7. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Beau
There's a certain rhythm to splitting wood that soothes even the darkest of souls.
The strong lift of the axe, the whistle as it cuts through air, the satisfying crack when steel meets timber and the log surrenders to pure brutal force.
It's completely predictable. Controlled.
The opposite of whatever the fuck has been happening in my head for the past three days.
I bring the axe down harder this time, and another log breaks clean in two.
Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold mountain air kissing my bare chest. The snowstorm finally broke overnight, leaving behind a crystalline world of white that would be postcard-perfect if I was the type to send postcards.
Which I'm not.
Instead, I'm the type who spends three days snowed in, burning through his entire woodpile like an idiot, then ends up shirtless in twenty-degree weather because apparently my body runs hot when I'm thinking about things—and people—I shouldn't be.
People like Molly Jennings.
"Focus on the fucking wood," I mutter, adjusting the volume on the weathered speakers sitting on my workbench. Fast heavy metal rhythm blares louder, drowning out thoughts I don't want to entertain.
I slam the axe down again. Harder this time.
The shed is a mess of half-finished projects that I've taken on from people around town. People who don't realize that "reclusive mountain man" usually translates to "leave me the hell alone."
Of course, I do have to make ends meet like any normal person.
That's why I have an old rocking chair sitting in the corner waiting for new spindles.
I've yet to start on Frank Barrett's antique cash register that no one else would touch, and I've forever for piles of old chairs from Betty's café to return.
But I don't like go into town much.
I don't like the eyes, the whispers, the expectations of casual conversation and small talk.
I'd rather be up here, where the only judgment comes from the occasional hawk circling overhead, or the family of deer that sometimes wanders past my property line.
And even they're smart enough not to tread too closely.
Through the open shed door, I can see my cabin standing proud against the mountain backdrop. I built every inch of that sanctuary myself.
Measuring twice, cutting once, cursing a thousand times whenever I fucked it up and had to do it again.
During those first brutal months after my discharge, when I couldn't sleep without nightmares, each log I shaped, each nail I drove represented another day I survived.
Survived when I wasn't sure I even wanted to.
I was a raw nerve, flinching at car backfires and sleeping in two-hour stretches, a hard habit to break after living life in the firing line, splitting night watch with my comrades.
But something about this place—this steep, rocky plot on the mountainside where nobody bothered to build—called to me.
I paid cash. Lived in this quickly assembled woodshed while I constructed the foundation. I hauled every piece of timber myself, fit it in place perfectly, and installed every window with my bare hands.
The locals thought I was insane.
Or dangerous.
Maybe I was both.
Now the cabin stands as the only thing I've created that hasn't been broken or tainted.
Two glorious stories of cedar and stone, with a wraparound deck that offers views all the way to the valley floor below.
The massive windows I custom-ordered. The chimney built from river rocks I gathered myself.
This is my fortress against the world. My proof that I could still build something after seeing so much destruction.
I split another log with excessive force, sending fragments flying as I take a break and look out across the yard.
Molly's suitcase still sits in the back of my truck. I've told myself I'll return it when the roads clear, along with the keys that rest on my kitchen counter.
I separated them from my own things, almost like they might contaminate everything I own with the complications they represent.
I've nearly opened that suitcase at least five times. Just to check if there's anything she might need urgently. Not because I'm curious about what kind of clothes she packed to escape my brother.
Definitely not because I wonder what kind of underwear she wears. Definitely not.
"You're a perverted bastard, Callahan," I growl at myself, picking up and swinging the axe with renewed vigor.
I get back to the wood chopping, and by the time I've rebuilt my woodpile to a respectable height, my arms are burning. I swipe my forearm across my brow, place the axe back on its hook, grab my shirt and head inside.
My boots echo against the wide-plank pine floors as I enter through the back door. The cabin welcomes me with silence. It's nice to hear nothing after three days of howling wind rattling the windows.
Most people expect a ex-military man's place to be spartan. Utilitarian. But war taught me to appreciate beauty in unexpected moments, so I've surrounded myself with it.
The downstairs living room spans the entire main floor. Kitchen, dining, and living space blending together beneath twenty-foot ceilings supported by hand-hewn beams.
