Page 3 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

He huffs something that might be a laugh, or maybe just a sigh of disbelief that I’m still upright.

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” the mountain man asks, eyeing the chainsaw like it might turn on both of us at any second.

I raise my chin with as much dignity as one can muster while wearing frost-dusted booties and a coat that smells faintly of desperation.

“I watched a video. Sort of. I got bored halfway through and skipped to the part where he cut through a stump like it was warm butter. Figured the rest was vibes.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I swear the dogs are judging me harder. One even lets out a slow, unimpressed huff and lies down.

“Right,” he says slowly, as if debating whether to confiscate the chainsaw or call for more adult supervision. He sighs, steps closer, eyes sweeping over me like he’s checking for frostbite or mental instability. Probably both.

“What’s your name?”

“No, no. You first.” I decide if he’s going to kill me, then I don’t want him using my name as he chops me into little pieces.

He chuckles, “Gage, and this is Rocco and Toby.” He points to the dogs at his side.

Gage. I like that name, and no one lies about being named Gage, right? If he were going to lie to me, he would have used John or Bill. Not Gage. “Mine’s Tessa.”

“You're not from around here, are you, Tessa?” he asks.

“No. Florida. I flew in to surprise my fiancé, who lives in town, thinking I’d walk in with cupcakes and leave with a great story. Instead, I got a front-row seat to his pants down performance on his desk with his assistant. So, yeah—big surprises all around.”

His lips twitch. “Sorry to hear that.”

I shrug, but it comes out more like a shiver as the snowflakes begin to fall.

Soft at first—light and lazy like powdered sugar drifting from the sky.

But then the wind picks up, and the flakes come faster, thicker, swirling in sudden gusts that sting my cheeks.

The temperature drops like a bad plot twist, and I realize with growing dread that the distant haze on the horizon isn’t just picturesque winter gloom—it’s the edge of a storm rolling in.

Of course it is. Because nothing says emotional closure like frostbite.

He notices. “You’re freezing,” he says, his gaze sliding down to my suede booties and lingering there for a beat too long. “And, uh... are those what you thought were appropriate for a hike into the Alaskan backwoods?”

I follow his gaze and grimace. “They matched my travel outfit,” I say defensively, as if coordinating accessories justifies the fact my toes are probably flirting with hypothermia. “And I wasn’t planning on vengeance via forestry when I packed.” I look at him.“Don't worry. I’m fine.”

He picks up the chainsaw as if it weighs nothing. “Come on. Storm’s coming.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I don't know you,” I say, hesitating even as my arms wrap tighter around my shivering frame.

My voice is firmer than I feel, and I blink up at him, surprised by how calm he looks.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push, just gives me a quiet, steady look like he’s used to coaxing terrified animals out of the cold.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve misjudged the whole situation. He doesn’t look like a murderer. More like a man who builds cabins and says things like, "You’re letting the heat out." But still. Stranger danger and all that. Even if that stranger smells like cedar and competence.

“Suit yourself.” He walks off, the dogs trotting ahead like they know the route by heart.

He calls over his shoulder, “But with the snow picking up, finding your way back to wherever you parked is going to be a hell of a lot harder. That trail’s already half-disappeared.”

I glance around, suddenly aware that the trees are blurring together under a fresh coat of white, and the narrow path I came in on looks a lot less obvious than it did twenty minutes ago. He’s not wrong. Dammit.

The dogs disappear around a bend. So does my pride.

I glance back at the tree, then up at the sky, where the clouds have gone from puffy and scenic to full-blown blizzard-in-training.

Snow is coming down heavier now, the kind that swirls sideways in little funnel clouds and gets in your eyelashes and your soul.

My nose is numb, my fingers are frozen chicken nuggets, and I have a strong suspicion I wouldn't be able to retrace my steps even if I had a GPS, a map, and an emotional support eagle guiding me. Yep. I’m absolutely, undeniably screwed if I don’t go with Flannel Paul Bunyan and his judgmental canine entourage.

I hobble off, my toe killing me, snow swirling around my ankles like nature’s way of saying, 'bad idea, girl.

' Every step feels like I'm walking on a Lego made of regret.

I don't even make it five feet before I stop, frustration prickling hotter than the wind chill.

“Wait!” I call, throwing pride to the wind along with what little body heat I have left.

He turns and sees me limping through the swirling snow, toe throbbing, arms flailing like a drunk penguin on an ice rink.

Before I can protest, he strides back through the whiteout, scoops me up around the waist like it’s a Tuesday chore, and hoists me off the ground like a sack of sass and poor decisions.

It scares the hell out of me, and I yelp, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Okay! Warning next time!” I gasp, blinking up at him. “You can’t just swoop in all man-of-the-mountain without some kind of heads-up!”

"Can’t carry you and your weapon of mass destruction at the same time,” he says. “As it is, I’m already pushing the limit of what qualifies as a rescue mission versus a sitcom setup."

I wrap my arms around his neck and grumble under my breath, “This doesn’t mean I’m done with that tree.

” I jab a gloved finger back over his shoulder, the offending trunk barely visible now through the falling snow.

“It’s mocking me. I swear it. Sitting there all smug with its romantic little scar like it didn’t ruin my life.

Probably thrilled I wiped out and got abducted by a flannel-scented mountain man. ”

“Flannel-scented?” he asks, and when I glance up, there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’s not full-blown amusement—more like reluctant curiosity wrapped in a beard.

He clearly thinks I’m ridiculous. Possibly unstable.

But I swear there's a glint of respect hiding behind that exasperation.

The cabin emerges from the trees like something conjured by snow and silence—sturdy and dark-wooded, dusted with a fresh layer of white that clings to the roof and windowpanes.

Smoke curls from the chimney, billowing into the air with slow, lazy confidence, like it knows warmth lives inside.

The glow from the windows casts soft amber halos into the storm, a promise of shelter that tugs at something deep in my frostbitten soul.

It looks... real. Not staged or storybook, just solid.

Safe. The place built by someone who knows how to survive a blizzard without a panic attack and can probably light a fire with one match and sheer willpower.

Which, for the record, is not a skill I possess.

I’m from Florida—our survival tools are air conditioning and hurricane shutters.

He climbs the porch steps with me still tucked securely in his arms; the boards creaking beneath his heavy boots while the wind howls around us.

I bounce slightly with each step, clutching his shoulders and praying we don’t both go down like lumberjack dominoes.

When we reach the top, he leans sideways with a practiced ease and sets the chainsaw onto the wooden deck with a low, final-sounding thud.

It rests there like a failed sidekick, cold and abandoned.

“Sorry, buddy,” I mutter to it. “You’ll get your moment. Just not today.”

He doesn’t comment, but I swear I hear a breath that might be a chuckle as he nudges the door open with his shoulder.

Warmth spills out like a hug I wasn’t expecting. The scent of firewood and something slightly piney wraps around me instantly. The dogs slip in ahead of us, tails wagging, completely unbothered by the chaos trailing behind them.

He carries me straight to a well-worn couch, its cushions inviting and covered in the flannel pattern that could qualify as camouflage in his wardrobe. He lowers me gently onto it, surprisingly careful for someone with biceps that could probably bench press my car.

I eye him as he straightens up and shrugs off his snow-dusted jacket, then disappears into the kitchen.

Revenge may be on hold for now, but something tells me I just traded one kind of trouble for another.