Chapter 4 #3
Holden shrugs. “Good, because I wasn’t planning to hand out his personal information. But I didn’t find anything that would help your case, anyway.”
My case? To my shock and shame, it takes me a second to realize what he means—that the only reason I’d want Griffin’s personal info was so I could prevail in court.
“Right. Good. Well.” I clear my throat. “Like I said, I’m taking care of it.”
“Yeah? How are you doing that, exactly?” Dad speaks up for the first time.
It hits me, when my gaze swings to him, that though we’re seated across from each other, this is the first time I’ve really looked at him since we sat down.
The man looks tired. Even… old. There are lines of strain around his eyes that didn’t used to be there, and I fucking hate that.
Dad’s voice softens. “Why not give David Halloran a call and let him—”
“Because I don’t need a lawyer,” I say with as much patience as possible. What I don’t add is that we don’t exactly have the money to enter into a protracted legal battle with anyone over property rights. If I go in guns blazing with an attorney, there’s no telling how Griffin will react.
Dad shakes his head sadly, and I bet I know what he’s thinking: Axfords are the heart of Winsome. Relationships make the business. Friends and family are what it’s all about.
Those are all things he’s reminded me over and over since he—theoretically—left the running of Axford Lumber to me, and he’s right.
But my great-whatever-grandfather who started Axford Lumber didn’t have to worry about sustainable harvesting practices.
He didn’t operate in a global economy where he was competing with pine from Chile and plywood from Guangdong.
He didn’t have Derek Sullivan magicking up giant piles of lumber and convincing my customers that his lumber’s the cheaper and more eco-conscious local choice.
And he didn’t take over the business while his dad was in the hospital, only to find out we were extending our customers credit to the point where we’d sold off land to pay our bills.
My dad’s a smart man. He should understand all this. But he doesn’t seem to get it.
It sucks because I’m a grown-ass man myself, but my dad is still my role model. He’s always been in my corner. And my dad’s part of the reason I fell in love with the forest and the lumber business.
Right now, I’m working my ass off to keep Axford Lumber afloat, but instead of pride, every time I look at him these days, all I see on his face is anger or sadness.
It takes me a minute before I notice the table’s gone silent, and my mom and siblings are exchanging looks. That really sucks too.
If you want to know the real reason I’ve avoided family dinners and birthday breakfasts for the last little while, it’s this.
I could probably handle the tension myself, but it kills me knowing that it’s hurting everyone else.
It’s easier to just keep my distance, at least until I can get things at Axford more stable.
Until I can prove to my dad I know what I’m doing.
Just as I’m pushing back my chair, ready to make my excuses and leave, Holden leans forward.
He’s not laughing anymore as he says, “I don’t know if a lawyer’s gonna help, Beck.”
I sit my ass back down. “Why not?”
“Because…” He glances around the table. “I also spent some time today researching how easements work here in Winsome. Any dispute over fair use of land goes to the town council for mediation before it goes to court.” He shrugs. “It’s a zoning issue, like with Derek Sullivan’s logging permits.”
Dad perks up. “Well, there you go, then! This town’s loyal to its own.
They’ll understand it’s nothing personal with this Griffin guy, but we need to access our land.
They won’t vote against us. Heck, I’ve personally helped every member of that council at one time or another.
I coached Jenn Pratt’s softball team. I practically built Mark Diaz’s entire front porch—”
“You did,” Holden says slowly.
“So… what’s the problem?” Dad looks up and down the table.
Mom gives me a commiserating look and reaches over to pat Dad’s hand.
“You’re not running the company anymore, Dad,” True says gruffly, when it’s clear no one else wants to point out the obvious. “You’re not the face of Axford Lumber these days. Beck is.”
“So what? I can handle a town council meeting, you guys,” I say. “Come on.”
“You can,” Ames agrees, but there’s something in his tone that makes me want to flick him in the back of his head like I used to do when he took the last Gatorade from the fridge on the days I had football games.
Holden clears his throat. “There’s, uh, something else you should know. I heard Griffin was seen at the Basket today, talking to Derek Sullivan.”
Everything goes still. The room, the conversation, the blood in my veins.
“Talking,” I repeat.
