Axe Backwards (Maine Lumberjacks #4)

1. Victoria

Chapter 1

Victoria

“ D id you hear me?”

Pulse quickening, I surveyed the coffee shop, wishing the reclaimed oak floors would open up and swallow me whole.

“Memorial Day.”

Panic was settling in. This had to be a hallucination. I didn’t sleep much these days, and to make matters worse, the people who’d moved into the apartment above mine had been making an unholy racket last night, making it impossible to get even my usual three or four hours.

I grasped the top of the cute wooden booth, steadying myself. The Caffeinated Moose was a hipster coffee shop that had opened about a year ago. While I’d worried at first that our little logging community might not welcome exposed ductwork and six-dollar lattes, the place had been steadily busy since opening day.

Raeanna had a handful of employees these days, and they almost always sold out of their signature blueberry lemon scones by nine.

I’d stopped here for a good-luck Americano before my meeting, but clearly, it had done me no good.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, her voice high-pitched and defiant.

“Congrats,” I blurted out as tears stung my eyes and my throat tightened.

She was speaking, but I was too intent on remaining conscious to process her words.

This could not be happening. Not today.

My brain flooded with the all-consuming guilt I’d worked so hard to heal from. The constant barrage of questions and concern, friends holding their babies and saying “you’re next!” and well-meaning relatives questioning why we hadn’t started a family yet.

Alexandra babbled on about her due date. In winter maybe? Then she made a comment about our mother. Another regarding her wedding, which she’d been talking about for months. My mind could not process any of it.

My body was broken. Unable to fulfill its purpose. And now she was pregnant?

Did she really have to tell me this today of all days?

“I’m walking into a meeting.” My words were curt, but it was all I could muster. “Can I call you back later?”

She continued speaking, but I didn’t register anything. Not when my world was collapsing around me. I pushed my way through the busy morning crowd and into the bathroom.

The old dead bolt was brass and heavy, but I managed to get it to turn. Once I was safely ensconced and alone, I cried. I didn’t outright sob. No, I’d save that for later. For now, I let the tears flow, knowing that holding them back would only hurt more.

Alexandra and Graham were having a baby.

Together.

My baby sister.

And my ex-husband.

I flattened a hand against the wall to brace myself, willing my lungs to take in oxygen.

Breathe. Just breathe.

In my experience, when a day starts out this badly, it’ll only get worse. Even a minor inconvenience can quickly spiral into full-blown disaster with the right set of circumstances.

I closed my eyes, focusing on nothing but my breath. There was time to be angry and hurt and betrayed. So much time for that.

Later. Right now, I was in public, and I was scheduled to attend an important meeting in fifteen minutes.

So I took ten cleansing breaths and then rooted around in my purse for the mascara and lip gloss I kept for emergencies.

Fix your face and get on with it .

My eyes were red and my face was blotchy, but I had no choice but to pull myself together.

Business mode. People are depending on you.

I did my best to fix my makeup, then I brushed my hair and smoothed down my skirt. After years in corporate PR, one would think I’d be a master at this.

Pitching, schmoozing, convincing people to open their wallets.

I used to eat up city sidewalks in four-inch heels.

I raked in six figures while using my expense account to its fullest, dining and drinking and shopping in the finest places.

My confidence rivaled that of ten mediocre men. Nothing and no one stood in my way.

Regardless of the news I had just received, I had to show up and do my damn job. This was my purpose, and it was the only thing I had left.

Yes, meetings like this were the worst part of the job, but they couldn’t be avoided. The food pantry had only survived the last year because of the generosity of Owen Hebert, who sent a construction crew to replace our roof pro bono and made a sizable donation on top of that.

As huge as the gesture was, it wasn’t enough. There was never enough.

The summer lumberjack fundraiser had helped, but now that it was April, we were running out of those funds. We needed a big infusion of cash before the end of the year.

The food pantry’s resources were needed year-round, but the urgency grew during the summer when local kids couldn’t get breakfast and lunch at school.

A mobile lunch truck would help tremendously. I’d seen it in Boston and in other bigger towns. The food bank or another organization would park at a playground or community space, giving families access to meals and supplies in multiple locations.

Doing so put less stress on the physical building and went directly to the kids who needed to eat.

It’s go time. Get out there and get the money. You can do this.

With a slow breath out, I turned and grasped the door handle with one hand and went for the dead bolt with the other. I would crush this meeting and then go home and feel my feelings.

Only an ancient oak door stood in my way. And it wasn’t opening.

I clutched the tarnished brass dead bolt and twisted my wrist.

It didn’t budge.

I used both hands next, wrenching it back as hard as I could.

In response, there was a snapping sound, and the turn piece finally moved.

But the dead bolt was stuck in the doorframe.

Fuck.

I wiggled the turn piece back and forth, but the damn dead bolt, which was probably older than electricity, was fully engaged, anchoring the door to the frame.

