Page 2 of Timber Ridge

“You signed up for this,” I remind myself, taking one last look at the water. “Warmth first,” I say, as the incoming storm settles in my bones. “Everything else can wait.” As I head toward the building, a creaking and groaning sound draws my attention to the inlet.

May pops her head out of the café door and points to a large, imposing boat as it cuts through the choppy waters. “Looks like your man is here.”

“Oh, he’s not my man.” The words claw their way out, each syllable a shard of glass in my throat. The ghost of my ex-husband lingers in a sharp presence that still cuts deep.

“Kane’s a good man. You could do worse,” May says.

I meet her gaze, the weight of every letdown in my life hanging heavily. “I’m not looking,” I say flatly, the words a shield against expectations I can no longer bear.

May’s lips curve up with a hint of knowing. “That’s when love finds ya.”

I shoot her a cynical look. “Right, because I need love like a case of the pox—itchy, irritating, and leaves you scarred for life.”

May shakes her head before entering the café and closing the door.

The boat nears the dock, and at the helm is a man with sharp angles and rough edges, from his waxed, weathered jacket to the set of his bearded jaw.

He slides his boat next to the dock with the ease of a seasoned professional and secures it with a rope before turning to acknowledge me.

“Timber Moore?” His voice is like gravel, the words barely making it over the wind.

“Yep, that’s me,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I am.

He hoists a bin onto the dock and steps back toward the boat, pausing. “Apologies for the delay. Had an argument with the engine earlier.” He nods at the vessel, which bobs gently in the water as if in agreement. “You’re a long way from home. Why Alaska?”

“I could use the extra money, plus it seems like it will be an adventure.” The truth is, I inherited my mother’s tiny one-bedroom home when she died, and everything from the plumbing to the air conditioner needs fixing. Summer jobs are hard to find, and this one landed in my lap.

“The quicker I get these fish offloaded, the faster your adventure begins. We need to get the salmon on ice before the storm hits. Will you give me a hand?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Start loading the bin with fish.”

Before I can process his words, he tosses a shiny, slippery body. I dodge it with a yelp. “Wait, I’m not ready.”

“Salmon waits for no one. These fish are paying your salary,” he states flatly, making it clear that complaining is not an option. I catch the next glistening fish, but it slips through my fingers and hits the dock with a thud.

“Fish are friends, not projectiles!” I say, snagging one mid-air and dropping it into the bin, a flash of pride washing over me until another smacks into my chest and falls to the dock. “Woah, hold on a second.”

“Storm’s about ready to break. We need to hurry.”

After delivering what seems like an entire school of salmon to a plastic holding cell, Kane jumps to the dock and tosses several sanitizing wipes to me.

“Good job.” He hoists the mailbag over his shoulder and disappears briefly into one of the old shanty-style buildings while I attempt to remove the scales and slime from my hands and jacket. When he returns, I follow as he drags the salmon bin to the top of the dock and fills it with ice from a nearby machine. He stops and looks around. “Have you seen a box of birds?”

I point to the storage closet. “May said to put them in there.”

With a grunt of acknowledgment, he strides over, retrieves the box, and for a moment, his gaze softens as he looks inside.

“Will they be family pets?” I ask.

He chuckles, closing the container with care. “Nope, they’re Sunday dinner in about three or four months.”

“Ah,” I say, the reality of my new life settling in. In an environment like this, sentimentality has no place. As a teacher, I've learned to accept the reality of raising animals for food, understanding the necessity of it for survival.

“Ready to see your new home?”

“Yes.” The word is a whisper, my chest hammering against my ribs, nerves simmering beneath the surface.

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