Page 9 of Claimed By the Lumberjack

She nods. “Eventually. I was cold in the loft, but once I moved in front of the fire, I slept good.”

I nod and head back into the kitchen. I don’t do breakfast, but I want to impress Tessa, and I’m not going to even think about why. She’s a complication wrapped in sarcasm and big eyes and a mouth that doesn’t quit.

I make eggs, bacon, and toast with butter. Simple.

She pads over, still barefoot, and leans on the counter next to me. “I didn’t peg you for the domestic type,” she says.

“You’re full of assumptions.”

“I’m a journalist. It’s a survival skill.”

I glance at her. “Ever think about asking instead?”

Her lips twitch. “That’s why I made the trip up your mountain.”

We eat at the little table near the window, the morning quiet broken only by clinking forks and the occasional hum of approval from her when she bites into something. She’s not shy about enjoying food, and I’m enjoying the sounds she makes a little too much.”

“So,” she says, licking a bit of jam from her thumb, “what’s the plan today? Still stranded?”

I nod. “The tree’s too big to move without a chainsaw and help. Ground’s soft. Might be a day or two before we can clear it.”

She frowns, but it’s not a real one. More thoughtful. “Guess I’ll make myself useful, then.” She picks up our breakfast dishes and heads into the kitchen.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Once she’s cleaned up our breakfast to her satisfaction, she turns, brushing crumbs off her borrowed flannel, and looks around like she’s mentally assigning herself tasks. “What needs doing?”

I almost saynothing. I almost tell her to relax, to enjoy her forced mountain vacation. However, the set of her shoulders, the light in her eyes tell me she doesn’t want to sit still.

“Woodpile needs stacking,” I say. “Back side of the cabin. And I’ve got a few repairs to make before the rain hits again.”

She salutes. “Lead the way, boss man.”

She starts to pull her jacket and boots back on, but that just won’t work. I had her one of my lightweight coats and a pair of boots that are about twice the size of her foot.

She tucks some extra socks into the toes and pulls the boots on. We head outside. The air is sharp and bright, the ground damp but not soaked. A few branches litter the yard, but theworst of the damage is up the road. I hand her a pair of gloves and show her how to stack the chopped logs under the overhang.

To my surprise, she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t whine about the weight or the dirt or the way her hair keeps getting caught in the wind. She works in silence for a while, determined, cheeks flushed from effort.

I hammer a loose shutter back into place, glancing over at her every so often.

She’s something else. Funny. Smart. Too observant for her own good. But there’s grit to her, too, and a steadiness. She doesn’t just talk for the sake of filling the silence. She listens. She watches. And she works hard.

By mid-morning, we’re both sweating. I toss her a bottle of water, and she gulps half of it before sighing dramatically. “Do I get a merit badge now?”

“You want a sticker?”

“I want a bath. And maybe a trophy.”

“You’re doing fine.”

She beams. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

We take a break on the porch, sitting on the steps, boots caked in mud and hands calloused from the morning. She stretches her legs out in front of her and leans back on her elbows, face tipped toward the sun.

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