Caught By the Lumberjack (Sexy Lumberjacks)

Chapter One

Clementine

My tie-dyed hands gripped the steering wheel as I navigated the winding road up Fire Mountain. The ancient Volkswagen van—lovingly named Dharma—protested with each curve, her engine wheezing like an asthmatic dragon. I'd painted her myself last summer: swirls of forest green and sunset orange, with "SAVE THE PLANET ONE TREE AT A TIME" emblazoned across both sides in psychedelic lettering.

"Almost there, old girl," I murmured, patting the dashboard affectionately while humming along to "Box of Rain" playing on my vintage cassette player. The Grateful Dead always kept me company on these solo missions.

I'd been tracking the movements of Ridgeway Logging sometimes I was simply dragged away with minimal fanfare. But every act of resistance mattered in the grand scheme.

My longest protest had lasted nearly two days before authorities cut the chains. The shortest had been a mere forty minutes when an overzealous security guard had simply picked me up—chains, tree branch, and all—and deposited me unceremoniously outside the property line.

I'd had a few fleeting romances born in these moments of activism—a fellow environmentalist here, a sympathetic legal observer there. Nothing had ever stuck. They either couldn't handle my nomadic lifestyle or wanted to "settle me down," as if my passion for environmental justice was just a phase to outgrow.

"Who needs relationships when you've got trees?" I said aloud, patting Grandmother Tree affectionately. "At least you're consistent."

I dug into my backpack, pulled out a small, hand-rolled joint, and lit it. The sweet, earthy smoke mingled with the pine-scented air as I took a contemplative drag. Not the healthiest habit, perhaps, but it helped me commune with nature. Or so I told myself.

I'd been sitting there for maybe an hour, alternating between meditation, and scrolling through my social media accounts to document my protest, when I heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching vehicle.

"Showtime," I muttered, straightening my posture and adopting what I hoped was an expression of serene determination.

A massive pickup truck burst into view, dust billowing behind it like an angry cloud. It screeched to a halt at the edge of the clearing, and the driver's door flew open with such force I thought it might detach from its hinges.

The man who emerged made my breath catch in my throat.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of this entire mountain. His dark brown hair was tousled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, and a day's worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. He wore a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, jeans that had clearly seen better days, and mud-caked work boots.

In short, he looked like the human embodiment of everything I opposed: a lumberjack.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted, striding toward me with purpose.

I lifted my chin defiantly. "Protecting what you're planning to destroy."

He stopped a few feet away, his eyes—a startling shade of blue that reminded me of mountain lakes—narrowing as they took in the chain, the lock, and finally my face.

"Lady, you're trespassing on private property and interfering with a legal logging operation." His voice was deep and gravelly, like rocks tumbling down a mountainside.

"I'm exercising my right to peaceful protest," I countered. "This tree is older than your company, your grandfather, and probably this entire town."

His jaw clenched visibly. Behind him, I noticed several other men emerging from the truck—the logging crew, I presumed. They hung back, watching the confrontation with expressions ranging from amusement to annoyance.

"I'm Vaughn Ridgeway," he said, as if that name should mean something to me. When I didn't react, he elaborated, "Of Ridgeway Logging and Timber. The company whose schedule you're currently screwing with."

"I'm Clementine Fox," I replied, "of Planet Earth. The planet your company is currently screwing with."

A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Listen, Flower Child—"

"My name is Clementine."

"Fine. Clementine . I don't know what tree-hugging fantasy brought you all the way out here from..." He paused, eyeing my van visible in the distance. "California? But this is completely misguided."

"Misguided?" I bristled. "What's misguided is thinking old-growth forests are just dollar signs waiting to be harvested."

He crossed his arms over his chest, and I absolutely did not notice how the movement strained his flannel shirt across his shoulders.

"You have exactly five minutes to unlock yourself before I call the sheriff," he threatened.

