All-American Lumberjack (Red Oak Mountain Lumberjacks #9)

1. Georgia

Georgia

My shoulders ached as I wiped down the worn counter at my grandpa’s old roadside stand. The sticky heat of summer hung thick in the air, making my tank top cling to my back like a second skin.

It had only been a week since I rolled back into Red Oak Mountain, but I’d been working my tail off the entire time.

This was no vacation getaway.

I’d spent the first four days waging an all-out war against the weeds blocking access to the wild blackberry brambles behind my grandpa’s house.

My arms were covered in a patchwork of angry red scratches to prove it. Arkansas greenbrier is no joke, and that nasty, thorned vine had grown wild in recent years, trying to overtake the blackberry patch.

After surviving the harvest, I’d locked myself in the sweltering hot kitchen, churning out blackberry pies and jarring up jams.

Locals still remembered Briar Patch Pies.

Or, at least, I hoped they did. The Fourth of July weekend was my one shot to capitalize on the holiday traffic and pad my savings account.

“You missed a spot,” Kat teased.

I stopped scrubbing and looked up at my oldest friend. Kat was leaning casually against one of the coolers, unaffected by the muggy summer air. She was in her element out here.

And I was just ready for some air-conditioning. I hadn’t realized how much of my life I spent indoors. But coming back to Red Oak Mountain had made it clear that I was out of touch with nature.

“When did you get here?”

“A couple minutes ago.”

“You snuck up on me.”

She shrugged. “You were lost in your thoughts.”

We’d grown up together but couldn’t have turned out more different from each other. Kat was a wild mountain woman, more akin to the goats she raised than to people. Her husband, Jake, had managed to civilize her a little, but only a little.

Me, on the other hand… well, I wasn’t sure what I was. I just knew I didn’t fit here anymore.

“This patch of dirt’s still dirty. Clean better,” she joked.

“If you keep teasing, I’m going to make you scrub the inside of the cooler,” I warned her, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead.

Kat just laughed, her bright eyes crinkling at the corners. Then she hoisted a heavy box onto the counter. “I come bearing gifts. Don’t threaten the gift-giver.”

She began unpacking her haul, setting out rows of perfectly sealed strawberry jam. Next came a neat stack of goat milk soaps wrapped in brown paper and twine, followed by glass bottles of fresh, creamy goat’s milk.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I told her, my heart warming at the sight. “The stand will look so much better with your stuff filling in the gaps. I didn’t bake enough to make it look full.”

“You baked plenty, Georgia.” Kat arranged the soaps into a little pyramid on the display stand I’d cleaned earlier.

Her tone shifted, turning serious. “You know, you don’t have to sell this place.”

I sighed, dropping my rag onto the counter. “We’ve talked about this, Kat.”

“I know we have, but I’m bringing it up again.” She leaned over the counter. “Look around. You belong here. You could move back from Austin. I could talk to some of my friends. We could wrangle up a crew to patch the roof on old Henry’s house, fix up the stand… it wouldn’t be that hard.”

“It’s not that simple,” I murmured, my chest tightening.

“Why not? What’s waiting for you in Austin? A cubicle? More traffic? A studio apartment that probably runs two thousand dollars a month?”

She was pretty accurate, but my pride wouldn’t let me admit it out loud. “My life is there. My job. My apartment. My cat.”

“You hate your apartment. And you tolerate your job. Go get the cat and move back.” Kat reached out and squeezed my hand. “Red Oak Mountain is your home.”

Was it?

It had been at one point. But now?

This place felt like the ghost of a home.

I had so many fond memories of visiting my grandparents here at their house on the hill, but those memories were permanently tangled up with the ache of loss.

When I was fifteen, my parents had dragged me away to live in Austin, Texas. A few years later, they’d divorced.

And after I turned eighteen, they’d both moved on to different states, leaving me completely alone in a sprawling city that never felt like home. It had been worse after they’d both remarried other people, creating new families for themselves.

Now I had a bunch of step-siblings I only saw on Christmas, and parents who felt like they were doing a good job by making time for my twice a month phone calls.

My grandparents had been the steady ones.

The people who remembered my favorite pie, saved the good rocking chair for me on the porch, and never made me feel like I was in the way.

Part of me would always regret not coming back the second I turned eighteen.

But I hadn’t.

And now they were gone.

The house needed thousands of dollars in repairs, and I had a big choice. Keep saving for a condo in Austin, or sink my money into this old, rundown dream. I’d watched The Money Pit. I knew what happened when you threw dollars at an old wooden house.

“I can’t afford to keep it, Kat,” I said softly. “I need the money from the sale. I’m trying to save up for a condo in Austin. My whole life is there.”

Even as the words left my mouth, they felt wrong.

I’d been saving up for years now, and I was close to having a down payment in place. But was a condo in Austin what I really wanted? Or just the next step to take in life?

Kat studied me for a long moment. But she was a good friend, and she knew when to push and when to back off.

