Page 5 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

She throws her hands in the air, voice climbing with panic.

“I didn’t plan for the snow! I checked the weather app, and it said ‘flurries.’ Flurries, Gage.

That’s like snow’s friendly cousin, right?

That does not imply getting stranded in the forest with a foot injury and no cell signal!

What do I know about flurries? I'm a Florida girl!”

She’s breathing faster now, cheeks pink and eyes darting. “This was supposed to be quick and clean. Tree revenge. Maybe a dramatic selfie with the stump. Not—this.” She gestures at the cabin.

I nod slowly, taking another long sip of coffee to buy myself a second. "Flurries have a way of lying," I say.

She lets out a shaky, breathy laugh that sounds like it’s halfway between relief and unraveling.

Her fingers toy with the edge of the couch cushion, tapping a nervous rhythm as her eyes dart toward the window and then back to me.

"I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, who flies across the country to chainsaw a tree?

Who gets stuck in a blizzard with a stranger and his suspiciously well-behaved dogs? "

She laughs again, but it catches, brittle around the edges. "This isn’t just a breakdown; this is like the opening act to a whole identity crisis musical. And I’m center stage with one shoe, a broken toe, and no dignity left to speak of."

I set my coffee down slowly and lean forward just enough to catch her eyes.

They're glossy but sharp, like she's trying not to fall apart out of sheer spite.

"You're not center stage. You're on my couch, with two dogs who already worship you, a foot that's not going anywhere fast, and a guy who’s not in the habit of rescuing damsels with power tools. You’re safe. That’s all you need to be right now. Safe and here."

Her lips tremble for half a second before she presses them into a tight line.

She nods, just once, then again a little harder, like she’s trying to convince herself to hold it together.

Her eyes shine, glassy with the weight of everything she’s not saying, and for a second I think she might tip over into tears—but she doesn’t.

She swallows hard, pulls in a breath that rattles in her chest, and lifts her chin a fraction. Steady now. Or trying to be.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting the sky to open up and smite me with irony.”

I shake my head and sigh. “You’re lucky it was me who found you.”

“Why? Would someone else have let me freeze?”

“No. They probably would’ve called the cops.”

She groans and buries her face in her hands. “I swear I’m not usually like this.”

“Chainsaw-wielding or emotionally explosive?” I ask, arching a brow as I watch her slowly peek out from between her fingers.

She laughs, but it’s more air than sound. “Honestly? At this rate, I’m starting to think they come as a package deal.”

Her voice wavers, but she’s trying to keep it light. Still, it settles into the air between us with a weight I don’t fully know how to hold.

The fire crackles, filling the silence. I lean against the armchair across from her and sip my coffee, watching as she slowly relaxes into the couch cushions. She looks around the cabin as if it’s another planet.

“This place is… cozy,” she mumbles.

“Translation: you expected taxidermy and a moat.”

“Maybe a little taxidermy,” she admits. “But this is nice. Rustic meets REI catalog.”

I glance at her damp hair, her trembling fingers cradling the mug. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

Her eyes widen in exaggerated mock-shock, one hand flying to her chest like I just proposed marriage instead of offered her dry clothes.

"Wow. That escalated fast," she says, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Is this the part where you tell me I have to survive the storm using only your flannel and my wits? "

“I have a flannel and sweatpants that should fit,” I say, nodding toward the back room. “Not exactly runway material, but they’re dry and warm.”

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Is the flannel a requirement for residency, or just a uniform for unexpected woodland emergencies?”

“Mandatory issue,” I deadpan. “Comes with a cabin, two dogs, and unsolicited weather.”

She snorts, finally relaxing just a little. “Great. Guess I’m officially being drafted into the cult of cozy. I'm ready for it.”She grins.

I mutter something under my breath and head to the back room, grabbing the softest pair of sweats and a worn red plaid shirt.

When I return, she’s stretched sideways on the couch, carefully leaning over the arm with one of my firewood kindling sticks in hand, jabbing it at the logs like she’s testing for weak spots.

“Are you... poking my fire?” I ask, more baffled than annoyed.

She startles a little, but instead of apologizing, she just gives me this half-hearted shrug and the most unapologetic grin I’ve ever seen. “What? It looked like it needed some encouragement.”

She gives the log one last prod; the stick bounces slightly against the edge of the grate. “I have always had a complicated relationship with controlled flames. We’re working through some things.”

The dogs sit watching her as if she’s performing magic.

I bite back a laugh and set the clothes on the arm of the couch. “Well, try not to burn the place down before you get changed. Here,” I say, tossing the clothes beside her. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”

She looks up, expression unexpectedly soft. “Thank you. For not leaving me out there.”

I nod once.

As she limps toward the bathroom, dogs trailing her like loyal backup dancers, I exhale and run a hand over my beard.

She’s loud. Messy. Impulsive.

And I might be in trouble.