Page 1 of Lumberjack DADDY
1
EMERYRICK
Gravel pings off the undercarriage of my car as I bump and bounce my way down the narrow, tree-lined road—though road seems a generous description for it. After a quarter mile, the road ends at a small open area that sits before a small, rustic log cabin. I’ve seen way too many horror movies because I’m already imagining some hockey mask-wearing, machete-wielding psycho storming out of the bushes and cutting me into pieces.
“Quaint. Charming,” I say as if I’m trying to talk myself into getting out of the car.
I do, though, and close my eyes as I take a deep breath. The heavy scent of the pines that surround the cabin and the musky, earthy aroma of the forest fill my lungs and draw a smile across my face. I listen to the chirping of the birds in the trees overhead and take a moment to relish the stillness of the air. I’ve always loved nature and the isolation out here. It just feels … right. It’s what I want—no, it’s what I need right now.
Feeling a bit more centered, I open my eyes and see there’s a note pinned to the door. I walk up the three steps to the porch, then pull it off and roll my eyes as I read it. The page is a copy of the rental agreement I filled out online with the lines, “no parties, no drugs, and no loud music after ten p.m.,”in bright yellow highlighter.
“Well, that’s a warm welcome.”
The key is in an envelope in the mailbox, so I grab my things from my car and let myself in. The main room has a sofa across from the door with a coffee table that looks like it was handcrafted, sitting in front of it. To my left is a small galley-style kitchen with a round table sitting in a small nook, and to my right, there is a desk against the wall beneath the window, offering a view of the woods beyond.
The bedroom is in the back of the cabin and is barely big enough to fit the queen-sized bed, nightstand, and dresser crammed in there. But the bathroom is nice, the shower is surprisingly spacious, and the water pressure is good. I can work with it. The whole place is smaller than it looked in the photos online but it’s clean and tidy but given that it’s just me and my thoughts out here in the wilds, it’ll do. Eli Proctor, the owner of the cabin, according to the name on the rental agreement, takes good care of his place.
After setting my things down, I pull a hoodie on, then put on a pair of hiking boots, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out before I lose the light. Sticking to the narrow path that winds through the trees, I savor the fresh, clean air. Shafts of sunlight spear down through the canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor. It’s so perfectly quiet out here. Peaceful.
I pick my way down a gentle slope to the bank of the river that cuts through the woods. I sit down on a large, flat stone beside the water and take a moment to listen to the gentle burble of water. Movement downstream draws my attention, and I watch with fascination as a tall deer steps out of the trees. I hold my breath when our eyes meet, and I expect it to bolt. But it doesn’t. Instead, it bends down and drinks from the river.
Pulling my camera out of my bag, I bring it to my eye, line up the deer, and frame the shot. The entire scene is gorgeous. With the soft light and the sun sparkling upon the surface of the river, it’s picturesque. Before I can take the shot, though, his voice echoes through my head. I hear him telling me I’ve got no talent. That my photography is trash. That I need to give it up and do something else because I’ll never make it in this field.
Like a thief in the night, doubt creeps into my mind and steals every bit of self-confidence I possess. As a tear rolls down my cheek, I lower my camera. The deer raises its head and looks at me before it turns and bounds away. I sigh. Stuffing my camera into my bag, I sling it over my shoulder, then get up and climb back up to the path. Feeling like an absolute loser, I head for the cabin.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to take a decent photo. Weeks since I’ve taken a photo at all. Every time I try, his voice is in my head, telling me how bad I am at it. How I’m a hack and should find a different dream. My ex, Ryan, wasn’t the most supportive man in the world. He never laid a hand on me, which is probably how I justified not ending the relationship long before I actually did. But he really did a number on my head.
I know I shouldn’t let him get to me. Shouldn’t let him derail my dreams or deter me from following my passion. He’s not worth it. He is not worth the mental and emotional energy I’m stillgiving him. Every time I fail to take a photo because I hear him telling me I suck, he’s living rent-free in my head. I know all this and yet… no matter how hard I try to block him out, I can’t. He gets to me. Every. Single. Time.
