Page 4 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

S he talks more in two minutes than I’ve said in two days. Maybe more. It’s like I scooped up a sugar-dusted hurricane in a coat and ridiculous boots, and now it’s sitting on my couch, glaring at a dog who just licked her knee.

And for some reason, I don’t tell her to leave.

I don’t ask why she thought a chainsaw was a good idea.

I don’t point out that the tree she was trying to murder is actually on my land.

And I definitely don’t mention that I was halfway through carving a totem pole of woodland creatures out of cedar when her battle cry and sputtering chainsaw scared off every living thing within a three-mile radius.

Instead, I grab one of the oversized ceramic mugs from the cabinet—the one with a moose etched on the side—fill it with hot, strong coffee, and set it on the table in front of her. She blinks at it and then reaches for it with trembling fingers. Her grip’s unsteady.

I crouch down in front of the couch, resting my elbows on my knees. “Alright, Cinderella. Let me see your foot.”

She hesitates. “It’s fine.”

“I'm sure it’s turning colors your boots weren’t designed to match.”

She puffs out a breath, then carefully peels the suede bootie off with a hiss. The sock underneath is damp and clinging. I gently tug it down and frown. “Definitely not fine.”

“It’s just mad at me,” she says, wincing as I adjust her foot. “I’m sure it’ll chill out once it realizes I was acting out of heartbreak and not premeditated toe abuse. We’ve been through worse together—like that one time I stubbed it on a hotel mini-fridge and cried for an hour.”

“Your foot is bruised, but I think your toe could be broken, but I don’t know. I’m clean out of x-ray machines at the time.”

I gently ease her foot, rotating it just a little to check her reaction. She flinches and bites back a sharp hiss; her knuckles going white around the edge of the couch cushion.

“Yep,” I say, frowning at the swelling. “I think it’s badly bruised. But it’s messed up enough that walking on it again anytime soon is a bad idea.”

Her eyes go wide. “No, no. It can’t be broken. I have a flight to catch tonight. I was going to chainsaw the tree, eat an overpriced muffin from the airport kiosk, and dramatically reenter my life. This wasn’t supposed to be a whole thing.”

I glance up at her, eyebrow raised. “Was any of this supposed to be a thing?”

She waves a hand dismissively, nearly sloshing coffee onto the blanket I forgot to hand her.

“Okay, yes, maybe the chainsaw part was impulsive. Possibly a little overkill—pun not intended—but I got cheated on. Publicly. With someone who can’t even spell ‘restaurant’ without help.

That earns you at least one moderately illegal, deeply cathartic meltdown with heavy equipment. ”

I grab an ice pack from the freezer, wrap it in a towel, and bring it back to her, setting it gently on the coffee table. “Rest, ice, and elevation. That’s the rule.”

Then, I reach for the small first-aid kit I keep tucked in the drawer beside the fireplace. I’ve seen enough busted joints and bruised egos to know that sometimes the little fixes matter. I pull out medical tape and ease back onto the floor in front of her.

“Foot up,” I say. She lifts it gingerly onto my lap.

When I peel her toes apart to check for mobility, I pause. Her toenails are painted a shimmering shade of mint green, like she wandered out of a spring break pedicure and straight into a snowdrift. “Nice color,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

She laughs. “It’s called Seafoam Dreams. Got it on sale. Don’t judge me.”

“Not judging,” I say, cutting strips of tape. “Just... surprised. You don’t seem like the sea foam type.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she says, smirking as I gently buddy-tape her injured toe to the one next to it.

I check her expression. No tears, but she’s definitely biting the inside of her cheek.

Tough. Or stubborn. Probably both. And damn if she’s not pretty, even now—flushed cheeks, wild hair sticking to her forehead, eyes still glassy from pain but bright and sharp as a blade.

There’s something about the contrast of that sea foam polish and all that fire in her that throws me completely off balance.

“There,” I say, giving her foot a light pat, keeping my touch gentle even though every part of me is coiled like I’ve been hit with a live wire. “That should help stabilize it for now. No weight on it until I say so.”

She looks up at me through those bright, slightly watery eyes, her lashes clumped from snowmelt and maybe pain, and all I can think is: you’ve survived worse, Gage.

You’ve cleared rooms, dropped into enemy territory, and lived to tell about it.

But none of that prepared you for a woman with sea foam toenails and a mouth that moves faster than your brain can keep up.

