Page 12 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

T he thing about being snowed in is that it sounds a lot more romantic when you’re not actually snowed in.

Like, in theory? Adorable. Cozy. Maybe even sexy if you’re trapped with someone who looks like Gage—which I am.

But in reality? It’s mostly cold, quiet, and mildly terrifying when you’ve got a busted toe, no cell service, no internet, and absolutely no clue what you’re supposed to do all day without any of it.

Also, I’m ninety percent sure I’m about to be fired.

I pace—or hobble dramatically—back and forth in the cabin, my foot wrapped like a sad burrito of regret. Every step sends a sharp zing up my leg, which really helps the whole panicking-in-silence thing.

No phone. No laptop. No charger. No contact with the outside world.

No way to check email, text my best friend, scroll through memes, or doom scroll through the news for a tiny hit of serotonin.

My digital tether to the real world? Severed.

I feel like a pioneer woman—if pioneer women had pastel manicures, a deep craving for oat milk lattes, and zero survival skills.

Well, okay, Rocco’s not judging. He’s currently snoring on his back like a furry cinnamon roll. But Toby keeps giving me looks like he knows I missed a flight, I’m supposed to be at work today, and my boss is going to eviscerate me via HR.

Then there is my mother, who is definitely calling the National Guard, the Coast Guard, and possibly assembling a mom-led task force complete with a command center and laminated maps. She’s probably already named the operation "Rescue Tessa: Frostbite Edition."

But it's just me, a hot-but-broody mountain man, and his two judgmental dogs. No need for all that melodrama, but my mother won’t see it that way.

She’ll go full Liam Neeson, declaring she has a very particular set of skills and demanding my safe return on national television.

I give it twenty-four hours before she’s crying on Good Morning America and offering a reward in bundt cakes and guilt trips.

I groan and flop onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow like it holds answers. “Okay, Tessa. Think. You can’t undo the weather. You can’t magically heal your toe. But maybe, you can make yourself useful. Or at least not lose your damn mind before dinner.”

The only entertainment in this house is the fire crackling in the corner, a stack of books I already flipped through last night, and the growing sense of cabin fever creeping in.

I glance at the coffee table. Then at the fireplace. Then at the bookshelf.

And then, inspiration strikes.

Grabbing a stack of old newspapers and the back of an empty cereal box, I set out to do something completely ridiculous: make a checkerboard.

Because why not? I play a vicious game of checkers.

People underestimate the game. It looks innocent, but it’s cutthroat if you know what you’re doing. And I do.

I fold and rip the cereal box that is in the garbage can and arrange it into a board, draw squares with the stub of a pencil I find in the junk drawer, and cut out twenty-four tiny, uneven paper circles for the pieces.

Half are plain, the other half I color in with what might be a dried-out Sharpie.

When I’m done, I sit back and admire my work as if I’ve just crafted a masterpiece. ‘Watch out, Mr. Monopoly.Boom. Game night, Alaska edition.”

The dogs ignore me.

Outside the window, I spot Gage, trudging through the snow like a flannel-wrapped lumberjack version of Thor, wielding a shovel instead of a hammer.

His breath fogs in the air, muscles flexing beneath a ridiculous number of layers, and his beard is dusted with snowflakes like he just walked out of a holiday romance movie.

I shake my head slowly, like that’ll knock some sense back into it. “Nope. Don’t do it, Tessa. You are not catching feelings for a man who sharpens his own ax, probably eats protein bars made of elk, and doesn’t own an espresso machine. That’s how cult documentaries start.”

Still, I watch him for a second longer than I should, my heart doing that annoying flutter thing it does when someone looks unfairly good doing mundane things. Like being considerate. Or saving you from freezing to death in the woods with a chainsaw in your hands.

Eventually, the cold drives him back in, cheeks flushed and shoulders dusted in snow. He stomps his boots at the door and shrugs off his coat. Rocco barrels over to greet him like he just returned from war.