I settled more firmly against the tree, the chain clinking with my movement. "Go ahead. I've got nothing but time."

For a moment, he just stared at me, looking both irritated and—if I wasn't mistaken—grudgingly impressed. Then he turned to one of the men behind him. "Phil, get me the bolt cutters from the truck."

My heart rate quickened. "You can't do that!"

"Watch me," Vaughn growled.

The man named Phil jogged back to the truck and returned moments later with a pair of intimidating-looking bolt cutters. I wrapped my arms around the tree as tightly as I could.

"I'll just chain myself to another one," I warned.

"Not if I confiscate your hippie hardware," Vaughn countered, taking the bolt cutters from Phil.

He crouched beside me, his face now level with mine. This close, I could see flecks of gray in his blue eyes and smell the faint scent of coffee and pine that clung to him. It was... not unpleasant.

"Last chance," he said, his voice lower now. "Unlock yourself voluntarily."

"Not happening, Lumber Jack," I said, infusing my voice with a bravado I didn't entirely feel.

He sighed, then positioned the bolt cutters around the chain near the lock. With one powerful squeeze of his hands, the metal links snapped apart. Before I could process what was happening, he had me by the waist, physically lifting me away from the tree.

"Hey!" I protested, my legs kicking uselessly in the air. "Put me down!"

The chain, still attached to the lock around my waist, dangled uselessly as Vaughn carried me bodily toward the edge of the clearing. His arms were like steel bands around me, and despite my outrage, I couldn't help noticing how easily he held me, as if I weighed nothing at all.

"This is assault!" I shouted, struggling against his grip. "And theft of personal property!"

He set me down just shy of where my van was parked, his hands lingering on my waist a moment longer than necessary. "This is me removing a trespasser from private property," he corrected. "A trespasser who was about to encounter some very dangerous equipment tomorrow morning."

I shoved his chest, though it was like pushing against a brick wall. "You're destroying centuries-old trees for profit!"

"I'm sustainably harvesting timber on land that's been in my family for generations," he countered, his face now inches from mine as he leaned down to my level. "We replant every acre we harvest."

"Oh please," I scoffed, ignoring the inappropriate flutter in my stomach at his proximity. "Spare me the corporate greenwashing."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't know the first thing about me or my business, Miss Fox."

"I know enough," I retorted, though a tiny seed of doubt had planted itself in my mind.

Vaughn stepped back, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Get in your rainbow machine and go back to whatever crystal-infused commune you came from. And stay off my land if you know what's good for you."

My cheeks burned—with anger, I told myself, definitely just anger. "Or what? You'll cut me down too?"

Something flashed in his eyes that I couldn't quite identify. "Trust me, you don't want to find out."

With that, he turned and strode back toward his crew, his broad shoulders tense beneath his flannel shirt. The chain still dangled uselessly from the lock around my waist as I watched him go, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I wasn't done. Not by a long shot. If Vaughn Ridgeway thought a little intimidation would send me scurrying back to California, he had seriously underestimated my commitment.

I fumbled with the lock at my waist, finally freeing myself from the remnants of the chain. "This isn't over, Ridgeway!" I called after him.

He didn't turn around, but I saw his step falter slightly before he continued toward his truck.

I stormed back to Dharma, my mind racing. Clearly, I needed more information about Ridgeway Logging & Timber. Perhaps Ashwood would yield some intel on this operation—and its frustratingly handsome owner.

As I climbed back into my van and started the engine, I couldn't quite shake the memory of Vaughn's voice, deep and commanding, or the feeling of those strong arms lifting me away from the tree. For the first time in a long while, I felt genuinely rattled, and not just because my protest had been thwarted.

"Focus, Clem," I muttered to myself as I guided Dharma back toward the main road. "He's the enemy, remember?"

But as I drove toward Ashwood, I couldn't help wondering why my heart was still racing—and why I was already plotting my next encounter with the mountain man who'd just carried me bodily from his forest.