I clear my throat and look away, back to the fire. Anything to stop myself from reaching up and tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re lucky it was just the toe,” I say, even though I’m not sure if I mean it for her or for me.

“Oh good,” she says, raising her mug with dramatic flair. “Now I’m helpless and stylish.”She stares at me. “Are you a doctor?”

“Ranger.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “So, you’re good at fixing broken people.

” Her voice is half teasing, half testing, like she’s not sure if I’ll joke or flinch.

There’s something in the way she says it—a crack just under the surface—that makes me pause.

She covers it with a sip of coffee, but I catch the flicker in her eyes.

Like she knows what it’s like to be broken too, and not just in the toe.

I hand her the ice pack. “Feet aren’t people.”

She snorts and winces at the same time. “You’re funny. In that growly, I-live-in-the-woods-and-don’t-own-a-TV kind of way.”

The silence that follows stretches a beat too long. I have nothing clever to say back—she caught me off guard. Again. But she seems to sense it, and before the quiet can get too heavy, she launches right into another one of her offhand rambles.

“You know, I always thought I’d end up stranded in the snow with a dramatic flair, but I pictured more, like, getting stuck on a ski lift with hot cocoa and a rescue helicopter. Not limp-footed, covered in bark dust, and halfway into a flannel cult.”

She gestures around my cabin like it’s both a marvel and a mystery. “No offense. It’s kind of charming. In a rugged, should-I-be-worried-he-has-a-bear-skinning-room sort of way.”

“Relax,” I say, holding up my hands. “No bear-skinning room. No secret dungeon. No plans to lure unsuspecting women into a snowbound cabin and start a doomsday cult.”

She arches an eyebrow. “That sounds exactly like something a guy with a secret dungeon would say.”

I smirk. “Fair. But if you want to leave, you’re out of luck. Storm’s already laid down half a foot of snow, and it’s not letting up. Even the guys with snowmobiles won’t make it out here until it clears.”

She blinks. “So what you’re saying is... I’m trapped.”

“Pretty much.”

She sighs and sags onto the couch. “Figures. First I lose my dignity, and now I've lost my escape plan.”

The dogs flop down near the couch, clearly already adopting her as one of their own.

She absentmindedly starts scratching behind the big one’s ears, her fingers moving in slow, lazy circles like she’s known him forever.

He lets out a groan of pure canine bliss and slides onto his side, head in her lap like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The other one noses her hand until she shifts and gives him equal treatment.

They’re melting under her touch. And so help me, I think I am, too.

I try not to think about what it means that this chaotic woman has somehow charmed both of them in under ten minutes. Or that she’s doing it without even trying.

There’s a reason I live up here alone. After everything that happened in the Army—everything I saw, everything I did—I don’t do noise anymore.

Or people who make assumptions. I don’t go into town unless I need supplies, and even then, I keep to myself.

Too many smiles that mean nothing. Too many questions I don’t feel like answering.

Up here, the silence makes sense. As the weather changes, the trees creak, the fire pops. That I can handle. That I can trust.

But now there’s a woman in my cabin who hums when she stirs her coffee and talks with her hands like punctuation isn’t fast enough.

And somehow, the dogs adore her. And part of me —the part I thought I boarded up years ago—is wondering what it would sound like if she hummed in the kitchen while I carved in the back room.

Hell.

“Where are you staying?” I ask, already suspecting I know the answer. Probably Ashwood Lodge. The only other place in town is for people looking to rent a room by the hour, not by the day.

Her lips press together. “Nowhere. I checked out of the lodge this morning.” She pauses, blinking at her coffee like it just betrayed her. “My plan was to murder the tree and then head to the airport.”

She sets the mug down and runs both hands through her hair, tugging slightly.

“God. What was I thinking? Who does that? I mean, yeah, he cheated, and yeah, the tree was a symbol of our doomed love or whatever, but I really thought I was just going to roll up here, rev a chainsaw, and get back on a plane like some kind of lumberjack vigilante.”

She takes a shaky breath and looks up at me, eyes wide. “This is a breakdown, isn’t it? This is the beginning of one of those messy, unfiltered, goes-viral-on-TikTok girl meltdowns, except I don’t even have decent mascara on.”

“You were planning on doing all this in a snowstorm?” I ask because my brain needs a lifeline—something solid to hold on to while she spirals and I try to figure out how she ended up here.