Chapter 8 - Kaleb
Kaleb
The rain finally gave up sometime after midnight. I was half-asleep but I guess my instincts as a mountain man kicked in and I tuned into the sounds outside my cabin before falling back to sleep.
The sky’s clear this morning—crisp blue, the kind that makes the pines look sharper, greener. I’m up early, coffee down, gear packed. Racer’s already bouncing at the door, tail whipping like a metronome. He’s just the best buddy a man could wish for, and that’s on God.
I should be focused on the job: three old maples flagged for inspection deep in the back quadrant. Could be blight, could be nothing. Either way, it’s a solid three-mile hike in, three out. A long day all told.
But my mind keeps drifting to him.
Taron.
I told myself last night—after dropping him off, after watching him disappear up those B&B steps—that I’d keep my distance today. He’s temporary. A city boy with a manuscript and a life that doesn’t include muddy boots and chainsaw oil.
He’ll leave. They always do.
And yet here I am, turning the truck toward Oak Lake B&B instead of straight to the trailhead.
“Stupid,” I mutter to Racer. He just pants happily from the passenger seat. “you’re no help either. It’s like you want me to see the damn boy.”
I pull up outside the wraparound porch. The fairy lights still glowing faintly in the daylight. Taron’s already waiting—red jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair shining adorably. He spots the truck, grins wide, and trots down the steps like he’s been counting the minutes.
Damn if that doesn’t twist something in my chest.
He climbs in, brings the smell of shampoo and fresh coffee with him.
“Morning,” he says, buckling up. “You’re early.”
“Work starts early.” I pull away from the curb, gravel crunching under the tires. “You ready for a hike?”
“Born ready.” He pats his backpack. “Notebook, water, snacks, Lightening. The essentials.”
I grunt. “Long walk today. Deep into the forest. You sure you can hack it?”
“Positive.” He flashes that bright, city-boy smile. “I want to see more of what you do.”
I don’t answer. Just turn onto the county road that winds out of town toward Hardrock Park. The silence stretches, comfortable at first, then he reaches for the radio.
Classic Rock is halfway through “Sweet Home Alabama” when his fingers twist the dial. Some thumping bassline kicks in—electronic, synthetic, all bleeps and buzzes that make my head spin.
“What the hell is that?” I growl, temped to smack the boy’s hand for such sacriledge.
“Dance remix! It’s fun!” He bounces a little in the seat.
I reach over, flip it back. Skynyrd returns mid-chorus.
He pouts—full lower lip, eyes big and teasing. “You’re no fun.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. That pout. That little flash of defiance. Heat coils low in my gut.
I picture it: pulling over right here on the shoulder, hauling him across my lap, jeans down, hand cracking down until that pout turns to whimpers, then pleas, then—
“Keep pushing, little boy,” I say, voice clear and low. “And you’ll find out how much fun I can be.”
Taron goes still. Cheeks flush pink. But he doesn’t argue. Just crosses his arms and stares out the window, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
Good. Let him stew on that.
The road narrows, pavement giving way to packed dirt. Trees close in, branches arching overhead. Sunlight dapples the dash. Racer is across me, and his head is out the window, tongue flapping.
Taron relaxes after a few miles, starts pointing out things—birds, weird-shaped clouds, a deer that darts across the track. I answer in grunts mostly, but I’m listening. More than I want to admit.
We park at the trailhead lot—empty this early. I shoulder my pack: water, first-aid, marking tape, binoculars, notebook of my own. Taron hops out, stretches, looks around like he’s stepped into Narnia.
“Lead the way, lumberjack.”
I snort. “Stay close. And don’t go eating your candies on the way out. You’ll need the sugar injection for the return. Got it?”
“Sure thing,” Taron answers, smiling and watching as Racer charges off.
We start down the path—narrow at first, then widening into an old logging road. Pine needles soft underfoot, air thick with resin and damp earth. Racer ranges ahead further, then back, tail high.
Taron keeps pace easily. No complaints, no whining about the distance. Just quiet wonder—head tipping back to watch the canopy, fingers brushing bark, small gasps when a woodpecker hammers overhead.
It’s… nice.
Having someone here. Not just Racer’s steady presence, but human conversation. Questions about tree species, how I spot disease, why certain cuts matter. And to give him credit, he listens. Really listens. Like what I do isn’t just manual labor to him.
After an hour, the trail dips toward the river. Water’s high from yesterday’s rain, running fast and clear over smooth stones. Racer bolts straight in, splashing, barking at nothing.
Taron laughs—bright, unguarded. “He’s having the time of his life.”
“Yeah. Thinks he’s part otter, I’m convinced of it.”
We stop on the bank. Sun filters through, turning the water gold. He crouches, trails fingers in the current. I watch him—profile soft, hair shiny, cheeks flushed from the walk.
Something shifts.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach down. Take his hand.
