Page 2 of Resisting the Lumberjack

On it, boss.

Wet henley peeled off, clean flannel shrugged on. October air hits my bare chest first, a slap of good cold that makes everything feel new. Sleeves rolled past the forearms because they always are. Hat set, quick check in the side mirror.

Sawdust in my curls. Sap on my jaw. Pine pitch under my nails that won't come out till February.

Good enough for Sal's.

The deli smells like fresh bread and roasted turkey and something sweet from the bakery case that Marie must've pulled out of the oven ten minutes ago. Maple cookies, probably. She makes them every Tuesday.

Four years of Tuesdays and Thursdays in this place, and Sal still lights up when I walk in. The man's got a face like a deflated football and a heart the size of this whole valley. Gave me free food when I was nineteen and broke and sleeping in the bunkhouse with a duffel bag for a pillow. Never made me feel small about it. Just kept sliding sandwiches and cookies across the counter and calling me son.

"Kidd! How's the timber coming?"

"Four more this morning." Hat comes off, hand through my curls scattering cedar dust. "Meadow's opening up nice. Should have the clearing done by Friday if the weather holds."

A woman stands at the counter. Mid-order, hasn't looked at me once. That's unusual for Wild Peak. New faces get noticed in a town this size, and mine's been around long enough that most people at least nod. This one's got dark hair pulled back with one piece come free against her jaw. Strong shoulders held tight, like she's bracing for something she doesn't expect to enjoy. A mouth set in a line that says her patience checked out about ten minutes before I walked in.

Older than me. Something about the way she carries herself makes that clear without me being able to pin down the exact feature that gives it away. A steadiness younger women don't have yet. Gravity. She's been through weather and come out standing. Makes her more beautiful, not less. Makes her someone who's earned the right to that jaw and those shoulders and that don't-talk-to-me set of her spine.

"The turkey club," she says to Sal. Voice flat. Not rude. "To go."

Sal glances at her. Then at me. Then makes a decision he's gonna regret for the rest of the afternoon. A wrapped sandwich slides across the counter with a wink meant only for me.

"Last one, Kidd. Been saving it."

A sharper man hears last one and spares a thought for the woman who just ordered the same thing four feet away. I'm not sharp right now. I've been dropping timber since dawn, I'm hungry enough to eat the bark off a cedar, and that wink is a bit we've run since I was nineteen. Sal saves things for me. It's our thing. I don't question our thing.

"You're a saint, Sal." Twenty on the counter. Change waved off. Sandwich under my arm. "Tell Marie the maple cookies are her best yet."

Two steps from the door.

"Excuse me."

Cold enough to frost glass. Cold enough to stop me dead in my boots on a warm October afternoon.

She's got both palms flat on the counter. Her eyes have found me with a precision that makes my chest do something stupid. Something that has no business happening in a deli over a turkey club. High cheekbones. Brown eyes lit with fury. Full mouth pressed tight with effort, like she's holding back words that would melt the grout between the floor tiles.

She's gorgeous. That registers with a certainty I can't outrun and don't want to.

"That." Her finger levels at the sandwich under my arm. "Was mine."

"It was the last one?" Innocent look at Sal. Sal discovers something riveting on the ceiling tiles. "Sal. Buddy. You set me up."

"My order was in before you walked through that door." Lower voice. Flatter. The temperature in the deli dropping with every word. "You strolled in, he handed it over, and you winked about it."

"That was Sal who winked. I just received."

"You participated."

A laugh breaks free before I can catch it. Worst move yet. Could not have made a worse move if I'd tried. Her eyes narrow to slits, and I can feel the violence forming behind them.

"I'm so glad my hunger amuses you."

"It's not the hunger." Can't kill the grin, can't find a reason to try. "It's that you came at me over a turkey club when most folks would let it go. You skipped right past polite and came out swinging. I respect that more than you know." The top corner of the wrapper peels back. "Tell you what. We split it. You take the bigger half."

"I'm not eating a sandwich you've been carrying under your sweaty arm."

"It's wrapped. And I showered, thank you. Pulled a calf this morning, so that's a genuine accomplishment." Both halves held out, still clean in the paper. "Half a turkey club and an apology. Best deal in town."