Page 8 of No Axe to Grind (Ashwood Falls #1)

Gage

S he falls asleep halfway through Die Hard, head tilted awkwardly on a throw pillow my mother insisted I needed, mouth slightly open, a little snore puffing out every third breath.

It should be annoying, but it isn’t. It’s not even a real snore—more like a kitten trying to roar. Adorable and useless at the same time.

It’s oddly adorable—like watching a baby goat trip over its own feet—all unfiltered and weirdly charming.

I glance at the TV, where Bruce Willis is crawling through a vent with a lighter.

Her eyes flutter for a second, like she might wake up, but then her lips smack and the soft snore resumes.

Definitely out. I lower the volume, not that I think explosions will wake her.

She could probably sleep through an avalanche right now.

The fire’s down to a soft crackle. The dogs are snuggled at our feet, and she’s curled in my clothes under my favorite throw blanket like she’s always belonged there.

There is only one bed in the cabin. I hadn’t thought that far ahead earlier. She’d been shivering, half-snowman, in obvious pain. Getting her warm and comfortable had been the only priority. But now? There’s no way I’m leaving her here on the couch all night.

I slide my arms under her carefully. She murmurs something about airport churros and nuzzles into my shoulder. I don’t breathe until I’m standing, holding her against my chest, and she stays asleep. I lay her in my bed, pulling the quilt over her. She doesn’t even blink.

My chest aches in a what the hell is happening to me kind of way. I realize I’ve been standing there too long just watching her breathe. It probably looks creepy. I force myself out, leaving the door cracked, and grab a spare blanket and sleeping bag for the couch.

Halfway through untangling the zipper, there’s a knock—three short, loud raps. Only one person knocks like that.

I open the door to Trace, bundled in his favorite beat-up jacket, dusted with snow like powdered sugar on a donut. He shakes it off with a grin.

"You alive, Captain?"

"Just barely." I step back, widening the door so the freezing wind swirls in and Trace can fit his broad shoulders through. The blast of cold makes the dogs flick their ears. Snow is plastered to his jacket, like old missions where we’d come in from patrols caked in dust instead of frost. Back then, his teasing usually came after we’d made it out alive.

He stomps snow off his boots. "Storm’s picking up. Thought I’d stop in before the drifts bury my truck somewhere between here and Canada."

I nod toward the window—snow is falling in thick sheets. Relief hits that I brought Tessa here instead of leaving her to drive in this mess. "Appreciate it. I was about to sack out."

Trace glances at the couch, sleeping bag, blanket—his brow climbing. "Planning to rough it in your own living room, or is there a story I’m gonna enjoy too much?"

I rub the back of my neck. "Got company," I say, nodding toward the barely opened bedroom door.

He ambles over, peeks in, and sees her. Then he turns back, eyebrow arched high, steps over to me, and slaps me on the shoulder. "Has it been so long you don’t remember how this is done, Captain? You’re supposed to sleep in the same bed as the woman... not in the other room." He laughs.

"Funny—she managed to break her toe in an attempted revenge mission against a tree on my property," I say, shaking my head.

"Wait… what?" His brows knit, confusion clear on his face even as a trace of humor tugs at his mouth.

I give him the rundown. The cheating ex. The oversized chainsaw. The revenge plan. The snowstorm.By the end, Trace is leaning against the wall, grinning. "So, you found a feral woman in the woods and decided to keep her."

"She needed help."

"Sure, she did. And now she’s tucked into your bed wearing your clothes, I'm sure. Should I carve your initials into a heart out front? Which tree is your favorite?" He points to the window as he pretends to pull out his knife.

"She’s just staying the night. I'll get her back to town once the storm blows over."

"Mmhmm. She's cute. If you don't want her, I'll take her. My cabin is better than yours, anyway. I've got better internet." He laughs again.

I growl, but he only laughs, like he did after pulling my ass out of that alley in Fallujah when things got dicey. It’s why he’s still standing and not wearing a black eye.

"Okay. Okay. She got a sister?"He laughs. "Damn, Gage. I haven’t seen you this rattled since Fallujah."With that, he pulls his hood up, slaps me on the shoulder again, and heads out. "Tell your mystery woman I expect pancakes next time I visit!"

As he heads for the door, Toby trots over and drops a soggy tennis ball on his boot. Rocco follows, tail wagging, and tries to shove a slobbery rope toy into Trace’s hand. Trace shakes his head, chuckling. “Your guard dogs are terrible at their jobs, Captain.”

