered tasteful yet.”

“Let’s deal with the map first,” I suggested.

We laid the parade plan out on the conference table. Mrs. Qualle had indeed taped three copies together. She had not, however, missed a single delivery window or vendor location. She was one of those people who could coax chaos into a straight line.

“The float staging is along Founders’ Way,” she said. “Food trucks on the east end. Kids’ zone at the park. We’ll use the Inn lot for ADA parking and the loading ramp for band gear. The Knotty Tap wants to set a second beer garden near their side door.”

“Perimeter fencing, two access points, and a staff list posted at each,” I said. “And whoever is doing axe throwing needs a safety officer with a radio.”

She made a note, her hand trembling slightly. “Thank you.”

The voice from the lounge rose again. “Folks, we’re here with locals who say the Butterfly burns bright and then flits. He’s charming. He’s fun. He starts fast and moves on before the dust settles. That’s the consensus, right?”

A woman’s nervous laugh carried. “I wouldn’t say?—”

“You just did,” the podcaster said. “Don’t worry. We’re not here to hurt feelings. We’re here to uncover the truth.”

Mrs. Qualle’s pen paused. She looked at me like she had something to say but no official reason to say it. “I keep thinking about how something meant to entertain can still do damage.”

“It can,” I said.

“And how once a story spreads, people start acting like it’s fact, whether it is or not.”

I thought of a steady hand at my back. The quiet certainty of saying yes.

And then I thought of my parents’ divorce—how they split holidays like stolen treasure—and of my ex-fiance walking out with no warning a month before our wedding.

Love wasn’t steady. It was reckless. I’d been foolish enough to trust it once. Never again.

“Let’s finish the staging,” I said, because maps never asked me to rewrite the truth.

We walked through routes and time marks, then returned to the lobby. The podcaster had moved into the center of the room like a performer who expected everyone to follow him. He wore good headphones, a mic on his collar, and the smile of a man certain that the town existed to entertain him.

“Ms. March?” he said as if we’d met. “Perfect. I’ve been hoping to catch you. Listeners love a good rule. Tell us how the town plans to handle this sudden influx of… romance.”

“We plan to handle parade staging and public safety,” I said. “Romance isn’t a municipal function.”

He laughed a little too loudly. “Hard Timber is adorable. You all speak in capital letters.”

“Do you have a question related to permits?” I asked.

“Just one.” He angled the mic. “What do you think of The Butterfly?”

I looked at the mic and then at him. “I think it’s funny how people pick metaphors without thinking about what they really mean.”

He rocked back, pleased with himself. “That’s a good line. We’ll use it.”

“You won’t use me,” I said. “Not for your joke.”

His smile thinned. Some men didn’t like being told no. “Come on. We’re just having fun.”

“You are,” Mrs. Qualle said, her voice riding the line between polite and pissed. “Everyone else is working.”

He turned his smile on her next. “And you are?”

“Someone who knows the difference between a story and a person,” she said. “I’m also the owner of this inn and won’t allow you to turn my first floor into your own personal podcast studio.”

Good for Mrs. Qualle. I left after she shooed him away and stepped onto the sidewalk. On the corner, Sabrina had added a chalkboard special: Fallen For You Latte. Someone had drawn a tiny butterfly next to the chalk leaf. My stomach knotted. I told myself it was indigestion and kept walking.

Dane texted at noon.

Dane: Lunch? I’ll bring lemon bars to sweeten the schedule gods.

I typed Busy. Deleted it. Typed Another day. Deleted that too.

Me: Can’t today. Packet looks good. See you Thursday.

A minute later, my phone pinged.

Dane: Copy that. I’m here if you need anything.

I locked the screen and shoved my phone in my bag.

At my desk, I opened the council memo and read it again from start to finish without changing a word. I added the packet to the agenda and sent the file to Petra with a quiet instruction about the order of business that would keep comments civil.

Two calls came in about vendor electricity. One about portable restrooms. Holt Thorne signed the road closure forms and warned me Lane’s soccer team’s float better not get stuck behind one of the giant farm rigs or I’d never hear the end of it.

At five, I walked to the park to check banner posts. The sun had shifted. A group of seniors stretched by the gazebo. Harvey wasn’t with them, and I reminded myself that rest was as much a part of recovery as motion.

I should have gone home then. Instead, I cut behind the Inn on a path lined with chokecherry and found myself within earshot of the lounge again. I heard the podcaster’s voice and my feet froze in place.

“We’re back,” the podcaster said. “And we’ve learned something interesting.

Locals say The Ex-List is too sharp for one voice.

It had to be a group project. Let’s review.

We had Thatcher the Ghost, but he’s off the market now.

Holt the Iceberg? Somehow melted. Harlan the Warden? He’s been tamed. That leaves three.”

The main mic picked up a low, anticipatory hum, and the man paused, building anticipation.

“Who’s left? Here in Hard Timber, there’s still Trace the Heartbreaker, Ridge the Fortress, and finally, the one they call The Butterfly.”

Someone let out a laugh.

“The Butterfly,” the podcaster repeated. “He’s the test. Not just of patience, but of whether you actually believe he’s capable of landing.”

He didn’t even try to sound objective. He wasn’t doing a profile, he was issuing a verdict.

“You think he’s yours for a second, but he never stays pinned. That’s why people can’t stop watching. You’re not just rooting for him, you’re bracing for the crash.”

A woman’s voice—maybe one of the inn staff—cut in. “You mean he’s a walking red flag with good hair.”

Laughter floated through the open windows, and the podcaster kept going.

“And that’s the hook, right? He’s not just one man. He’s the mirror. Every woman’s got a Butterfly in her past. Hard Timber just happens to have one in the present.”

I stood in the shade, my jaw locked so tightly that it ached. It was a stupid line. Still, it felt like a splinter lodging under my skin. I headed back to the street, not willing to listen to another word.

Sabrina was in front of Morning Wood watering a container of huge orange mums. She lifted a hand and waved. I waved back. But when she called, “You okay?” I pretended not to hear over a delivery truck.

At home, I hung my keys on their hook in the foyer and stood very still in a room that looked exactly the same as it had the day before and not the same at all. The cardigan I’d shrugged off last night draped over the arm of a chair, a reminder that Dane had been in my space.

I left it there and headed to the bathroom to wash my face. Then I made tea I didn’t drink and opened my laptop with the intention of writing conditions for another file. Instead, I stared at a blank screen while my stomach twisted into knots.

I’d said yes the other night and meant it.

I’d said yes because I wanted to and because I trusted the hand that steadied me when I lost a step.

That was still true. But I’d built a life that ran smoothly because I didn’t let feelings steer.

I had a job that kept people safe because I didn’t gamble on exceptions.

I knew what it cost to patch broken rules. Some costs never cleared.

My phone buzzed. Dane again.

Dane: Just checking in. I want to see you before Thursday, but I’ll take what you can give.

My chest ached. I set the phone facedown like that would mute the hope in his words.

I closed the laptop, emptied my mug and put it in the dishwasher. I even picked up the cardigan and hung it in the closet instead of leaving it where I would see it.

Then I wrote him back.

Me: Busy week. Thursday works.

He replied after a minute.

Dane: Understood. I’m not going anywhere.

I wanted to believe him, but my instincts screamed not to.

Outside, the streetlights blinked on in a chain that always soothed me. It was predictable and sequential. Order eased my anxiety. It made sense and could be counted on. Not like emotions. Not like promises that could be broken on a whim.

I set my alarm. I lined up my pens. I slid the Woodshed packet into the agenda folder and told myself order wasn’t a punishment. It was a kindness I knew how to offer, even to myself.