His fingers are cool from the water. Mine rough, callused. But they fit. Lock together like they’ve done it a thousand times.
He looks up, startled. Then soft. Eyes wide, lips parted.
I don’t think. I just lean down.
Our mouths meet… slow at first, testing. Then deeper. Hungrier.
He makes a small sound—half sigh, half moan—and rises on his toes. Hands slide up my chest, gripping my flannel. I cup the back of his neck, tilt his head, taste coffee and mint and him.
It’s electric.
Sparks down my spine, heat pooling low.
My free hand finds his waist, pulls him flush against me. He melts—his buttery soft curves against hard muscle, a perfect fit.
I could kiss the boy for hours.
But reality crashes in.
Trees to scout. Work to do. And this—whatever this is—can’t go anywhere permanent.
I break the kiss, breathing hard. My forehead rests against his.
“We need to keep moving,” I rasp. “Still a long way.”
He nods, dazed. Lips swollen, eyes glassy. “Okay…”
I take his hand again.
We walk on like that—fingers laced, Racer trotting ahead, the river murmuring beside us.
I tell myself it’s just for today.
Just while he’s here.
But deep down, I already know I’m lying.
The kiss lingers on my lips longer than it should as we keep walking. Hand in hand. Racer trotting ahead like nothing’s changed, but everything has.
We reach the first flagged maple about twenty minutes later—big old bastard, crown thinning, bark peeling in strips. I drop my pack, pull out the binoculars, and start the survey.
“Taron,” I say, nodding toward his backpack. “You’re on notes. Take my writing pad.”
He blinks, surprised, then grins like I just handed him the keys to the kingdom. “Really? I get to be your official note-taker?”
“Don’t make me regret it.” I hand him my small spiral notebook and a pencil. “Write what I say. Exact measurements if I give ‘em. Observations. No editorializing. I know what you writers are like, always trying to put your spin on things.”
“Yes, sir.” He salutes with the pencil, playful, but there’s a spark in his eye that tells me he’s taking this seriously.
Good.
I circle the tree, checking for cankers, dead limbs, root flare issues. He follows, scribbling fast.
“Basal canker present, approximately eight inches wide, weeping at edges. Crown dieback twenty percent on north side. DBH—uh, diameter at breast height—forty-two inches.”
He repeats it back under his breath as he writes, tongue peeking out in concentration.
We move to the second tree. Healthier, but some branch rot. I mark it for pruning next week.
Third one’s the problem child—leaning hard, heartwood exposed where a storm took a chunk out years ago. Compromised. Dangerous if the next big wind hits.
“This one’s coming down,” I tell him. “Tomorrow or the day after. Full felling. Safety zone will need to be triple checked.”
The boy nods solemnly, pencil flying. “Felled. Priority.”
By the time we finish the last tree—stable, no immediate action—I’m satisfied. Two need follow-up work, one needs the Kaleb. Solid morning.
I wipe sweat from my brow. “That’s it for now. We’ll head back after lunch.”
“Lunch?” Taron perks up.
We find a flat rock near the river, sun warm on our backs. Racer flops in the shallows, cooling off. I pull out two thick ham-and-cheddar sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, hand him one.
He takes it gratefully, then reaches into his backpack.
A cascade of candy wrappers spills out—bright foil squares, crinkled cellophane, empty mini chocolate-bar packets. They flutter to the ground like confetti.
My jaw tightens.
“Taron.”
He freezes, hand halfway to another wrapper still in the bag. Looks up at me, wide-eyed.
“I… um…”
“I told you,” I say slowly, voice dropping an octave. “No eating candy until the walk back. We’re working. Focus. No sugar crashes in the middle of the woods. And now you won’t have any sugar supplies to pep you up on the way back to the truck.”
He laughs—light, nervous, trying to play it off. “Who cares? It’s just a few pieces. I was hungry.”
Wrong answer.
I set my sandwich down. Deliberate. Controlled.
“Stand up,” I growl.
His laughter dies. He swallows, eyes flicking to the wrappers, then back to me.
“Kaleb—”
“Over my lap. Now.”
“Here?” Taron asks, looking around at the vast space around us.
He hesitates, cheeks flushing. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t run. Just steps closer, lets me guide him down across my thighs. His backpack hits the ground beside us. Racer lifts his head, curious, but then quickly goes back to chewing a stick like this is normal.
“You were told the rules,” I say quietly. “You broke them. Laughed it off. That’s twice today you’ve pushed.”
He squirms, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean—”
“Intent doesn’t matter,” I say, my cock hardening with every passing second. “Obedience does. You’re going to have your butt seen to right here and now. But this time I’m going to switch things up a little. Off my lap. This is one spanking you won’t be forgetting in a hurry…”
With that, I lift Taron off my lap and march him down toward the river.
This boy is about to get the wet-bottom spanking of his life…