Page 6 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Tessa

B y the time I emerge from the bathroom, my wet clothes bundled in my arms, I'm wearing the softest, most worn-in flannel shirt and sweatpants combo with a warm pair of his wooly socks I’ve ever had the privilege of borrowing.

I’m not entirely sure I didn’t dream up the last hour.

The dogs greet me like I’ve been gone for years, not fifteen minutes, and flop at my feet like they've missed me terribly. It’s flattering. Slightly needy. Slightly relatable.

I take cautious steps on my good foot, dragging my broken one like some kind of dramatic ghost bride, and limp toward the couch.

But then I see it—the table. No, the table.

A big, thick slab of wood polished to a high shine, edges still rough and natural, like it was cut yesterday but blessed by a wizard with a belt sander. It’s gorgeous.

And it’s not the only one.

I look around the cabin, and it’s like someone dropped an entire Pinterest board of “Mountain Man Chic” in here and let it grow wild. The furniture is all handmade—solid, heavy, unapologetically woodsy. No IKEA nonsense in here.

The armchair legs have tiny bear paws carved into them.

The coffee table has a map of Alaska etched into the surface.

There’s a bookshelf shaped like a tree trunk that climbs one full wall, shelves twisting like branches.

And the mantel—oh my god, the mantel. A giant wooden wolf crouches over the fireplace, frozen mid-snarl, carved so intricately it looks like it might leap down and bite anyone who burns popcorn.

“Okay,” I whisper to the dogs, who are now watching me like I’m about to do something hilarious.

“So, he’s good with his hands. Not intimidating at all.

”Except actually, it is intimidating. Or maybe that’s just me—standing in his borrowed clothes, surrounded by furniture that could be featured in a magazine called Lumbersexual Living , and realizing that the man who carved it all with his bare hands also looks like he could pose for the cover in that flannel.

I mean, what kind of genetics do you need to pull off a beardy mountain man with gentle lumberjack energy and still somehow smell like cedar and sin?

I hobble closer to the carved wolf, reaching out to brush my fingers over its back. The detail is insane—every hair of fur, every muscle taut and ready. It’s not just wood. It’s art. And that’s when it clicks.

The guy. The carving. The chainsaw.

Holy crap. Gage is that guy.

I remember hearing about him at the lodge.

The ex-military recluse who lives up the mountain.

Carves things with a chainsaw. He doesn’t go to town unless he’s forced to.

Rumors ranged from “secretly runs an underground fight club” to “probably raises wolves and brews moonshine.” One woman swore he had a six-pack under all that flannel and used to be a sniper. A. Sniper.

And here I am, wearing his clothes. On his couch. After trying to murder a tree on his property.

I exhale a laugh and sink down onto the couch, careful to keep my wrapped foot elevated.

“Of course I ended up in a romance novel,” I mutter, picking up the mug of coffee he left on the side table for me.

“Only I could fly across the country to get my heart broken, go out for revenge, and accidentally land myself in a mountain man fever dream.”

The dogs stretch out again beside me, warm and snuggly like little space heaters with too many legs. One sighs. Like even he thinks I’m being ridiculous.The other one noses my foot like he’s double-checking my pain level. I name him Nurse Barkley on the spot.

And he’s probably not wrong.

I let my head fall back against the couch and stare at the ceiling beams. They’re hand-hewn. Of course they are. The man probably carves his own toothbrush.

It’s quiet in here—peaceful, actually. The fire crackles. The wind hums against the windows. And I can still smell his soap lingering on the flannel I’m wearing, which is doing very distracting things to my ability to form coherent thoughts.

And then there’s this quiet—Not just in the room, but inside me. Like my brain, which has been doing Olympic-level gymnastics since the moment I found that asshole cheating, suddenly ran out of steam.

Like the panic decided to take a nap. It’s not that everything’s magically okay—it’s that, for the first time in days, I’m not holding my breath waiting for something worse.

It’s warm. The dogs are snoring. There’s firelight on wood. I don’t feel like a mess here.

I just feel... okay.I should be freaking out.

I've missed my flight. My dignity’s in shreds.

My toe is practically auditioning for a horror movie.

And I'm trapped in a stranger's cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, and no one even knows I'm here.

But somehow... I feel okay. Wrapped in warmth, smelling like pine and firewood and him, surrounded by hand-carved furniture and dogs who seem to love me.

How did I end up here?

