Page 91 of Grumpy Lumberjack’s Secret

“You are not living there. You are spending the day there. There is a difference.”

“A small difference.”

“A safe difference.”

He was right and I knew it, which was the most annoying part. The cabin was isolated. The mill was full of men who had already proven they would fight for this family. The math was simple even if the reality of being escorted to work every morning like a package that needed guarding made me feel small in a way I hated.

“The police said they will patrol the area,” Sawyer continued. “Regular drive-bys. They will report if anyone suspicious is around. Between the patrols and the security system and the crew, we are covered.”

I nodded. Accepted it. Not because I liked it but because the alternative was worse, and I had spent enough years choosing between bad options to know when to pick the least bad one and move forward.

“Bring Emma first tomorrow,” I said. “I will cook here and bring food to the mill.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cook for who?”

“For everyone. Your crew rebuilt our home, Sawyer. I am going to feed them until they beg me to stop.”

The next morning, Sawyer took Emma to the mill early. I stayed behind in the cabin and cooked. Not a small meal. Not a casual lunch thrown together with whatever was in the fridge. A feast. The kind of meal you make when you owe people a debt you cannot repay with money and the only currency you have is time and butter and the knowledge that a man who has been swinging an axe since dawn deserves more than a sandwich.

Fried chicken. I made it from scratch, dredging each piece in seasoned flour, laying them in the cast iron skillet that Dollie had included in the new kitchen supplies, frying them until the crust was golden and the oil popped and the smell filled the cabin like a declaration of intent. Biscuits from scratch, cut with a glass because there was no biscuit cutter, flaky and warm and brushed with melted butter. Coleslaw, crisp and tangy. Cornbread in a square pan, dense and sweet. Potato salad because one side dish was not enough when you were feeding men who moved lumber for a living.

I loaded everything into containers. Stacked them in the truck. And drove to the sawmill with the windows down and the mountain air on my face and a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the oven and everything to do with the fact that I was driving to the man I loved with food I had made for people who had given us our home back.

The mill was loud when I arrived. Saws screaming through timber. Men shouting measurements over the noise. The organized chaos of a place that ran on precision and sweat, every man in his role, every task moving forward with the relentless efficiency that Sawyer demanded and his crew delivered.

I parked the truck and got out. Emma saw me first. She was sitting on a stack of crates near the main building, drawing in her sketchbook with a hard hat on her head that was three sizes too big, a gift from one of the crew members who had apparently adopted her as the mill’s unofficial mascot.

“Mama! You brought food! I can smell it from here!”

Sawyer was across the yard. He was measuring a beam, his back to me, his sleeves rolled up, his body moving with the quiet power that still made my breath catch even after all this time. He turned when he heard Emma’s voice and his eyes found me immediately, the way they always did, like I was a compass point he was permanently oriented toward.

I walked to him. Set the containers down on the nearest flat surface. Took his face in both hands. And kissed him.

Not a quick kiss. Not a peck. A real kiss, slow and warm, right there in the middle of his sawmill with sawdust in the air and his entire crew pretending not to watch while absolutely watching. He tasted like coffee and pine and the salt on his skin, and when I pulled back his eyes were slightly unfocused in a way that gave me a deeply satisfying sense of power.

“Boys!” I called out, turning to face the yard. My voice carried across the noise, cutting through the saws and the shouting like a bell. “Lunch is ready. Everyone stops and eats right now.”

The saws went quiet. Men looked up from their work. Looked at each other. Looked at Sawyer.

“They are not done working,” Sawyer said behind me.

I turned back to him. Tilted my head.

“Are you the boss of them?” I said.

“Obviously.”

“And who is your boss?”

He did not answer. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. The expression of a man who could see the trap, could map every edge of it, and could not find a single way around it.

“Exactly,” I said, and turned back to the crew. “Eat now, boys.”

They did not need to be told twice. The men descended on the food with the focused enthusiasm of people who had been doing hard physical labor since sunrise and had just been presented with fried chicken and biscuits by a woman who had clearly spent her morning making sure there was enough for everyone. They loaded plates, grabbed cornbread, fought over the last of the coleslaw, and made sounds of appreciation that echoed across the yard.

Josh appeared beside Sawyer. He looked at the crew eating. Looked at Sawyer’s face, which was caught somewhere between pride and indignation. And the grin that spread across Josh’s face was the slow, savoring kind of a man who was about to enjoy himself very much.

“Good thing the boss has a boss,” Josh said.