Page 75 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

The doctor discharged me that evening with a sling, a bottle of painkillers I would not take, and strict instructions to rest that I would mostly ignore. Josh drove us back to the house on Cedar Road, and I walked through the door under my own power because Chloe was watching and Emma was watching and I would crawl before I let either of them see me carried.

That night, Chloe helped me change the bandage. Her hands were steady now. Gentle. She cleaned the wound with the focused care of a woman who had been a kindergarten teacher and a caretaker and a survivor, and when she was done she pressed her lips to the skin just above the stitches, so softly I barely felt it.

“Thank you for coming back,” she whispered.

“Always,” I said.

And I meant it.

27

CHLOE

Iwent to buy his food.

Simple errand. The hospital had discharged him with a list of instructions that included rest, hydration, and meals that were not gas station coffee and whatever stale thing he could eat with one hand. Sawyer, being Sawyer, had tried to insist he was fine, that he could eat whatever was in the fridge, that I did not need to go anywhere. I told him to sit down and be quiet. He sat down. He was not quiet, but he sat down, and that was a victory I was willing to take.

The grocery store in town was small. One of those places where everybody knew everybody and the woman at the register asked about your family before she scanned your items. I moved through the aisles quickly. Chicken broth. Bread. Fruit. The kind of things you buy when someone you love is recovering from a bullet wound and you are trying to pretend that grocery shopping is a normal thing to do when your world is falling apart.

I was in the produce aisle when the man appeared.

He was not big. Not intimidating in the way Jonathan’s other men had been. Average height. Average build. A face that you would forget the moment you looked away from it. He wore a plain jacket and stood next to the apples like any other shopper, except he was not looking at the apples. He was looking at me.

“Mrs. Marshall,” he said.

My blood went cold. Not cool. Not chilled. Cold. The kind of cold that starts in your chest and spreads outward until your fingers are numb and your feet feel like they are nailed to the floor.

“That is not my name,” I said.

“Boss has a message.” His voice was low. Even. The voice of a man delivering information, not making a threat, which somehow made it worse. “He will leave the two of them alone. The man and the girl. They will not be touched. No more visits to the sawmill. No more visits to the house. It ends. All of it. If you come with us.”

The produce aisle blurred. The fluorescent lights above me turned sharp and too bright and I could hear the hum of the refrigeration units like they were inside my skull.

“You have until tomorrow,” he said. “Or we pick who dies first.”

He turned and walked away. Casual. Unhurried. Like he had just asked me about the weather or commented on the price of apples. He walked out of the store and I stood in the produce aisle with a bag of grapes in my hand and my heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack through my ribs.

I bought the food. I paid. I walked to the car. I drove back to the house on Cedar Road with both hands on the wheel and my mind somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark and spinning, a place where the only equation that mattered was the one that put Sawyer and Emma’s safety on one side and everything else on the other.

The leverage was simple. Clean. The kind of deal that Jonathan excelled at, the kind that made it look like you had a choice when you really did not. Come back to him and they live. Stay and someone dies. Not a threat. A transaction. A business deal made by a man who had always treated people like assets and liabilities.

I walked into the house. Sawyer was on the couch with his arm in the sling, and Emma was beside him drawing in her sketchbook. He looked up when I came in and something moved behind his eyes, a sharpness, an assessment, and I knew he was reading me the way he always did, looking for the thing I was not saying.

“Got everything,” I said, and my voice sounded almost normal. Almost.

I unpacked the groceries. Started heating the broth. My hands moved on autopilot, opening cabinets, stirring, pouring, while my mind played the man’s words on repeat. You have until tomorrow. Or we pick who dies first.

Sawyer needed to eat. I brought him a bowl of soup and sat on the edge of the couch and held the spoon because his right hand was functional but his pride was not going to let him admit that eating soup one-handed was awkward. He let me feed him, which told me something about how much pain he was actually in despite his insistence that the shoulder was fine.

“Open,” I said, lifting the spoon.

He opened. I tipped the spoon and the broth spilled. Down his chin. Onto his shirt. Because my hand was shaking and I had not realized it until the soup was running down his neck and he was looking at me with those steady green eyes that saw everything.

“Sorry,” I said. I grabbed a napkin and wiped his chin. “Sorry. My hand slipped.”

“Chloe.”

“It is fine. Let me get another…”