Page 25 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

T he chainsaw growls to a stop, and the garage falls into a heavy, humming silence.

The air is thick with the scent of pine shavings, hot metal, and sweat.

My ears ring from the noise, but it’s the emptiness that’s louder—the absence of her voice, her laugh, her tiny gasps when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I step back from the statue and take it in: a massive wooden eagle mid-dive, wings outstretched, talons gripping the outline of a salmon I barely sketched in.

Some big shot in Juneau paid for it in full, said he wanted power and precision, something "majestic" to put outside his hunting lodge.

It’s good work. Clean lines. Power in the form. I should be proud. Hell, it might be the best work I’ve done all year. Clean lines, sharp symmetry, motion frozen in time. Majestic.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm and stare at the damn bird like maybe it’ll give me answers I don’t have.

But it just stares back, those carved eyes hollow, unmoving, lifeless.

Its frozen wings are poised in a dramatic dive, but there’s no movement, no soul.

It doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels like failure dressed up in feathers and polish.

It feels like a goodbye I never got to say.

Like she’s gone, and I carved this thing in her absence to scream into the silence she left behind.

And all I got back is wood and emptiness.

I blow out a breath, dragging my hands down my face, wishing I could scrub away everything I'm feeling. But it clings to me like sawdust on sweat—grief, regret, longing, all of it. I'm sick of thinking. Sick of caring. I don't want to feel anything anymore. I want to be numb.

So I grab my phone off the workbench, thumb through my contacts, and stop on Trace's name.

“Yeah?” he answers on the first ring.

“I wanna get drunk.”

There’s a pause. “You? Gage ‘Two-Beers-Max’ Bennett wants to get drunk?”

“I’m serious.”

“I can hear that.” Another beat. Then, “I’m on my way.”

He takes about twenty minutes to get here. When he pushes open the garage door, the wind follows him in—sharp and cold, swirling snowflakes around his boots. Snow clings to his beard, his jacket shoulders dusted in white like he’s been through a blizzard just to get here.

A six-pack dangles from one gloved hand, and in the other, he clutches a bottle of whiskey, and it looks like it’s a goddamn lifeline.

His eyes are tired, but there’s something wild simmering underneath—not rage, not grief, but something heavier.

Something close to what I feel: a desperate need to make the ache stop, if only for a little while.

He looks around at the garage, the shavings, the dust, the half-covered eagle. Then he looks at me.“She left, didn't she?” he asks.

I nod.

“Is that what we’re drinking to? Or we drowning some sorrows?”

“Both.”

“Got it,” he says, handing me the bottle.

We drink in silence at first, perched on upturned crates like ghosts of our younger selves—two grunts hiding from the world in some forgotten desert, now transplanted to the frozen quiet of Alaska.

The whiskey burns going down, but it’s not enough.

Not enough to dull the sharp edges. Not enough to freeze out the ache that’s wedged itself into my chest like shrapnel.

I drink again, harder, chasing that numbness like a dying man scrabbling for oxygen.

“She left this morning?” Trace asks finally.

“Yeah.”

“Did you say goodbye or were you your normal asshole self?”

I shake my head, jaw clenched tight. “Nope. I fucked it up. Drove her to the plane. She said thanks, kissed my cheek, and I just sat there. Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. Just stared like a goddamn statue while she walked away.

Then I turned the snowmobile around and left.

I didn’t even look back. Didn’t wait to see her take off. Just…left her.”

Trace whistles low. “Damn, Gage. That's some cold shit.”

“Yeah. I know.”Another sip. Another burn.

“She told me she was leaving,” I mutter. “And I thought I had another week. I thought—hell, I don’t know what I thought.”

“She say why? Didn't she like it here? Like you?”

I nod slowly, but it feels like defeat. “Her life is in Florida,” I murmur, voice rough. “Not in the cold tundra. Sunshine, palm trees, bare feet in the sand. She doesn't belong in all this snow.” I rub the back of my neck, jaw flexing. “But damn, I wanted her to.”