“You didn’t freeze to death. That’s a win,” I say, holding up the makeshift game board with a grin that could probably be seen from orbit. “I made us checkers.”

He gives me a look that’s somewhere between amused and deeply concerned.

“I tore apart the back of an old cereal box—Lucky Charms, in case you were wondering, because apparently, even in a snowstorm, I’m magically delicious.

Then I drew the board with what might’ve been a pencil in a previous life but also might’ve been a petrified twig.

The checkers themselves? Paper circles. Half are blank; half I colored in using a Sharpie I had to resuscitate like it was on life support. It smelled like permanent regret.”

I pause for effect, then add, “Artistry takes many forms. This one happens to look like a preschool art project and smell like expired markers. By the way, you need better office supplies.”

He blinks at the sad-looking board like he’s not entirely sure if I’m serious or if this is some sort of cabin-fever-induced mental breakdown. Fair, honestly. The paper pieces are lopsided, the lines are crooked, and the whole thing smells faintly of stale cereal.

But hey, it’s something.

“Don’t all fight over the applause,” I add, waving the board in the air like I’m on a game show. “It was this or I perform dramatic monologues with Rocco as my co-star.”Rocco, clearly recognizing his name, lifts his head with a grunt before flopping it back down, unimpressed.

He raises a brow, gaze shifting between the board and my very proud grin. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or a warning?" he asks, deadpan, like he's weighing whether I might actually be dangerous with paper crafts.

“Only if you hate losing.”

“I’m not big on games.”

“You’re also not big on talking, but here we are.”

That earns me one of his almost-smiles. The corners of his mouth twitch as if they’re considering it but aren’t quite ready to commit. He sets his gloves on the counter, eyes still on the board.

“Fine. One game. But don’t cry when I win,” he says, settling down like it’s a military operation and he’s about to deploy troops. He even cracks his knuckles. Who is this man? General of the Checkers Battalion?

“You wish.”

We sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, the checkerboard of questionable integrity between us.

I launch into an overly detailed explanation of the rules like I’m hosting a televised tournament, dragging out each point with exaggerated seriousness.

Gage gives me a side-eye that could cut lumber, but I keep going.

The dogs settle nearby—Toby flops down with a sigh like this is going to be a long night, and Rocco rests his chin on the edge of the board, eyes locked on the paper pieces as if he’s trying to calculate his own moves.

Gage grunts. Just once, but loud enough to register both disapproval and reluctant amusement over my explanation of the rules. I smirk.

The game is surprisingly fun, even though he plays like a tactical genius who’s trying to win a war, not a board game.

Every move he makes is calculated—like he’s outflanking enemy troops instead of hopping paper circles.

He stares at the board with furrowed brows, occasionally muttering things like, "That's a trap" or "You're baiting me," as if we’re in a Cold War spy standoff.

The dogs are very invested. Rocco keeps nudging pieces with his nose when we aren’t looking—possibly trying to help Gage cheat, or maybe just adding chaos. Toby sits statue-still, eyes trained on the board like he’s judging both our strategies.

Still, despite his absurd focus and my attempts to distract him with commentary, I manage to beat him—but barely. Like, one-move-left barely.

When I crown my last piece, I raise my arms like I’ve just won the Super Bowl. "Victory!"

“Rematch?” he grunts as he sets up the pieces.

“See? You do like games.”

He gives a low grunt that might be a laugh. Or a growl. With him, it's hard to tell.

After a couple of rounds, and a very heated debate over whether my double-jump was legal, he gestures toward the back room. “Want to help me with something?”

“If it involves tools, you’re going to have to be more specific,” I say, squinting at him with the suspicion usually reserved for telemarketers and gas station sushi.

“Because I literally broke my toe yesterday wielding a state-of-the-art chainsaw like I was starring in a lumberjack horror film. So unless you’re looking for a totem pole with blood, swearing, and a side of tears, I’d proceed with caution. ”

He snorts. “No tools. Just sanding.”

I follow him into the shop located down the hall from his bedroom.

