Lovable Lumberjack (Red Oak Mountain Lumberjacks #10)

1. Holden

Holden

The skidder roared in the distance, and chainsaws whirred nearby.

It was hot as hell, and I was sweating buckets today. But that didn’t matter. There was work to do.

I was the new guy here, and that meant I had to hustle twice as hard as anyone else.

My focus was on the tree in front of me.

I hopped down from the disc delimber and jogged over to where Shane and Gage were securing a chain around a stack of fresh-cut logs.

“You boys taking a nap over here, or are we moving this timber today?” I asked, flashing them a wide grin.

Gage snorted and yanked the heavy iron chain tight. “We’re moving fast enough, Holden. You’re in hyper-drive. Did you drink too much coffee this morning?”

“Naw. But maybe you should have had more,” I joked right back.

I stepped in, grabbing the heavy hook from Gage’s hands and locking it into place for him with a solid heave.

“I’ve got the next load, too,” I told them, clapping Gage on the shoulder. “Go take a breather.”

Shane wiped his forehead and laughed. “I appreciate it, man. You’re making us look bad, but I’ll take a break. It’s too hot today.”

I gave him a nod, turning back toward my machine. But out of the corner of my eye, I was watching Dylan.

The camp foreman was standing near the logging trucks, a clipboard in his hand, his sharp eyes watching the crew.

Everything I did, I did for that guy. My number one job was to make him feel like I was indispensable to the team. So I tried to do the work of two men. Although the guys on the Harrison logging crew worked harder than any other crew I’d been on before, so I had my work cut out for me.

I climbed back into the operator’s seat of the track loader and revved her engine up.

The deep vibration of the machine rattled up through my work boots in a familiar, steady rhythm.

But as I fed the next massive oak into the heavy feed rollers, something snagged.

The trunk shifted hard to the left, the heavy timber tilting at a dangerous, unpredictable angle.

If it slipped out of the grips now, it was going to tear right through the hydraulic lines.

Fuck.

I didn’t think. I just reacted.

I killed the feed, vaulted out of the operator seat, and grabbed the heavy iron guardrail on the delimber to brace myself as I lunged for the manual release lever.

My boot slipped on the grating and I overshot the lever.

That’s when my hand scraped across a jagged piece of sheared metal near the housing. The sharp sting of my torn skin flared hot and fast.

Fucking, fucking fuck.

I cursed under my breath, jerking my hand back to my chest.

Warm blood slicked across my palm. It dripped off my wrist and splashed down onto the churned dirt at my feet. I watched in surprise as it pooled on the ground.

That’s a lot of blood.

A hell of a lot more than a simple scratch.

“Whoa, hey!” Shane yelled, dropping his snack and jogging over to my rig.

I quickly curled my fingers inward, making a tight fist to hide the worst of the gaping gash.

“Just a little love tap from the delimber,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “Guess I didn’t take her out to dinner first.”

Shane didn’t laugh.

He grabbed my wrist and pried my fingers open.

“Jesus, Holden. That’s deep.”

“It’s fine,” I insisted, pulling my hand out of his grip. “Wrap some duct tape around it and I’ll get right back to it.”

“You aren’t putting tape on that,” a deep voice rumbled behind us.

I stiffened and turned around.

Shit.

Dylan was standing right behind me with a scowl on his face.

This was exactly what I didn’t want. The wrong kind of attention.

“It’s just a scratch, boss,” I told him smoothly, keeping my tone light and unbothered despite the screaming pain throbbing through my hand. “I’m good to go.”

Dylan stared at the blood steadily dripping from my knuckles into the dirt. “You’re going to Doc Hansen’s clinic. Now.”

“Dylan, seriously, it looks worse than it is,” I tried again, with a smile gritted on my lips. “I’ll wrap it and be fine.”

“You’re bleeding on my timber, dude,” Dylan said flatly. “Go now.”

Shane stepped up. “I’ll drive him. My truck’s right here.”

“I can drive myself,” I snapped. The words came out too sharp. “What I mean is, I appreciate it, Shane,” I said smoothly. “But I’m good. There’s no need for both of us to lose hours today. The crew needs you here.”