Trace lets that settle. “You miss her?”

I look up at the rafters. “Like a fucking limb’s been torn off.”

“Well,” he says, standing and stretching with a groan that sounds more dramatic than necessary, "nothing cures heartbreak like manual labor and poor decisions."

He reaches for his axe like it’s a six-string guitar, twirls it once—poorly—and almost drops it. “Let’s go chop down a tree. Preferably a symbolic one. Or one that just really pisses you off. Do you have a vendetta against a particular spruce?”

I stare at him, deadpan. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with a sharp weapon and emotional baggage,” he shoots back with a grin. “Let’s go cause a mild forest disturbance.”

I blink at him like he’s just suggested we take up synchronized swimming.

"What? I don’t chop down trees, Trace. You know that.

I use only felled wood—deadfall, storm victims, the occasional stubborn pine that finally gives up the ghost. I don’t go all Paul Bunyan on perfectly healthy ones. That’s your chaotic energy, not mine."

“You said she came out here to cut one down. Where is it? Let's finish the job.”

I hesitate, wobbling slightly as the whiskey swirls in my gut. My brain screams bad idea, but my heart? My heart says screw it.

"You know what?" I mutter, looking at Trace through a haze of regret and drunken bravado. "Yeah. Let’s do it. Let’s chop the damn thing down."

Trace grins like a lunatic. "Now you're speaking my language. Point the way, Sherlock."

I stand up, knees cracking, and squint at Trace. "Follow me, Wha—" I hiccup, blink, try again. "Washton. No. Washboard?" I shake my head as if that'll knock the whiskey loose. "Watson! That’s the one. Follow me, Watson."

We grab some axes and trudge out into the woods. Snow crunching underfoot, the moon hanging low and bright. The cold stings, but I welcome it. It’s honest. Biting.

When we reach the clearing, I slow down and stop, squinting through the trees and the blur until my eyes land on it. The knotty spruce. The one she stood in front of with fire in her eyes and a chainsaw she had no business wielding. The one that started it all.

I squint at the tree and jab my finger toward it, swaying slightly. "That one," I slur, the words dragging through whiskey and whatever the hell is twisting up my insides. "That’s the culprit. The... the original offender. The root of all—" I hiccup. "—emotional terrorism."

Trace snorts. "Looks like it knows what it did."

I stare at the bark as if it might flinch. "It does. It fucking does," I mutter, then sway slightly where I stand. Trace gives me a look, like he's trying to decide if I'm serious or just hallucinating. I jab my finger toward it again. "And it knows I'm coming for it."

He raises an eyebrow. "You sure about this?"

I pause. Think about it. The whiskey burns in my chest, but the ache inside burns hotter. I nod slowly, deliberately. "Yeah. Let’s take the bastard down. For closure. Or revenge. Or both."

"Drunken vengeance?" Trace smirks. "I’m in. Just don’t drop the axe on your foot, Paul Bunyan."

"No promises," I say, already lifting my weapon.

Trace lets out a low whistle as he looks up to the top of the tree. “It's a big bitch.”

“Yup.”

We start swinging. It’s slow going, between the snow and the whiskey and the thickness of the trunk. But it’s something. Something physical. Something I can hit.

Trace grunts. "You know, when I pictured us getting blackout drunk and wielding axes in the woods, I figured it’d be over a lost bet or a bear attack. Not a therapeutic lumberjack session over your broken heart."

“Shut up and swing, asshole.”

It takes over an hour, maybe longer—who knows, time’s not exactly reliable when you’re drunk and swinging an axe like a couple of deranged lumberjacks—but finally, the tree creaks and groans like it's got one last complaint before retirement.

Then, with a dramatic shudder and an ear-splitting crack, it topples.

A thunderous crash echoes through the woods as it hits the snowy ground, sending a wave of powder into the air.

Trace throws his arms up like they just scored a touchdown. "Hell yeah! Timber, motherfucker!"

I whoop right alongside him, staggering a bit but grinning like an idiot. "Take that, you jackass!"

