Page 2 of Kissed By The Lumberjack
"Did I?"
"You're trying to set me up with some tourist, aren't you?"
"Everett." She presses a hand to her chest. "I would never."
"You tried to set me up with the mailwoman last month."
"She was lovely."
"She was sixty-three."
"Age is just a number."
I finish the muffin because wasting Mama's baking is a sin, even when she's scheming. "I'm not going to the meeting. I've got a county inspection coming up, and I need to pull the compliance records from Dad's files."
That stops her. "Inspection?"
"Some new regulations. The county's sending someone to audit the timber sales and environmental impact." I dust the crumbs off my hands. "Probably nothing. But I want the paperwork in order."
Mama frowns. "Cole Timber has been operating legally since before you were born."
"I know."
"Your grandfather planted more trees than he ever cut. We've always managed this land right."
"I know, Mama."
She studies me with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "You're worried."
I grab another muffin from the basket. "Just busy."
The lie taste stale, but she doesn't push. Just pats my arm and tells me to eat lunch today, then climbs back in her Subaru and leaves a dust cloud behind her.
Hank ambles over, thumbs hooked in his belt. "County inspection?"
"Letter came last week. Environmental compliance review."
"We're compliant."
"I know."
"So why do you look like someone pissed in your coffee?"
Because my father's record-keeping was garbage. Because three generations of doing things the right way doesn't mean a damn thing if the paperwork doesn't prove it. Because the logging industry is hanging by a thread, and one bad audit could give them an excuse to shut me down.
I don't say any of that. I just grab my saw and head back to work.
The county truckrolls up at four in the afternoon, when I'm covered in sweat and bar oil and in absolutely no mood for bureaucracy.
I spot it from the ridge where I'm marking trees for next month's cut. A white pickup with a government seal on the door, kicking up dust on the access road. I radio Hank to meet them at the office, but by the time I hike down, the truck is parked and whoever's inside is already out.
I stop at the edge of the clearing.
She's standing by the office door, clipboard in hand, frowning at the building like it personally offended her. Long legs in cargo pants. Auburn hair pulled back, a few strands escaping around her face. Brand-new hiking boots that have never seen a trail. She's wearing a county-issued polo that does nothing to hide the curves underneath, and when she turns to face me, her eyes are the color of whiskey in firelight.
Hazel. Sharp. Currently narrowed at me like I'm a problem she's here to solve.
"Mr. Cole?"