That’s part of the reason I’m out here. To reset. To find a way to put the past behind me and rekindle that spark of passion that I’ve been missing for… a while now. Maybe spending a few weeks out here among the trees in the fresh air, clearing my mind, will help me do that. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. It’s why I’m here.
As I walk along the path, the air reverberates with a hardthwack, thwack, thwack. Curious, I walk along the path through the trees, following the sound. Stopping just before I enter a clearing, I hide behind the wide, thick trunk of a tree and peek around.
“Oh my,” I whisper.
Out in the clearing is a man who’s wearing nothing but blue jeans and fawn-colored work boots. He’s six-three at least, with a wide, thick body tightly corded with muscles that are slicked with sweat. His body glistens in the dying sunlight, and his muscles ripple and flex as he chops a pile of wood, and heat blossoms in my belly, quickly moving lower inside of me.
As if he senses my presence behind the tree, the man lowers his axe and turns to me. Our eyes meet, and I feel my heart leap into my throat. A sharp squeak bursts from my mouth, and I turn quickly, then dash back down the path toward the cabin, my pulse racing, my blood pumping, and that heat within me burning brighter as I try—and fail—to banish the images of the brawny, half-naked man from my mind.
2
ELI
My skin prickles, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, which tells me I’m being watched. It’s that sixth sense that kept me out of a lot of bad shit back when I was in a combat zone. I’ve learned to trust it. Rely on it. I lower the axe and turn to the trees that ring the clearing and spot her. And the moment I do, I feel my stomach lurch.
She’s small, no more than five-two or so, with rich auburn hair that falls to her shoulders and deep brown eyes. Her complexion is milky white, like cold porcelain, and she’s got a small, petite figure. Even through the hoodie she’s wearing, though, I can see her full breasts and generous curves. She looks young, but I can tell she’s all woman. And she’s fucking gorgeous.
When our gazes lock, her mouth falls open, and I can hear her squeak, even from where I’m standing. She quickly turns and runs, seeming to be heading in the direction of the cabins I own. Nobody else should be up here, and I’ve only got one renter at the moment, which tells me that was very likely Emery Pierce hiding behind that tree, gawking at me.
When I read through her rental application a couple of weeks ago, I got no sense that she was so young. If I had, I probably would have rejected it. Young girls—young people in general, really—tend to be more trouble than they’re worth. Loud music, louder parties, and rampant alcohol and drug use. I’ve had to deal with it more than once after somebody rented one of my cabins. It’s why I have such strict rules about my rentals.
I listen to the rustle of the undergrowth and snapping twigs as she retreats for a minute before turning back to the task at hand. It takes me another half an hour to finish chopping my pile of wood. After that, I load it into the wheelbarrow, then throw my t-shirt on and haul it all back to my cabin. I stack it up in the box just outside my front door, close the lid, and lock it up.
By the time I’m done, the sun is slipping below the horizon, casting the sky in soft, dark purple and blue hues. Starlight begins to twinkle overhead like cold chips of diamond, and the temperature begins its nightly plunge. The forest around me is perfectly still. Perfectly silent. This far away from the so-called civilized world, it’s easy to imagine that I’m the last person on Earth. And that probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d be okay with that.
Standing on the porch of my cabin, I breathe deeply, savoring the rich, earthy aroma of the forest around me and listen to the night creatures begin to stir. With a sense of satisfaction, I turn and head back into my cabin and close the door, locking it behind me. I turn on my Bluetooth speaker and start my randomized playlist, and as the hard-rocking Battery by Metallica fills my cabin, I grab a can of stew from the pantry and put it on the stove.
While that’s getting warm, I jump in the shower and take a few minutes to luxuriate in the nearly scalding water, washing awaythe day’s exertions. Fresh and clean, I get out, towel off, and throw on a pair of sweats, socks, and a t-shirt. By the time I make it back out, the stew is bubbling nicely. I dish it out, grab some crackers, and take a seat at the table in the nook as Pink Floyd’sTimeissues from my speaker.