We both laugh—loud, ridiculous, possibly slightly unhinged—and high-five with a force that stings like hell but feels damn good. The tree’s down. And for one stupid, glorious moment, it actually feels like a win.

And there, right in front of us, is the carved heart. The initials: K + T.

We both stop, our breath puffing out in clouds, axes resting against our thighs. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Just stares.

"Well, shit," Trace mutters. "That’s the smoking gun. The tree equivalent of a kick in the balls."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. She came here to erase it. And now it’s staring back at me like a goddamn ghost."

We stand there, silent. Then Trace exhales and says, “Kinda poetic though, huh? Us finally bringing the damn thing down.”

I snort out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Yeah. Poetic... or pathetic. Could go either way." My voice cracks a little, and before I can stop it, a laugh bubbles up—half bitter, half unhinged. "Jesus, we chopped down a goddamn metaphor. Freud would be so proud."

Seeing the initials makes me see red, andI step forward, raise my axe, and swing.

Again.

And again.

Wood splinters with each brutal swing. Bark explodes in every direction, bits of it dusting the snow like angry confetti.

My breath comes in ragged bursts, the cold air slicing through my lungs, but I don’t stop.

Every strike is louder than the last—louder than my thoughts, louder than my regret.

I swing until my arms burn, until my grip slips with sweat and snow and desperation.

When I finally drop the axe, the heart, the initials, all of it—gone. Nothing left but jagged chunks of wood and a pit in my chest. The snow swallows the remains as if they never existed at all. But I know it did. And maybe now it doesn’t have to haunt me anymore.

I stand there, chest heaving, sweat mixing with the cold. Trace watches me, silent.

“She deserved more than that asshole,” I say.“She deserved more than me,” I add, softer.

Trace doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to.

I already know I fucked up. Big time. The type of screw-up you can’t slap a Band-Aid on or fix with a bouquet of apology flowers.

She’s gone. And I never even got her phone number—no digits, no lifeline, nothing.

Hell, I couldn’t call her even if I wanted to.

Which I do. Constantly. But all I’ve got is silence, sawdust, and a goddamn tree stump.

We head back to the cabin, but I stop a few trees away. Something catches my eye.Carved low in the bark of a birch tree, faded with time but still legible.

G + A

My stomach twists. I’d carved it years ago as a stupid teenager. After the last time I let someone get close. After I swore I’d never let it happen again.

I reach out, press my fingers to the old carving, and close my eyes.

The bark is rough beneath my fingertips, the cold biting through my gloves, but I don’t move.

For a long moment, I just stand there, letting the memory of who I used to be wash over me.

And then the memory of her—bright, fierce, funny as hell, and warm enough to melt through every wall I ever put up.

Tessa gave me something I never thought I’d have again.

Not just love. Not just laughter. She gave me peace.

The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything quiet inside.

The kind that makes you believe in second chances. And I fucking let her go.

I turn back to Trace. “Come on. I need another drink.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Yeah. Me too, brother.”

We walk back toward the cabin, two shadows in the snow. The buzz of whiskey’s worn off just enough for the cold to bite again, for the ache in my chest to return like a bruise I keep poking. I don’t say a word. Neither does Trace. The silence is heavier now, but not uncomfortable. It just... is.

And somewhere between the crunch of our boots and the sound of the wind picking up through the trees, I let it sink in. She’s gone. Really gone. I didn’t fight for her. Didn’t speak when it counted. Didn’t give her a reason to stay.

Maybe she’ll find someone who does. Someone who doesn’t shut down the second things get real. Someone who doesn’t need to chop down a damn forest to figure out his feelings. She deserves that. And I hope—God, I hope—she finds it.

I glance up at the moon, letting the sting of regret settle in my chest like ice. I thought maybe this wasn’t the end, but maybe it is. Maybe this chapter closes here in the snow, with stumps and ghosts and silence.

Still... I’m not done becoming the type of man who could’ve been worthy of her. Maybe that counts for something.

I trudge forward. Not toward a second chance. Just toward whatever comes next.