"Get off my porch, Private."

"Yeah, you wish." His laugh echoes as he disappears into the snow.

I watch as Trace climbs onto his snowmobile, headlights carving brief golden tunnels through the swirling snow, the beams catching flakes that look like they’re racing straight at me.

He eases the snowmobile down the mountain road toward his side, the track churning through fresh powder, the engine’s growl quickly swallowed by the storm’s thick blanket.

For a second, I’m damn glad it’s him braving that mess and not Tessa—grateful all over again that I’d hauled her in here hours ago instead of letting her try to navigate this storm alone. The thought of her out there, headlights barely cutting through the whiteout, makes my gut twist.

When the taillights vanish into the white, I shut the door against the bite of the cold and lean back against it for a second, listening to the wind howl outside.

My gaze drifts to the makeshift bed I’ve thrown together on the couch, and the thought of actually sleeping there feels about as likely as the storm stopping before morning.

Between the weather and the woman in my bed, my head’s too full for rest tonight.

Figuring a snack will keep me company for the rest of the movie—and to shut up the low, impatient growl my stomach’s been making for the last ten minutes—I tear open a bag of microwave popcorn and shove it in, hitting start harder than necessary.

For the first minute, the buttery smell drifts out and my mouth actually waters; I think I’ve nailed it.

But then the popping slows, a dark curl of smoke snakes from the vent, and the sharp, acrid stink of burnt kernels socks me right in the face, making my stomach growl again in protest. It’s like someone lit a campfire inside a plastic tent.

I yank the door open, heat blasting my face, and start fanning wildly with my free hand while the other reaches for the molten bag.

The second my fingertips touch the scorched paper, I hiss through my teeth and jerk back, but instinct makes me grab it again.

It’s like holding a branding iron wrapped in cardboard.

I juggle it from palm to palm, muttering curses as the smoke curls up into my eyes until they sting and water.

The bag spits out a fresh puff of burnt air just before I pitch it into the sink and crank the faucet.

Water hisses over the blackened kernels, steam fogging up my face.

I can only hope that smell isn’t already wafting down the hall toward the bedroom.

I creep down the hall to check, peeking in to find her still out cold, exactly where I left her—mouth slightly open, breathing slow, dead to the world.

Relief hits. I close the door quietly, toss the ruined popcorn in the trash, and drop onto the couch.

Guess it’s just me, Bruce Willis, and the fire tonight.

I stir the fire back to life, feeding in another log until the flames lick high enough to warm the room, shadows dancing along the cabin walls.

The warmth slowly seeps into my skin as I sink onto the couch, stretching my legs out.

I flick the movie back on and keep the volume low so I don’t wake her, letting Bruce Willis’s dry one-liners and the faint pop of the fire fill the quiet while I half-watch the rest of Die Hard , my thoughts drifting more toward the sleeping woman down the hall than the action on the screen.

"Don’t get attached, Bennett. She’s only here under duress," I warn myself.

"She's here because she had no choice." The words looping in my head like a mantra I have to repeat.

Last time I got attached, it ended with me on a different continent, eating sand and MREs, and somehow still paying for a couch I never got to sit on.

Toby lifts his head and tilts it at me, ears twitching like he’s trying to puzzle out whether I’ve finally lost it.

His pale blue eyes track my every word as if he’s waiting for me to say the magic phrase—like “walk” or “treat.” Rocco, on the other hand, doesn’t even crack an eyelid, just sighs in his sleep and shifts deeper into the rug like he’s decided whatever I’m rambling about can’t possibly concern him.

Still, my gaze keeps drifting to the bedroom door, like it’s got a magnet built into the frame. There’s something about her—this hurricane in impractical boots—that’s already winding her way past every wall I have locked tight, and I can’t figure out why.

She’s fresh from a heartbreak, engagement ring probably still warm from being yanked off her finger, and me? I’ve been operating without a heart since mine got stomped flat years ago, leaving nothing but scar tissue and bad memories.

She’s temporary. She’ll be on a plane, halfway across the planet, before I can blink, gone like she was never here at all. That’s the way it has to be no matter how much some stubborn, half-buried part of me pushes against that logic.

I wish I understood why she’s gotten under my skin so fast, why she’s stirring up feelings I thought I’d buried under miles of snow and years of silence.