Holden shrugs. “That’s all I know, man. Sullivan gave him his card, but that doesn’t mean they’re teaming up or whatever—”
The chair scrapes against the floor as I push back from the table, anger flooding through me so fast it makes my vision blur. Derek fucking Sullivan is already moving in for the kill. To lock down the access road so Axford Lumber can’t access it ever again.
Because of course he is. Of course.
“Beck, where are you going?” Mom asks as I head for the door.
“Out.”
“Beckett,” Dad calls, concern in his voice, but I can’t stop.
I need air. I need space. I need to run until my lungs burn and my legs shake, and I can’t think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other.
I jog down the porch steps and into the gathering dusk. The September air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of burning wood and dying leaves, and I fill my lungs with it as I run down the road.
I make a pit stop at my truck and grab my sneakers from my gym bag, and then I’m running in earnest. Past the lumber yard, across Goodfellow Road, and out into the trails that cut through the forest.
My brain is full of too many thoughts, so I run without direction, letting muscle memory guide me down familiar trails and back roads. The rhythm of my shoes against packed earth slowly works its magic, unknotting the tension in my shoulders and clearing the noise from my head.
It’s nearly dark out now, with deep sunset pinks peeking through the gaps between the trees, but I know these woods like the back of my hand.
Not quite every tree and sapling, not every bump and root in the paths my father and grandfather and great-grandfather cleared, but pretty darn close.
Still, it’s not until I hear the burble of the Winsome River—just a trickle, this far out of town—that I realize where I’ve headed.
Go home, I tell myself sternly. My own cabin’s practically across the road, and if I keep running, I could be there in five minutes or less. I could shower, pour some whiskey, sit on the porch—
No, better plan, I’ll go back to the lumber yard, get my truck, head for the Shed, and pick up a tourist for the first time in months. What I need is one good orgasm that doesn’t involve my own hand on my dick—
But I don’t do either of those things. My feet are suddenly like lead, incapable of movement. So I stand there, bent over at the waist, hands on my knees and breath heaving, unsure of what to do next.
Until I hear the swearing, and suddenly, the choice is made for me.
I scan the trees through the dusk, looking for the source of the noise. But then there’s a crash of breaking branches, followed by a truly imaginative string of curses.
I glance up…
And I find Griffin Mercer, official Pain in My Ass, twenty feet up a massive pine. He’s wearing a light-colored hoodie and a pair of pants this time, and he’s clinging to the trunk, his face red with exertion.
“Milo!” he whisper-cries, like too much noise might make him lose his grip entirely. “Miiiiloooooo!”
“What the fuck?” I demand.
Even as I’m yelling, my eyes sweep the tree, tracking his grip points, the lean of the trunk, how far he is from a safe drop. If he slips, I’ll need to get under him fast.
Sure enough, my voice startles him, and he nearly loses his hold. He grips the tree harder and glares down at me through the branches. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you from whatever dumbass thing you think you’re doing,” I say, stepping closer. “I still haven’t worked out what the fuck that is, but I’m ninety percent sure the headline’s gonna start with ‘Local Idiot Dies By.’”
“I’m… inspecting my property,” he says haughtily.
“Really.”
He nods once.
“By climbing a tree with no safety equipment and no helmet?”
“Ugh. Go away.”
“Sure. Yeah. I’ll do that. One quick question first… Are you actually insane? Because you didn’t seem insane yesterday, but admittedly, I was kind of distracted.”
“This is my tree,” he says in that same haughty tone. If he could raise his chin while still looking down at me—and without, you know, falling to his death—he would. “I can climb it if I want to!”
“Ahhh, there we go,” I say. “Local Idiot Dies… Because He Can Climb His Tree If He Wants To. A fitting epitaph. Griffin died as he lived, five hundred pounds of entitled city boy in a hundred-forty-pound frame.”
“Go away,” he repeats.
For a second, I watch him stretch and strain, his hiking boots dislodging chunks of bark. It looks like he’s climbing.
“One more quick question. Are you aware that the ground is down here and that you’re going the wrong…?” And then I get it. “Jesus fuck. Are you risking your life to retrieve that stupid tennis racket?”
“That’s Jim’s lucky tennis racket,” he corrects. “Which you stole. Leaving me no choice but to—fuck!”
His foot slips, and his hands scrape the bark, which has to hurt like a bitch. He wraps his arms around the tree again, pressing his face to the trunk and clinging for dear life, panting.