Page 1 of Kissed By The Lumberjack
1
EVERETT
The chainsaw bites through the Douglas fir like the tree owes me money.
Sawdust sprays across my forearms, sticking to the sweat and grime I've been wearing since 5 AM. Behind me, my crew works the skidder, hauling yesterday's cuts down to the landing where the trucks wait. The morning air smells like pine sap and diesel.
I ease off the throttle and let the saw idle, wiping my face with the back of my glove. The Mountain Bloom Festival kicked off three days ago, which means Whisper Vale is crawling with tourists taking pictures of wildflowers and clogging up the one decent coffee shop in town. I've been avoiding Main Street like it's on fire.
My radio crackles. "Ev, you got a minute?"
Hank's voice. My foreman. Forty years in timber, half his left hand missing from a cable snap back in '98, and still the steadiest man I've ever worked with.
I key the radio. "What's up?"
"Your mama's here."
I close my eyes. "Tell her I'm in the middle of a cut."
"Tried that. She brought muffins."
Of course she did. Patty Cole doesn't ambush. She bribes.
I kill the saw and start the trudge back toward the landing, boots sinking into the soft spring earth. The timber stand stretches behind me, old growth mixed with the managed sections my grandfather planted sixty years ago. Three generations of Coles have worked this land. My great-grandfather cleared the first acre with an axe and a mule. My grandfather built the operation into something real. My father expanded it until his back gave out at fifty-two.
Now it's mine. The weight of it sits on my shoulders every morning when I wake up and every night when I finally stop.
I spot my mother's Subaru parked next to the equipment shed, dust coating the blue paint. She's standing by the tailgate, a basket in her hands, chatting up Hank like they're at a church social instead of a working logging site.
"Everett James Cole." She beams when she sees me, which means I'm in trouble. Mama only full-names me when she wants something.
"Morning." I accept the muffin she shoves at me. Blueberry. Still warm. Damn it. "What do you need?"
"Can't a mother visit her only son at his place of employment?"
"She can. She doesn't." I take a bite. The muffin is perfect because my mother is incapable of making bad baked goods. "Spit it out."
Mama sighs, setting the basket on the tailgate. "I need you to come to the festival committee meeting tonight."
"No."
"Everett—"
"I gave you lumber for the vendor booths. I donated to the flower fund. I'm not sitting in a room with Marge Patterson while she argues about bunting for two hours."
"It's not about bunting."
"It's always about bunting."
Hank coughs into his fist, failing to hide his grin. I shoot him a look. He suddenly finds something fascinating about the tree line.
Mama plants her hands on her hips. She's five foot nothing with silver hair and the stubbornness of a woman who raised a son alone after my father retired to the recliner and his regrets. I love her. I also know exactly what she's doing.
"This is about the room situation," I say.
Her expression flickers. Just a second. "I don't know what you mean."
"The festival booked every room in town. You mentioned it four times last week."
