Page 13 of Kissed By The Lumberjack
I look up at him. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression I can't read. The morning light catches the stubble on his jaw. The silver at his temples.
"My grandfather believed you could take from the land and give back at the same time," he says. "My father thought he was crazy. Old-fashioned. But look at these trees." He gestures at the canopy above us, thick with new growth. "Three generations of sustainable harvest, and we've got more timber now than when Grandpa started."
I stand, brushing dirt off my knees. "The records support that. What I've seen so far."
"But?"
"No but. I'm saying you're doing it right." The words feel strange in my mouth. Admitting he's not the villain I expected. "At least based on what I've seen today."
Something in his posture relaxes. Just slightly. "Want to see the replanting area?"
We hike for another hour. He shows me the seedlings his crew planted last spring, now standing knee-high in rows thatfollow the natural contour of the land. He explains the water management system they installed to prevent erosion. The wildlife corridors they leave untouched so the deer and elk can move freely.
By the time we reach the overlook, I've filled three pages of notes. All positive. All things that support keeping this operation running exactly as it is.
"This is where I come when I need to think," he says.
The view takes my breath away. Mountains stretching to the horizon, covered in forest so thick it looks like green velvet. A valley below where a river catches the sun like liquid silver. No roads. No buildings. Nothing but wilderness as far as I can see.
"It's beautiful," I say.
"It's everything."
I turn to look at him. He's not watching the view. He's watching me.
"I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment," I say quietly. "Portland's nice, but it's cramped. Loud. I used to dream about places like this."
"Is that why you got into forestry?"
"Part of it. I wanted to understand how it all worked. The systems. The connections." I look back at the valley. "I spent two years studying old-growth ecosystems in the Pacific Northwest. Learning how trees communicate through their root systems. How a single forest can regulate rainfall for miles around."
"And then the funding dried up."
"Budget cuts. Political priorities shifted." I shrug, trying to make it sound like it didn't gut me. "The county was hiring. It seemed like a way to stay connected to the work."
"But it's not the same."
"No."
He steps closer. I feel the heat of him even in the cool mountain air.
"Rowan."
I don't turn around. Can't. "We said we weren't going to?—"
"I know what we said." His hand finds my hip. I close my eyes. "I'm trying really hard to mean it."
"So try harder."
"I've been trying all morning." His breath is warm against my ear. "Watching you crouch down to examine beetle holes. Listening to you talk about root systems. Seeing you look at my trees like they matter to you."
"They do matter."
"I know." He turns me to face him. His eyes are dark. Hungry. "That's the problem."
I should push him away. Walk back down the mountain. Get in my truck and drive until I find a hotel with vacancies.
I grab his face and kiss him.