Somewhere between heartbreak and hypothermia, I wandered into a beardy woodman’s cabin, and now I’m wondering what kind of underwear he wears.

This is fine. Totally fine.

I sip the coffee and try not to spiral into daydreams involving rough hands, flannel shirts, and artistic chainsaw work.

But... no promises.

I must’ve dozed off, because the next thing I know, the world erupts —like Zeus himself has taken up woodworking—shaking the house with the guttural, bone-rattling roar of a chainsaw.

It doesn’t just growl. It howls . A mechanical beast outside the cabin, shrieking through the stillness like it’s here to avenge every tree ever wronged.

The windows vibrate. My heart forgets how to beat.

It’s like being jolted awake by a grizzly bear with a megaphone.

I jolt upright, disoriented and drooling. For a half-second, I forget where I am, my brain convinced I’ve been kidnapped by a biker gang or dropped into a lumberyard war zone. Then I see the dogs.They’re lounging like it’s a spa day. One even yawns.

“Oh,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “So this is... normal for you guys? Good to know.”

The throbbing in my toe reminds me that, yes, I’m still a hot mess in flannel borrowed from a stranger, and my getaway plan was derailed by snow, poor footwear choices, and karma.

I limp my way to the front door, open it cautiously, and—holy mother of craftsmanship—there he is.

Gage, in all his flannel-and-denim glory, is standing in the yard, wielding a chainsaw like it’s a paintbrush.

And he’s not just cutting logs. He’s creating .

A totem pole, tall and elegant and alive with animals—bears, owls, foxes—emerges from the wood like some kind of woodland magic spell.

Chips of tree fly around him in a halo of sawdust, his face focused, his movements fluid. He's in the zone.

It’s beautiful. And somehow, terrifying.Because that’s when it hits me.He said he was a Ranger.I thought—God help me—I thought he meant park ranger. You know, Smokey the Bear vibes, educational tours, saving squirrels.

But no. This man wasn’t out there handing maps to tourists or lecturing kids about forest fires. He was probably sniping terrorists through fogged-up scopes, jumping out of helicopters with tactical gear strapped to his chest, and casually saving the free world between cups of black coffee.

I blink, stunned, watching him carve a squirrel with the chainsaw like it’s a chisel.

And a new, deeply unfortunate thought settles into my brain like a raccoon in a chimney.

What if he’s not just a rugged, artistically gifted ex-soldier?

What if he’s a chainsaw-wielding serial killer with a thing for emotionally unstable women and elaborate totems?

I glance at the dogs, and they're still relaxed. Still breathing.“Okay,” I whisper to myself, gripping the doorframe. “The dogs are still alive. That’s... something.”

He must’ve caught my movement, because the chainsaw cuts off with a final growl, and he turns toward me, brushing sawdust off his arms.“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside, foot elevated, not catching hypothermia?”

“I just needed some air,” I blurt. Then, without meaning to: “You meant Army Ranger. Not Park Ranger.”

One dark brow lifts.

“Yeah. I didn’t peg you for the forest badge and campfire songs type.”

He chuckles under his breath, the laugh that’s more amused exhale than sound, but it makes his shoulders shake just a little. “Do I look like I own a ranger hat and sing Kumbaya?”

I flush. “I just thought—never mind. The totem’s beautiful, by the way.”

I hobble down the steps toward it, ignoring the twinge in my foot and the amused glint in Gage’s eyes.

The totem stands taller than me, and now that I’m up close, I can see the detail—feathers on the owl, fur etched into the bear’s shoulders, the gleam of carved eyes staring into eternity.

It’s so stunning it makes my throat tight.

I reach out, tracing the arc of a fox’s tail. “This is insane,” I breathe. “Like... museum-worthy. Do you sell these, or are they just here to intimidate the forest creatures into not killing you when you wander the woods? Or are you really a serial killer in disguise?”

Gage leans casually on the chainsaw like it’s no big deal. “I sell them in town to tourists, mostly. And for what the dogs consider, terrifying delivery guys as needed.”

I nod, still admiring the craftsmanship. “Just beautiful.”

I can smell the faintest whiff of sap beneath the sharper bite of chainsaw oil.

There’s something sacred in it—not just the sculpture, but the act of turning raw nature into something that tells a story.

I trail my fingers along the grooves reverently.

“How do you even do this with a chainsaw? I can barely open a jar of pickles without pulling something.”

Gage lets out a short laugh behind me. “You just get used to it. It’s like dancing, but with more sawdust and less music.”