Page 3 of Caught By the Lumberjack

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't know the first thing about me or my business, Miss Fox."

"I know enough," I retorted, though a tiny seed of doubt had planted itself in my mind.

Vaughn stepped back, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Get in your rainbow machine and go back to whatever crystal-infused commune you came from. And stay off my land if you know what's good for you."

My cheeks burned—with anger, I told myself, definitely just anger. "Or what? You'll cut me down too?"

Something flashed in his eyes that I couldn't quite identify. "Trust me, you don't want to find out."

With that, he turned and strode back toward his crew, his broad shoulders tense beneath his flannel shirt. The chain still dangled uselessly from the lock around my waist as I watched him go, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I wasn't done. Not by a long shot. If Vaughn Ridgeway thought a little intimidation would send me scurrying back to California, he had seriously underestimated my commitment.

I fumbled with the lock at my waist, finally freeing myself from the remnants of the chain. "This isn't over, Ridgeway!" I called after him.

He didn't turn around, but I saw his step falter slightly before he continued toward his truck.

I stormed back to Dharma, my mind racing. Clearly, I needed more information about Ridgeway Logging & Timber. Perhaps Ashwood would yield some intel on this operation—and its frustratingly handsome owner.

As I climbed back into my van and started the engine, I couldn't quite shake the memory of Vaughn's voice, deep and commanding, or the feeling of those strong arms lifting me away from the tree. For the first time in a long while, I felt genuinely rattled, and not just because my protest had been thwarted.

"Focus, Clem," I muttered to myself as I guided Dharma back toward the main road. "He's the enemy, remember?"

But as I drove toward Ashwood, I couldn't help wondering why my heart was still racing—and why I was already plotting my next encounter with the mountain man who'd just carried me bodily from his forest.

Chapter Two

Vaughn

I slammed the door of my cabin hard enough to rattle the windows. My dog Timber—a massive chocolate Lab with more enthusiasm than sense—bounded over to greet me, tail whipping back and forth like a helicopter blade.

"At least someone's happy to see me," I muttered, giving his ears a distracted scratch.

The day had gone straight to hell thanks to one tie-dye wearing, tree-hugging Californian with a misguided savior complex. I tossed my keys onto the counter and yanked open the fridge, grabbing a beer and popping the cap off with more force than necessary. The satisfying hiss of escaping carbonation did little to calm my nerves.

I took a long pull from the bottle and leaned against the kitchen counter, Timber settling at my feet with a contentedsigh. My cabin wasn't much—just a two-bedroom structure my grandfather had built decades ago—but it was mine, situated on a quiet corner of Ridgeway land with a view of Fire Mountain that never got old.

"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, boy," I told Timber, who thumped his tail against the floor in response.

What was it about that woman that got under my skin so quickly? Clementine Fox. Even her name sounded like something out of a children's storybook. I'd dealt with protesters before—occupational hazard in the logging business—but none had rattled me the way she had.

Maybe it was the way those hazel eyes had blazed with righteous indignation. Or how she'd felt in my arms when I'd carried her away from the tree—surprisingly soft and warm against my chest, smelling of wildflowers and something earthy I couldn't identify. I'd been acutely aware of the curve of her waist beneath my hands, the flash of freckles across her nose when she'd glared up at me.

"Christ," I muttered, taking another swig of beer. "Get it together, Ridgeway."

Timber whined, nudging my leg with his nose.

"Not you too," I told him. "She's trouble. Probably thinks 'sustainable forestry' is an oxymoron."

I pushed away from the counter and moved to my desk in the corner of the living room, where stacks of paperwork awaited my attention. Bills, equipment maintenance reports, payroll sheets—the endless bureaucracy involved in running a business my father had handled with seemingly effortless competence.

Dad had built Ridgeway Logging & Timber from a small family operation into a respected regional business, all while maintaining his unwavering commitment to responsibleforestry practices. "We're stewards, not owners," he'd always say. "Take only what the forest can regrow."

Since his unexpected death three years ago, I'd been fighting an uphill battle. Larger competitors with fewer scruples about clear-cutting had driven prices down. Equipment costs kept rising. And now a nationwide housing slump had reduced demand for lumber across the board.

I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling the day's stubble rasp against my palm. The harvest scheduled for tomorrow had been meticulously planned to bring in much-needed revenue without compromising our sustainability standards. Every day of delay meant fifteen men—good men with families to feed—standing idle on the payroll.

And now Driving Miss Daisy threatened to throw a rainbow-colored wrench into the works.

---