Page 6 of Caught By the Lumberjack

"8 AM," she repeated. "Don't be late, Lumber Jack."

"It's my forest, Flower Child. I'm never late."

I turned and walked out, hyperaware of every eye following me. Only when I was safely in my truck did I exhale fully, my heart hammering against my ribs like I'd just run a marathon.

What the hell had I just agreed to? Giving a tour to a professional protester was risky at best, catastrophic at worst. She'd be looking for any excuse to confirm her biases, any misstep to weaponize against my company.

And yet... that smile. Those pouty lips. The way her eyes had lit up when she challenged me. The fierce intelligence I caught behind her environmental rhetoric.

I drove back toward my cabin, the memory of Clementine Fox—her scent, her fire, her surprising softness—lodged firmly in my mind despite my best efforts to dislodge it. Tomorrow would either resolve this situation or make it infinitely worse.

Either way, one thing was becoming increasingly, disturbingly clear: I was far more affected by this tie-dye-wearing crusader than I had any right to be. And judging by the way her pupils had dilated when I'd leaned closer, the inconvenient attraction might not be entirely one-sided.

"Damn it," I muttered as I turned onto the gravel road leading to my cabin. I was supposed to be focusing on saving my family's struggling business, not getting entangled with the very woman threatening to derail it.

Tomorrow. I'd set her straight tomorrow, show her exactly why Ridgeway Logging was nothing like the corporate villains she imagined. And then, hopefully, she'd take her bus and righteous indignation back to California where they belonged.

But as I pulled up to my cabin, Timber waiting expectantly on the porch, I couldn't quite convince myself I wanted her gone as badly as I should.

Chapter Three

Clementine

I'd spent the morning painting additional protest signs in the back of Dharma, bobbing my head to Janis Joplin while I worked. After yesterday's confrontation with Vaughn Ridgeway at Sue's Place, I'd agreed to postpone my flyer campaign until after our "tour" tomorrow. But that didn't mean I couldn't stage a little demonstration today.

"What do you think?" I asked my rubber cactus, Ferdinand, who traveled everywhere with me. "Too much?"

The sign in question featured a cartoon chainsaw with a red prohibition symbol over it. Beneath it, I'd written: "RIDGEWAY LOGGING: CUTTING TREES & CORNERS."

"You're right," I decided, adding a few more exclamation points. "Perfect amount of righteous indignation."

By early afternoon, I'd positioned myself at the entrance to the logging access road with three signs propped against Dharma's colorful exterior. I'd brought a folding camp chair, a thermos of herbal tea, and a determined attitude. The weather had turned overcast, the air heavy with impending rain, but nothing dampened my spirits when I was in full activist mode.

A few vehicles slowed as they passed. Some drivers honked—whether in support or derision, I couldn't tell. An elderly couple in a shiny silver Cadillac actually stopped, the gray-haired woman leaning out her window.

"You the California girl who chained herself to Ridgeway's tree?" she asked, peering at me over rhinestone-studded glasses.

"That's me," I confirmed, offering her a peace sign. "Protecting the forest one tree at a time."

The woman exchanged a look with her husband. "Honey, I'm Margeurite Ellison. My husband Walter and I own the Ashwood Lodge. We're neighbors to Harriet Lindstrom's orchard next to Ridgeway's operation. She's had that land for fifty years."

I perked up. I'd read about Lindstrom Orchards during my research—an organic apple farm that had been operating in Ashwood for generations.

"You've known the Ridgeways long?" I asked, stepping closer to their truck.

"Known 'em? I went to school with Vaughn's daddy, Thomas. He was the one who convinced Harriet to go organic back in the '80s when everyone thought it was hippie nonsense." She chuckled. "Said the chemicals would leach into the watershed, affect the forest ecology."

I blinked, thrown off-balance by this information. "Thomas Ridgeway advocated for organic farming?"

"Oh, honey," Margeurite said, "Thomas Ridgeway was the biggest tree-hugger in Ashwood, just in a flannel shirt instead of tie-dye. That boy of his might be more rough around the edges, but he was raised right when it comes to the land."

Walter, silent until now, finally spoke. "Vaughn's kept up his daddy's ways, too. Won't harvest more than the forest can replace. Fights those big logging corporations tooth and nail when they try to move in with their clear-cutting nonsense."

"But..." I faltered, my certainty wavering. "I researched them. Their website says they're harvesting old-growth sections."

"Selective harvesting, dear," Margeurite corrected. "Taking a few mature trees while leaving the forest intact. Opens up the canopy for younger trees to thrive. Thomas used to say it was like thinning carrots in a garden—sometimes you gotta take a few to let the others flourish."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. Everything I'd read about sustainable forestry confirmed what she was saying, but I'd assumed Ridgeway was just another profit-focused operation hiding behind eco-friendly marketing.

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