Page 21 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

There’s more I could say. Probably should. But I’ve never been a man who speaks to fill silence. So I reach across the table and thread my fingers through hers instead. She squeezes three times.

She then asks, “Do you think it could be someone you know?”

The shift in tone is gentle, but it still pulls me back to the real world. The stalker. The camera. The weight that never quite leaves.

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know. Could be a local. Could be someone who knows you, not me.”

Her grip tightens slightly. “That’s the part that makes me feel bad. I might have brought this danger into your life.”

“You didn’t.”

“But what if it is someone I’ve crossed paths with before? What if they followed me here?”

“Tessa.”

She looks up.

“You didn’t bring this. And you’re not alone in it.”

She nods and looks down at our hands. There’s a tension winding up inside her, one I’ve seen creeping in since we got back yesterday. It’s not panic. Not fear, exactly. Just… restlessness.

“You need out of the cabin for a while,” I say.

She glances up.

“You’re getting twitchy.”

“I’m not twitchy.”

“You’re vibrating.”

She sighs, leans back in the chair. “I’m used to movement. To streets and people and noise. This place is beautiful, but my thoughts are too loud in stillness.”

That’s my fear, that she won’t want to stay here in the middle of nowhere. Her life is in the city and she’s used to the noise.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Her eyes brighten. “Really?”

I nod. “Just through the woods. Someplace open but quiet. We’ll stay close to the ridge trail.”

She’s already pulling on my flannel from yesterday, stuffing her feet into boots she borrowed last time the power went out.

I grab the small backpack I keep stocked with water, snacks, a flashlight, and my knife. The second we step outside, the wind lifts her hair, and she exhales like it’s her first real breath all day.

I watch her turn her face to the sky. Watch the way her cheeks color from the cold. Watch her stretch like the sun might kiss her bones if she opens up enough. I walk beside her, but she reaches for my hand and laces our fingers without a word. God help me, I don’t ever want to let go.

We hike in easy silence, just the sound of boots crunching over pine needles and the creak of tree limbs overhead. The woods smell clean after the storm—wet bark and earth and that unmistakable mossy green scent that hits deep in the chest.

She chatters occasionally, pointing out birds, making up names for unfamiliar plants, and mocking a particularly lumpy tree just like someone who grew up far from this kind of landscape.

I let her talk. Let her fill the space with color and light. She’s good at turning the ordinary into something you want to hold onto.

When we reach a clearing, I stop and tug her hand gently. “Come here.”

She steps closer, and I guide her toward a moss-covered boulder overlooking a small dip in the land. From here, you can see the slope of the mountain, the dark stretch of pine canopy, and the way the clouds peel back just enough to let the sun through.

She stares for a long moment. Then whispers, “Okay. This was worth the hike.”

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