Tremors racked my body. They were slight at first, just enough to make my hands shake. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Then my throat went tight. This could not be happening.

Panting now, I checked my smartwatch. I only had eleven minutes to make it across Main Street and get to the meeting.

Think, Vic, think.

I banged on the door, putting my shoulder into it. God help me.

It was no use. I needed help.

I dug my phone out of my purse and googled the number for the Caffeinated Moose. I’d calmly tell them what happened, and someone would help me out.

It rang and rang. No one picked up.

It was morning rush; it was so loud out there. Even if poor Raeanna could hear the phone, she probably didn’t have time to pick it up.

I closed my eyes, my mind flipping through the faces of townsfolk who could help.

Loretta’s image snagged my attention. Yes. She was sitting by the window with a group of ladies who were knitting and sipping tea.

Clearing my throat, I pulled up her contact information and called.

“Victoria, how are you?” she asked, a buzz of the people in the background.

Loretta had been president of our local bank before she retired and found her true purpose as a town gossip and busybody. Even I had to admit that woman knew how to get shit done.

“I’m here,” I said, finding it hard to speak. “I’m at the Caffeinated Moose.”

“That’s lovely.”

“I’m locked in the bathroom.”

A small gasp escaped her. “Oh dear.”

“Can you tell Raeanna that I need help? The lock on the door broke.”

“Of course. Don’t panic, sweetie. We’ll figure it out. Are you hurt?”

“No.”

After I disconnected the call, I waited, once again focusing on my breathing.

I rubbed my temples. I was not canceling this meeting. Aunt Lou was struggling, and I’d promised her that I would keep everyone in this county fed.

The woman had been single-handedly running the food pantry for thirty years, and I had a fucking MBA. Surely I could solicit a few donations from the local rich assholes.

Except I had a heavy wooden door standing between me and my objective.

“Vic?” Raeanna called as the door shook a little. “We’re working on getting you out. Looks like the lock is broken. I called the fire department, but they’re out on a call.”

I banged my head gently against the solid wood. Of course they were. This was a tiny town. The entire Lovewell fire department was probably out rescuing a cat from a tree.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, conceding defeat. I’d have to call Charles Huxley’s office and reschedule. I got the impression he liked to feel important by toying with the plebs, of which I was one, so I’d had to jump through hoops to meet with him, and it had taken months to get on his calendar.

But he was a powerful guy with a lot of connections. As a former lieutenant governor and owner of a large, successful construction company, he was an important ally in the fight against food insecurity.

Fuck.

Motherfucking door.

After my sister’s phone call, I should have expected a ridiculous scenario like this. I should have been prepared to find a stupid, broken dead bolt standing between me and what I hoped was a big donation.

I was pulling up the number to Mr. Huxley’s office when a deep, muffled voice called out.

“Ma’am? I’m going to take the door down. You okay in there?”

“Yes,” I shouted. Excellent. I guess the fire department had made it after all.

“Stand as far from the door as you can and face the wall. There may be debris.”

The room wasn’t large, but I went to the far corner, next to the toilet, and turned around. With my luck, I’d end up with wood shards in my ass.

A loud crack startled me.

It was followed by a splintering sound.

Good.

Then another.

“That’s a good one,” the deep voice said.

The comment was followed by a grunt and then a big thump.

I peered over my shoulder, finding several pieces of wood on the floor between me and the door.

“Please face the wall, ma’am,” the voice commanded.

I did as I was told, but not before catching sight of a muscular torso in a tight T-shirt. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

He didn’t sound like Chief Mitchell. Or Matt Graves or Lieutenant Vargas. I thought I knew all the firemen in town.

A loud crash echoed through the room, making me jump, but I forced myself not to turn.

“That was the lock housing,” the man on the other side of the door said. “You can come out now.”

I turned and took in the damage. He’d cut through the doorframe with an axe, then knocked out the lock. As he pushed what was left of the door open with a gloved hand, several pieces fell away. He pulled back the shards, then a muscled forearm covered with tattoos appeared.

A wave of gratitude flooded me. Who was this guy?

He, along with a few other people, cleared the rest of the debris. Then he reached out to me.

I took his offered hand, stepping over a pile of splintered wood on the tile floor.

In the hallway, I looked up at my rescuer. He was tall, and hissandy brown hair fell over his bright blue eyes. Where I expected turnout gear, he was wearing a tight black T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants made of Gore-Tex or some other expensive high-tech fabric.

Probably a hiker or adrenaline junky passing through town.

More and more often, tourists had been coming to Lovewell. This town was finally putting itself on the map as a gateway to the Northern Maine wilderness.

On second thought, this guy was familiar. And by the way his blue eyes widened when he took me in, he knew me too.

“You okay, Victoria?” he asked, squeezing my hand.

Only then did it hit me.