The kitchen island is a single slab of black walnut I salvaged from a fallen tree on the property the day I bought it. I've sanded it to an almost mirror-sleek finish and sealed it with oil I rubbed in by hand over countless nights when sleep wouldn't come.
The stone fireplace rises to the peak of the ceiling, still radiating heat from last night's fire. Built-in bookshelves flank either side, filled with volumes most wouldn't expect. Hemingway and Steinbeck, sure, but also Austen and poetry collections I'd never admit to reading.
Everything in this space has purpose, has meaning.
The coffee table I built from the hood of a '67 Mustang a fallen brother of our unit treasured dearly. The woven blanket from a grateful family in Afghanistan.
They gifted it to me after I helped rebuild their home when a missile strike demolished half their village. The mother had pressed it into my calloused hands with tears in her eyes, insisting despite my protests.
Sometimes at night, when the memories crowd too close, and the mountain silence feels like a weight, I wrap myself in its rough-spun warmth and remember that even in the darkest places, humanity finds ways to create beauty.
I've lined the walls downstairs with a series of black and white photographs I took during deployment. Landscapes only, never people. Never the chaos or the bloodshed.
I drop my shirt on the counter and grab a glass of water, downing it in three long swallows. The emergency radio scanner that's trekked all around the world with me sits on the windowsill above the sink.
I switch it on out of habit, always needing to know what's happening around me, always making sure I'm prepared.
Static crackles, then Jamie Striker's voice cuts through, reporting to someone about vehicles still stranded in town after the storm.
I could call in, offer to help.
They've been trying to recruit me to Mountain Rescue since I arrived, and I've complied a few times before it got too much to handle.
Like I need more lives in my hands anyway. I've failed enough people already for one lifetime.
I move to the bathroom and turn the shower to scalding, trying to burn away thoughts of Molly, thoughts of the past, thoughts of everything beyond this mountainside.
When I get out and towel myself off, my phone rings, cutting through my routine like an ambush.
I glance at the screen, prepared to ignore it like I do ninety percent of calls.
But it's Sienna Wright's name lighting up the display.
And that… gives me pause.
Sienna only calls when it's important. When a pipe bursts or her security system malfunctions while David is away. Sienna respects my boundaries, which is why I haven't blocked her number like I have so many others.
I let it go to voicemail anyway, expecting Sienna's voice to come through the speaker.
Instead, when I press my phone to my ear, I hear the sweetest, most annoying and ridiculously cute voice of Stone River's most adorable little girl.
"BEAU! Hi! It's Maisie! Aunt Molly needs her keys for the car man!
And her suitcase with all her clothes because she keeps wearing Mom's and Mom says they make her butt look big but I'm not supposed to tell Aunt Molly that part.
Can you please please PLEASE bring them?
I'm making you a new treehouse picture! Okay byeeeeee! "
I stare at the phone.
Molly needs her keys. And her suitcase. I've been expecting this call for days, but that doesn't make hearing it any easier.
I glance at the keys on the counter, then out the window to my truck where her suitcase sits in the back like a ticking bomb of complications.
"Shit."
Twenty minutes later, I'm navigating my truck down the winding mountain road, freshly showered, clean flannel shirt buttoned to my throat, and a scowl so deep it might be permanent.
Molly's designer suitcase sits in the passenger seat, securely belted in like precious cargo.
She would have nice panties. I'm sure of it.
The town of Stone River Mountain unfolds closer and closer with each bend in the road. Smoke rises from chimneys as people emerge from the snowstorm's forced hibernation, and by the time the chains on my tires hit Main Street, it's all been plowed.
I pull onto Sienna's street, noting that hers is the only driveway that hasn't been cleared of snow. I approach the house and see Molly and Sienna in the front yard, examining what appears to be a section of fence that's collapsed under the weight of the snow.
Molly's wearing jeans that hug curves I shouldn't be noticing, and a tightly fitted sweater that's clearly Sienna's, hanging a bit loose around the shoulders but snug across her ample chest.
I park and grab the suitcase, keys in my pocket like an afterthought.