“Okay,” she finally said, patting my hand. “Well, Red Oak Mountain would have been livelier with you around. But let’s have one last blowout weekend. We’ll sell every pie you baked. Just remember, if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Just then, I heard a bleating sound, and would you believe that the cutest little baby goat came kicking around the corner.

“Oh my god, who is this cutie?”

“You’re a little escape artist!” Kat said, scooping the goat up into her arms. “This is Junebug. I just got back from taking her in to see Houston.”

“Houston’s still in town?” He’d been my crush all those years ago, along with half the girls on Red Oak Mountain.

“Yeah. And he’s married now, so you can forget about snagging that particular man. He’s the local vet. I take all my critters to him. And Pearl, that’s his wife, you’d love her. She keeps him in line.”

Hearing that made me feel so sad. Not that Houston was married. I hadn’t seen the man in years. But about everything I’d missed out on. All the people here used to be my people.

Living in Austin was exciting at times. There was a ton to do there. But it often felt like a city of strangers.

Kat checked her watch and grimaced. “I’ve got to get back to the farm and check on the other goats. Plus, Jake’s probably waiting for me. Call me if you need anything, girl.”

“I will. Drive safe.”

I watched Kat trot the goat back to her truck. She climbed in and plopped Junebug into the passenger seat. Then kicked up a cloud of dust as she pulled onto the road.

The silence she left behind felt heavy.

I was alone again.

I turned back to the stand, looking at the worn wooden shelves and the old, peeling paint. Behind the counter, a stack of faded red and white gingham cloths sat neatly folded on a stool. My grandma would have been the one to fold them.

My throat tightened. I reached out and picked one up, clutching the soft, worn fabric to my chest.

The smell of sun-warmed wood wafted off the old floorboards, instantly transporting me back through the years.

I could almost hear my grandmother’s soft humming as she rustled around the old farm stand. She used to drape these cloths over the baskets of potatoes at closing time.

She’d always tuck the edges in perfectly, and one time I’d asked her why. She told me she was putting the potatoes to sleep and tucking them in for the night so they could have good dreams. She’d been such a good woman.

A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye, and I brushed it away. But another one fell. And then another.

I was mourning a life I never really got to live.

All I wanted was to rewind time and get a do-over. Life was too short, and I’d missed out on their golden years.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the stand, pulling me out of my nostalgia.

I looked around and frowned. The contrast between my sweet childhood memories and the reality of the old roadside stand was jarring.

One of the rusted chains holding the Briar Patch Pies sign had completely snapped. The sign was currently swinging crookedly overhead, squeaking in protest with every breeze. The paint on the sign was faded now, but I remember when it was a brand-new, bold red.

The ancient display cooler kicked on with a weak, asthmatic hum that did not inspire confidence in its ability to keep the goat milk cold.

But I could handle this.

A swinging sign and a struggling cooler didn’t change my plans. It just meant I’d have to find a ladder and a pair of pliers, and maybe pack the cooler with some extra ice from the gas station down the road. None of this would deter me.

I could still remember my grandpa confiding in me that the Fourth of July always brought in the biggest payday of the year.

On his best weekend, they’d bring in close to ten thousand dollars.

If I could pull in even part of that amount, it would go a long way toward paying some closing costs on my condo.

I took a deep breath, smoothing the gingham cloth out over the front counter. I arranged Kat’s strawberry jam next to my blackberry jars, trying to make the display look intentionally rustic rather than tragically understocked.

And if I got a chance to pick more blackberries, I could sell small bags of them. They’d fill up the rest of the counter.

The crunch of tires on gravel made my head snap up.

Had Kat come back?

Nope.

An old, beat-up Ford pickup truck pulled off the road, coasting into the dirt parking lot right next to the berry stand.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim cut-offs and pasted on my best customer-service smile.

First customer of the day. And I wasn’t even open. Time to hustle.

But as the truck shifted into park, my customer-service smile faltered.

The man behind the wheel was… well, he was something else entirely.

He was the quintessential Red Oak Mountain hottie, fully grown and poured into a faded t-shirt that stretched tightly across a broad, muscular chest. He looked to be about ten years older than me, with short, thick dark hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard that framed a strong jawline.

From this distance, he looked like every woman’s dream come true.

Through the dusty windshield, his eyes locked onto mine.

Dark. Smoldering. Intense.

My breath caught in my throat as a spark zipped straight through the sticky summer air and landed right in the center of my chest.

He got out and started walking over to me.

The whole world did a slow tilt, then slammed right side up again, leaving me feeling strangely breathless as I watched him approach.

He was tall and filled out with muscles. And he moved with the steady, grounded confidence of a man who worked hard and got what he wanted. His faded jeans were dusted with sawdust, and his heavy leather work boots had seen better days.

Holy-hunka-hottie. Give me just one bite of that man, please, lord, and I’ll never ask for anything again as long as I live.

I’d forgotten what Red Oak Mountain men could be like.

But I didn’t need a distraction. I was only here for a few weeks.

As he stopped in front of the counter, his dark eyes slowly trailing over my face, I realized I was in serious trouble.

He was looking at me like he wanted to eat me right up.

Yum.