Page 8 of Caught By the Lumberjack

I splashed through ankle-deep mud to reach his vehicle, clutching Ferdinand protectively against my chest. By the time I climbed into the passenger seat, I was soaked through, my hair plastered to my face, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to every curve.

Vaughn wasn't faring much better. His flannel shirt had darkened with rainwater, molding to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that made it difficult not to stare. Droplets clung to his eyelashes and the stubble along his jaw.

He cranked up the heater as soon as he was back behind the wheel. "Seat warmer's on too," he said, navigating the truck carefully through the worsening conditions. "Should help."

The unexpected consideration caught me off guard. "Thanks," I said, unable to muster my usual argumentative tone.

We rode in silence for several minutes, the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers and rumble of thunder the only sounds. I snuck glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes as he navigated the treacherous road.

"So," I finally ventured, "do you make a habit of rescuing stranded protesters, or am I special?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're the first protester I've ever had to rescue. Usually theyjust show up, shout slogans, and leave before they have to deal with the actual conditions out here."

"I'm not leaving until I've seen the truth about your operation," I countered, but without my usual heat.

"Well, you're certainly getting the authentic Fire Mountain experience," he replied dryly as the truck splashed through a particularly deep puddle. "Rain season flashfloods included."

We turned onto a narrow, tree-lined drive that wound upward through dense forest. After another couple of minutes, a small cabin came into view—sturdy and well-maintained, with a covered porch wrapping around the front.

"Home sweet home," Vaughn said, pulling up as close to the porch as possible. "Ready to make a run for it?"

I nodded, clutching Ferdinand and my backpack.

"One, two, three—" On three, we both bolted from the truck toward the covered porch. Despite the short distance, the rainfall was so intense that we were both even more thoroughly drenched by the time we reached the door.

Vaughn fumbled with his keys, finally managing to unlock and push open the heavy wooden door. A large dog with fur the color of dark chocolate immediately bounded toward us, barking enthusiastically.

"Down, Timber," Vaughn commanded, though his tone held affection. "We have a guest."

The dog—Timber, apparently—sniffed my legs with great interest before offering a tentative tail wag.

"He won't bite," Vaughn assured me, flipping on lights and shrugging out of his sodden flannel overshirt. Underneath, his gray t-shirt was damp enough to cling to every muscled contour of his torso.

I forced my eyes away, taking in the cabin instead. It was surprisingly cozy—an open living space with a stone fireplace, comfortable-looking furniture, and walls lined with bookshelves. Not the utilitarian man-cave I'd expected.

Water dripped from my clothes onto the hardwood floor, forming small puddles around my feet. My teeth had begun to chatter without my permission.

"Bathroom's down the hall, first door on the right," Vaughn said, moving toward the fireplace where he began arranging logs. "I'll find you something dry to wear."

"I have clothes in my backpack," I told him, though the bag itself was nearly as soaked as I was.

"Those are probably wet too," he pointed out reasonably. "Go get dried off before you catch pneumonia. Arguing with me will be a lot less fun if you're in a hospital bed."

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "So you admit arguing with me is fun?"

He glanced over his shoulder, the hint of a genuine smile playing on his lips. "I didn't say that."

But he hadn't denied it either.

The bathroom was clean and simple, with rustic touches that matched the rest of the cabin. I peeled off my wet clothes, using a fluffy towel to dry myself as best I could. My hair hung in damp ringlets around my face, and my waterlogged backpack had indeed failed to protect my spare clothes.

A soft knock at the door made me clutch the towel tighter around myself.

"I've got some dry clothes," Vaughn's voice came through the door. "I'll just leave them out here."

"Thank you," I called back, waiting until I heard his footsteps retreat before cracking the door open.

The neatly folded pile contained a flannel shirt in a deep forest green and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. Both would be comically oversized on my frame, but they were blessedly dry.

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