Page 15 of Caught By the Lumberjack

"My good side, huh?" I grinned, gathering the sheet around me as I stood. "And what exactly are your intentions there, Mr. Ridgeway?"

He caught my wrist, pulling me gently back toward him. "I'm still figuring that out," he admitted, his expression surprisingly vulnerable. "But I'm definitely interested in exploring the possibilities."

My heart fluttered traitorously. "Me too," I confessed. "Though it's completely against my activist principles to fraternize with the enemy."

"Former enemy," he corrected, pressing a kiss to my palm before releasing me. "Let's get dressed. I'm starving, and I'm guessing you will be too after your... exertions."

After a brief shower—during which Vaughn joined me, leading to a delay in our departure—we dressed and headed into town. I wore my own clothes, now dry after hanging near the fireplace overnight. The morning was bright and clear, the stormleaving behind puddles and scattered branches but no major damage that we could see.

Sue's Place was bustling when we arrived, the bell above the door announcing our entrance. The conversations didn't exactly halt, but there was a noticeable dip in volume as heads turned to observe us walking in together.

Susie Wheeler, the owner, was wiping down the counter when we walked in. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing as Vaughn led me to a booth by the window, his hand placed lightly at the small of my back. I felt acutely self-conscious, certain that everyone could somehow tell what we'd been doing all night.

"Ignore them," Vaughn murmured, sliding in across from me. "Small town. They'll find something else to gossip about by lunchtime."

I glanced around the diner, spotting Walter and Marguerite Ellison at a table near the back. When they caught my eye, Marguerite smiled and Walter gave me a discreet thumbs up. I quickly looked away, heat rising in my cheeks.

Susie approached with coffee and menus. "Morning, you two. Heard you got caught in that storm last night, Clementine."

"Vaughn was kind enough to offer shelter," I replied, trying to sound casual and probably failing spectacularly.

"Mmhmm," Susie hummed, her knowing look making it clear she wasn't fooled for a second. "Lucky coincidence, him finding you."

"Very lucky," Vaughn agreed, his foot nudging mine under the table. "What's the special today, Sue?"

As we ordered breakfast—a veggie hash for me, a lumberjack-worthy stack of pancakes and eggs for Vaughn—a tall man with a firefighter's build approached our table.

"Vaughn," he greeted, clapping a hand on my companion's shoulder. "Roads are all clear up to Harriet's orchard. Your access road should be passable too."

"Thanks, Grant," Vaughn replied. "This is Clementine Fox. Clementine, Grant McAllister, Ashwood's finest smokejumper."

"And nosiest resident," Vaughn added under his breath as Grant extended his hand to me.

"Pleasure to meet you," Grant said, his eyes twinkling with barely contained amusement. "Heard a lot about your... environmental activism."

"I'm sure you have," I replied, shaking his hand.

Grant turned back to Vaughn, giving him an exaggerated wink that made me struggle not to laugh. "Well, I'll leave you two to your breakfast. Peyton's waiting. Nice meeting you, Clementine."

As he walked away, I raised an eyebrow at Vaughn. "Friend of yours?"

"Unfortunately," he grumbled, though there was fondness in his tone. "And now he's going to be insufferable."

Our food arrived, and conversation shifted to lighter topics as we ate. The diner's atmosphere was cozy and welcoming, locals coming and going, many nodding hello to Vaughn. I observed him in this setting—clearly respected, clearly at home—and found myself wondering what it would be like to belong somewhere like this.

After breakfast, we drove up to the logging site. In daylight, without the lens of preconceived notions, I saw Fire Mountain differently. Vaughn parked near the area where the day's harvesting would begin, and we walked together through sections in various stages of management.

"This area was harvested fifteen years ago," he explained, gesturing to a thriving young forest. "We took approximately thirty percent of the mature trees, left the rest to shelter the seedlings, and planted three new trees for every one harvested."

The forest floor was rich with undergrowth, birds calling from the canopy above. It looked healthy, vibrant—nothing like the devastated landscapes I'd seen at irresponsibly logged sites.

"And here," he continued, leading me to another section, "is where we'll be working today. See how we've marked only specific trees? Each one is selected based on age, health, and what its removal will mean for the surrounding ecosystem."

I examined the careful planning visible in every aspect of the operation as he showed me their replanting nursery, their watershed protection measures, their wildlife corridors. This wasn't environmental destruction—it was thoughtful stewardship.

"I was wrong about you," I admitted finally, as we stood overlooking a vista of mountains and forests. "About Ridgeway Logging. This is exactly the kind of responsible forestry I've always advocated for."

He smiled, genuine pleasure lighting his features. "Thank you for being willing to see it. Most protesters don't bother with the actual facts."

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