Page 11 of Resisting the Lumberjack

Anna comes around the equipment barn with fairy lights draped over both arms and a smile that could power the whole festival without electricity.

"You must be Selene!" Her sneakers are muddy, her dark hair's in a messy bun, and she's got pumpkin vine stuck to her flannel. She's maybe five-four and radiates enough energy to fill a stadium. "Kidd's told us about you."

"He has?" Guarded. But polite. The handshake is firm.

"The sandwich story is famous. Luke won't stop quoting it. He does this impression of Kidd's face when you called him out." Anna laughs, bright and infectious. "Come on. I need someone with actual taste, because if I let these cowboys handle the aesthetics, it'll look like a rodeo threw up on a craft store."

Selene almost smiles. The closest I've seen. A crack in the concrete.

"I can help with that."

They disappear into the barn together. Selene walking into the heart of this ranch like she's being pulled by something she doesn't understand yet. Anna already talking, already folding her into the fabric of this place with the effortless warmth that made Luke fall in love and made the rest of us grateful she showed up.

Back to the timber line.

Afternoon chainsaw work, mindless and physical. Bucking a downed log into eight-foot sections, the saw screaming through heartwood, kick and shudder of each cut. Sweat-soaked by three o'clock. Thermal stripped off, working in a tank top that's more sawdust than fabric.

Movement at the meadow's edge. Selene. Standing at the split-rail fence. Watching me work.

No wave. No call. Just standing in golden afternoon light with fairy lights draped over one shoulder and her eyes on me. Thirty yards of pumpkin field between us, and I can feel her gaze on my skin like a handprint.

Her hands on my arm Tuesday. Cleaning that cut. Careful, competent, trembling at the edges. So gentle with a wound she didn't cause.

Kill the engine. Wipe my face with a rag that's more cedar dust than cotton. Walk over, leaving the saw on the stump.

"Enjoying the show?" Grin against the fence rail. Two feet between us. Her cheeks are flushed from cold, a maple leaf caught in her hair, red against the dark.

"Anna sent me to tell you cider's ready." Not looking at my face. Looking at my arms, at the muscles in my shoulders where the tank top leaves them bare, at the chest she can see through the sweat-damp fabric. Her gaze travels up slow, like she's reading something she knows she shouldn't. When it reaches my eyes, she catches herself. Looks away hard.

"Cider sounds good."

"Sawdust in your hair."

"Always."

She reaches up. Fingers through my curls, once, quick. Cedar flecks coming back between her fingertips. Two seconds of contact that rewires everything behind my ribs. Her touch is careful. The same careful as the bandage. The same tender precision. Like she's hardwired to be gentle and trying to pretend she isn't.

"There. Better."

Don't move. Don't breathe. Close enough to smell her. Citrus and warm skin and something floral underneath that I can't name and don't need to.

"Selene."

Brown eyes come up. Terrified. Not of me. Of what she feels when she looks at me. Of the wall she's been maintaining and the cracks spreading through it faster than she can fill them.

The wind gusts sharp off the ridge, pushing through the clearing hard enough to bend the grass. She sways forward a half step. Her palm lands flat on my chest, right over my heart. Both of us freeze.

My heart hammering under her hand. She can feel every beat. I know she can because her lips part and her breath hitches and something shifts behind her eyes that looks like a woman waking up from a long, controlled sleep.

She steps back. Fast. Her hand leaving my chest like she touched something hot.

"Cider. Anna said." Life raft words. Drowning woman reaching for anything solid.

She turns. Walks toward the barn. My chest on fire, the ghost of her palm still burning through the damp cotton of my shirt.

Not a patient man by nature. See the tree, picture the fall, pull the cord. That's how I work. That's how I've always worked. Fast, decisive, certain. But this woman isn't a tree. She needs time. Space. The chance to figure out that what she's resisting isn't me.

It's herself.