Page 11 of Caught By the Lumberjack

"Not like that," she chided, watching my technique. "You'll lose a finger that way. Here—" She moved behind me, reaching around to guide my hands. Her body pressed briefly against my back, and I caught that intoxicating scent of wildflowers again.

"You need to curl your fingers under, like this," she demonstrated, her small hand directing mine.

I was suddenly, acutely aware of our proximity, of her breath near my shoulder, of how perfectly she would fit tucked under my arm.

"Right," I managed, my voice rougher than intended. "Curl under. Got it."

She stepped away, seemingly unaffected, while I tried to focus on not mangling the vegetables.

Over the next half hour, we fell into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. She directed; I assisted. The kitchen filled with aromatic scents as she transformed my meager ingredients into something that actually smelled delicious. Outside, the storm continued to rage, but inside, the atmosphere had shifted into something unexpectedly domestic.

"So tell me about your father," she said as she stirred the simmering pot. "Margeurite Ellison mentioned he was quite the environmentalist."

I paused in the act of setting plates on the small dining table. "You talked to Margeurite?"

"She and Walter stopped by my protest site." Clementine smiled. "Threw me for a loop when they started singing your praises."

I returned to the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "Dad was ahead of his time. When most logging companies were clear-cutting without a second thought, he was implementing selective harvesting, replanting programs,watershed protections. He believed you could harvest timber responsibly and still preserve the forest ecosystem."

"That's...not what I expected," she admitted.

"What did you expect? That we Ridgeways eat spotted owls for breakfast and use endangered plants as toilet paper?"

She laughed, nudging me with her elbow. "Something like that. So what happened? How did you end up taking over?"

The familiar pang that accompanied thoughts of my father flickered through me. "Heart attack. Three years ago. I was working alongside him, learning the business, but I wasn't prepared to take over so suddenly. Especially not with the industry changing, competition from bigger operations with fewer scruples."

Her expression softened with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"It's been an uphill battle," I admitted, surprised by my own candor. "Trying to maintain his ethical standards while keeping the business profitable enough to support our workers."

"And then I showed up, chained to one of your trees." She winced.

"Not your finest moment of research," I agreed, but without heat.

She stirred the pot thoughtfully. "Sounds like I was fighting for the same things your father believed in."

"The difference is, he understood the reality of balancing conservation with economic survival. The logging industry isn't inherently evil, Clementine. Not when it's done right."

"And you really do it right, then? Selective harvesting? Replanting?"

"Tomorrow's tour will show you everything," I promised. "But yes. We've never clear-cut a single acre, and we've replanted three times what we've harvested."

She was quiet for a moment. "I might owe you an apology."

"Might?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Let me try this meal first." Her smile returned. "If you admit it's better than your sad frozen dinner, I'll consider a full apology."

"Deal."

Minutes later, we sat at my small table with steaming plates of what she called "Impromptu Vegetable Jambalaya" along with refilled glasses of bourbon. I took a tentative bite, then a larger one.

"Well?" She watched expectantly, biting her lower lip.

"It's..." I searched for words that wouldn't give her too much satisfaction. "Not terrible."

"Liar." She laughed, pointing her fork at me. "Your eyes closed when you took that bite. That's the universal sign for 'this is amazing.'"

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