Shane frowned, looking uncertainly between me and Dylan. “You sure, man? You’re leaking pretty bad. It’s a steep drive around the mountain.”

“I’ve got a clean rag in my truck. I’ll be totally fine,” I said, already taking a step toward the parking area.

I wasn’t going to be escorted off the logging site like an invalid. A man had a reputation to uphold.

“Get it stitched up,” Dylan called out as I walked away. “And don’t come back to the site until the doc clears it.”

“Got it, boss.”

I climbed into my truck, yanking a dirty shop rag from the center console and wrapping it tightly around my injured hand.

And it was only then, when the other men were focused back on their work, that I let out a deep, heavy groan. I’d fucked my hand up good, and lightning bolts of pain were shooting through it.

The drive into Red Oak Mountain was a blur of pain. I gripped the steering wheel with my good hand and held my other hand in the air, above my heart. I’d heard that was good when you were losing blood too fast.

Damn, I was pissed.

I was pissed at the machine, pissed at the jagged piece of metal that shouldn’t have been there. But mostly I was pissed at myself.

I should have been paying closer attention. I should have just let the damn timber fall and take out the hydraulic lines instead of using my own hand to try and stop it.

Machinery could be replaced. Hoses could be patched.

But a lumberjack with a busted hand? That was a liability.

My mind immediately flashed to Brent.

Solid as they come. He’d been one of the old-school lumberjacks when I got hired. Been here for years. But then he’d re-injured his leg a few months back and couldn’t keep up with the rugged, grueling pace of the logging site anymore.

And that was that.

Now the guy came by for parties on Friday nights.

But he wasn’t part of the crew anymore. Dylan had fired his ass as if it meant nothing.

Poor Brent had to pack up, leave the camp, and take a retirement job over at the sawmill.

There was no loyalty in a logging camp. You either logged the wood or your ass was out.

We all knew what happened to old lumberjacks when they could no longer jack some wood. They ended up just like Brent.

The pain shooting through my hand was drowned out by my dark thoughts by the time I finally pulled into the parking lot outside Doc Hansen’s clinic.

I needed to get this fixed fast. I’d tell the doctor to wrap it tight and give me some painkillers. Then I’d get back to camp before Dylan decided I was simply too much trouble to keep on the payroll.

I killed the engine, wrapped my bloody rag tighter around my hand and headed inside with long, loping steps. I pushed the glass door open and stepped into the cool, quiet waiting room where everything was clean and clinical. The opposite of my world.

“Hey, I need—”

But the words died in my throat.

Sitting behind the reception desk was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my entire life.

She had dark, messy hair, soft curves, and a face that instantly wiped every single anxious thought right out of my brain.

She looked up from a stack of paperwork, her eyes landing on me.

I recognized her delicate features immediately. She had the same eyes and the same nose.

Is that… Claire’s sister?

Claire was a regular at the Friday night bonfires. She was Brent’s fiancée, a real sweetheart.

She’d never brought her sister before. But I knew her name was Olive, and Claire had mentioned once that she was a nurse.

Nurse Olive.

Yum.

The sharp, throbbing pain in my hand didn’t matter anymore.

The delimber didn’t matter. Dylan didn’t matter. Neither did the logging site, or the distant, looming threat of having to work at a sawmill instead of a logging camp.

It all evaporated into thin air the second she met my eyes.

A slow grin spread across my face. I rolled my shoulders back, adjusting my posture to stand a little taller as I crossed the room.

I ignored my bloody, rag-wrapped hand that was dripping all over her clean floor as I sauntered right up to the reception desk, leaning my good arm against the counter.

“Well, hey there,” I said, my voice dropping into a smooth, easy rumble. “Looks like it’s my lucky day to get injured. You want to patch me up, hon? I might have tangled with a surly piece of logging equipment.”

She blinked at me, her eyes dropping from my charming smile to the dark red blood steadily dripping onto her floor.

“You’re bleeding,” she stated, her tone completely unimpressed. “Sit down before you pass out.”

My grin only grew wider.