It smells like cedar, pine, and man. Like Home Depot and fresh air had a baby.

There are wood shavings everywhere and a workbench lined with carvings in various stages of completion—animals, symbols, and a few small totem poles.

I run my fingers over the surface of one of the larger totems. “You made this?”

“The annual Ashwood Falls Spring Festival is coming up in a few weeks,” he says, handing me a small totem and a piece of sandpaper. “I make a lot of them because they're a big hit with the tourists.”

I take the totem and cradle it gently in my hands, turning it over to study the intricate details carved into the wood.

There’s something almost reverent about the way each line flows into the next, like every groove has a story.

I trace the design with my fingertip, feeling the tiny ridges and the smooth dips where he’s already sanded.

It’s hard to believe something this beautiful came from rough, raw wood.

“Here,” he says, tapping a spot along the base. “Always go with the grain. Light pressure. Let the paper do the work.”

He demonstrates with long, practiced strokes over the curves of another totem, his hands steady and sure, movements efficient in a way that makes it look easier than it is. I watch his fingers, the way he angles the paper and checks the surface by running his thumb along the wood.

I nod and mimic his technique, taking the sandpaper and cradling the totem like it’s a fragile artifact instead of something that could double as a weapon if launched at the right speed.

The sanding is oddly soothing. Meditative, even.

I lose track of time running the paper over the carved wood, smoothing the ridges and grooves.

Toby snoozes in the corner. Rocco chews on a block of scrap wood like it owes him money.

The snow outside keeps falling, but in here, it feels quiet and warm.

Safe.

I glance over at Gage, who’s working on a much larger piece with an expression of intense focus. I watch the muscles in his jaw flex as he turns the carving in his hands, checks the angle, sands, repeats.

I clear my throat. “So, is there a story behind why you live up here? In the land of snow and zero internet?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps sanding.

I figure he’s going to ignore the question entirely, which is fair. But then he says, quietly, “Used to be in the Army. Did some tours. Came back... didn’t feel like coming all the way back.”

I nod, more to myself than to him. “So you built yourself a life up here instead.” My voice is softer now, curious.

Not just about the logistics of his survivalist dream life, but about the man behind it.

What brought him to this mountain? What kept him here?

What’s he hiding from—or healing from? There’s a pause before he answers, and even though I know I shouldn’t push, I can’t help the way the questions keep stacking up in my head like an emotional Jenga tower, just waiting to topple.

“Something like that.”

We sand in silence again, the kind that feels full of things not said. And honestly? I don’t hate it.

Eventually, I set the finished totem down and brush the dust from my hands. “Okay, I take it back. Woodworking therapy might actually be better than real therapy.”

Gage raises a brow. “Bad day at the office?”

“Bad year. A job that drains the soul. My boss, who thinks I’m as interchangeable as a printer cartridge. And let’s not forget the spectacular dumpster fire that was my engagement—complete with emotional arson and zero survivors.”

He pauses. “Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, grinning like I’ve just remembered a delicious secret. “Tempting, but I think I'd rather whip your flannel-covered butt at checkers again.”

His eyebrow arches with mock offense. “One lucky win and suddenly you're the reigning champ?”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I say, lifting my chin. “Strategic genius and raw talent. It’s a burden, really.”

His lips twitch, that almost-smile of his making a guest appearance. “Right. Let me know when the parade in your honor starts.”

“Already planned it. Rocco’s the grand marshal.”

We leave the shop as the sun dips below the ridge. The snow has stopped, leaving the world outside blanketed in a soft, golden light. I grab the checkerboard, and he makes us grilled cheese with tomato soup.

And as we settle in on the floor, dogs at our feet, board between us, and fire crackling nearby, I realize something kind of wild:

I’m not panicking anymore.

I’m not freaking out.

I’m just... here. In the moment. In a cabin on a mountain with a quiet man who somehow makes me laugh, sanding totems and playing checkers like we do this every day.

And for now? That’s enough.