Chapter 4 - Kaleb #2
I start low, working my way around the base.
The lower branches are thick, some as big around as my thigh.
I notch each one on the underside first—quick, shallow cut—then come over the top.
The branch drops clean, thuds to the forest floor.
Sawdust sprays, sweet and sharp, sticking to my forearms where sweat’s already starting to bead.
One branch. Two. Three.
“Hell yeah,” I rumble, pleased with how smoothly this is going.
The tree starts to look less like a living thing and more like a stripped pole. Good. Less weight up high means less chance of barber-chair when I make the back cut later.
I’m maybe ten feet up the trunk now, balanced on a springy branch I’ve left as a makeshift ladder, reaching for a fat limb that’s angled right over the trail.
The saw’s screaming, vibrating through my bones in that familiar, almost comforting way.
I’m in the zone—breath steady, mind quiet, nothing but the next cut.
Then I see it.
Rustling in the distance.
Not wind. Not a squirrel.
I kill the saw mid-cut and rip off my ear protectors. The sudden silence is deafening—nothing but my own breathing and the drip of last night’s rain off the needles.
I swing the bar away from the branch, hook it on my harness, and drop down to the ground in one smooth motion.
I hear it again. The sound is heavy. Two-footed. Coming from the downhill side, right through the flagging tape like it isn’t even there.
My blood goes cold, then hot.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck.”
Racer’s already up, hackles raised, low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Easy,” I tell him, hand out. He stays put, but his eyes are locked on the same spot as mine.
I stride toward the tape line, boots crunching needles and mud. The rustling stops—then starts again, closer. Someone’s moving slow, like they’re trying to be quiet and failing.
I reach the perimeter, rip the tape aside, and step through.
And there he is.
Taron.
Standing maybe fifteen feet inside the zone, frozen like a deer caught in headlights.
He’s wearing a bright red rain jacket that looks brand-new, jeans tucked into hiking boots that haven’t seen enough mud yet to break in, and a backpack slung over one shoulder.
His hair is a little messy, cheeks pink from the cold… or maybe from the look I’m giving him.
He’s holding a notebook. Open. Pen in hand.
For a second I can’t speak. Just stare.
Then the anger catches up.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I growl. “I take it you saw the sign?”
The boy flinches. The notebook snaps shut against his chest like a shield.
“I—I heard the chainsaw,” he says, words tumbling fast. “I was walking the trail and I thought… I don’t know, I thought maybe it was someone cutting firewood or something. I didn’t see the signs until I was already…”
“You didn’t see the bright orange tape? The signs that say DANGER in six-inch letters?”
Taron looks down, then back up. His eyes are wide, guilty, but there’s something else there too—curiosity, maybe. Or defiance.
“I saw them,” he admits. “But I figured… if it was really dangerous, there’d be more. Like big signs or a guy with a clipboard or something. I just wanted to see what was happening. For research.”
“Research?” I grumble, rolling my eyes. “Seriously?”
He nods, quick little jerks. “I’m a writer.
I write… stories. And this—” he gestures vaguely at the half-limbed hemlock, at me, at the whole damn scene—“this is perfect. A real lumberjack in the woods, felling a giant tree. It’s like something out of a book.
I thought maybe I could watch for a minute.
Take notes. I wasn’t going to get close or anything. ”
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the grit of sawdust on my stubble.
“You’re inside the drop zone,” I say slowly, like I’m explaining to a child. “That tree’s coming down today. When it does, it’s gonna hit the ground hard enough to bounce. Branches snap off like shrapnel. If you’re standing where you’re standing when that happens, you’re not walking away.”
His face drains of color. He glances at the tree—really looks at it this time—then back at me.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Racer pads up beside me, still growling low. I put my hand on his head. He quiets, but my trusty canine friend doesn’t take his eyes off him.
Taron swallows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I mean, I’m really sorry. I’ll go. Right now.”
He takes a step back.
I should let him. I should watch him scurry back to the trail, back to the B&B, back to whatever city he crawled out of. I should get back to work and forget this ever happened.
But he’s shaking. Not a lot—just a fine tremor in his hands where he’s clutching that notebook. And his eyes keep darting to the tree, then to me, then to Racer, like he’s trying to figure out which one’s going to bite first.
I sigh. Long. Heavy.
“You know how to walk in the woods without stepping on every damn twig?”
He blinks. “I… think so?”
“Doubt it.” I jerk my head toward the hemlock. “Come here. Slowly. Stay behind me. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk unless I ask you something.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“You’re… letting me stay?”
“I’m not letting you wander off and get lost or trample my drop zone again. So yeah. You stay where I can see you. You watch. You don’t move unless I say. And when I say we’re done, you leave. Got it?”
He nods fast. “Got it.”
I turn back toward the tree, and motion for the boy to follow. Racer falls in between us like he’s his personal escort—or maybe his jailer. I haven’t decided which yet.
I pick up the saw again, start it, feel the familiar roar settle into my bones.
He’s quiet behind me. I can feel his eyes on my back, on the way the saw bites into the next branch, on the way wood chips fly and the limb crashes down.
I don’t look at him.
But I know he’s there.
Taron might not realize it, but he’s lucky he’s not over the nearest tree trunk right now with his jeans and briefs around his ankles and his butt feeling the wrath of my palm.
But if he crosses my path the wrong way again, all bets are off.