3. Teagan
CHAPTER 3
TEAGAN
“ M ove! Move!” Connor bellows over the deafening boom of thunder, practically shoving me through the clearing as rain lashes my face. We crash through the undergrowth, thunder shaking the earth like the gods are furious we’ve trespassed.
Connor’s hand stays clamped around my wrist as if I’m a runaway calf, his grip firm, but not bruising. My lungs burn, my soaked shirt clinging to my skin as we skid down a muddy slope toward the faint yellow-orange glow of my tent.
“In!” Connor barks, his broad chest pressing against my back as he yanks the zipper down and pulls back the nylon flap.
I duck inside, as he shoulders in behind me. The tent sags under the downpour, the air thick with the scent of wet fabric and the ozone crackle of the storm.
“Shit,” I gasp, scrambling to zip the entrance closed as wind threatens to tear the tent stakes from the ground.
Connor’s brawny frame takes up too much space, his shoulders brushing the walls. But he blocks most of the opening while I secure it, my hands shaking from adrenaline and cold.
“Easy, Smokey,” he rumbles, his taut muscle flexing in the dim light, water trickling down the scar on his ribs. The tent feels even smaller with all that bare skin on display.
I jerk my gaze away, cheeks flaming. “S-sorry. Crowded in here.”
“Understatement.” He chuckles and hands me my pack. “Got a towel?”
I rummage in my pack and thrust a microfiber camping towel at him, refusing to acknowledge how his low laugh curls in my stomach. He looks younger when he smiles, less like the enemy of all things ecological and more like a man I might’ve noticed at a coffee shop.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the sharp planes of his face as he scrubs rainwater from his beard.
But this man is a Greek god.
“You okay?” His voice softens as he nods at my trembling hands.
“Fine,” I lie and cross my arms. “Just… didn’t expect a monsoon.”
“S’what you get for trusting weather apps,” he says, but there’s no bite. He rummages through his own pack, producing a battered flask. “Whiskey?”
“No thanks. I prefer my brain cells intact.”
He shrugs, taking a swig. “Suit yourself. Helps with the chill.”
As if on cue, a violent shiver racks my body. His gaze sharpens. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine ? — ”
“Bullshit.” He tosses me a dry sweatshirt from his bag. “Put this on before you turn into a Popsicle.”
I hesitate, then slip it on, trying not to drown in the cedar-and-sweat scent clinging to the fabric. It drowns me anyway.
Something flashes in those ice-blue eyes as they sweep over me. “The pants, too,” he rumbles. He hands me a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. “I sleep in ‘em. Clean, I promise.”
He turns to face away from me and I wiggle awkwardly out of my pants, hyper-aware of his presence just inches away. The flannel is soft against my skin as I pull it on, cinching the drawstring tight at my waist.
When I turn back, Connor has pulled on a black thermal that stretches across his chest like it’s hanging on for dear life.
“Better?” he asks, voice rougher than before.
I nod, unable to form words. He’s watching me—I can feel it—his eyes tracing the way I nervously comb through my hair with my fingers, the braid long undone.
The rain drums steadier now, less frantic. Without the immediate panic of the storm, the reality of our situation settles in—I’m trapped in a tent with a man who represents everything I’m fighting against. A man who makes my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with righteous anger.
He watches my movements, something unreadable passing across his face. "You mentioned mushroom networks earlier."
Again, his interest catches me off guard. "Yes. They're fascinating—the way they communicate, share resources. Trees use them to send warnings about threats."
"Like a forest internet?" Connor shifts, his knee accidentally brushing mine. Neither of us moves away.
"Something like that." I find myself warming to the subject. "They're the hidden infrastructure of the ecosystem. When we disrupt them, we cut communication lines between species that have co-evolved for millennia."
"And my camp would do that?"
"Any development would," I say, but my usual fire feels dampened. "Even just foot traffic compacts soil, which?—"
"Makes it harder for the little guys to do their thing," he finishes, nodding. "My grandfather taught me about that, actually. Said you could tell if a forest was sick by looking at what was growing on the ground."
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. "Your grandfather taught you about forest ecology?"
Connor's expression softens with memory. "Not formally. But he knew things. Could tell when a forest needed thinning, when it needed to be left alone to heal. Said logging was a conversation with the land, not a robbery."
Something shifts in my chest, a subtle realignment. "That's... actually beautiful."
"He was a wise old bastard." Connor's smile is tinged with melancholy. "This camp—it's as much for him as it is for me. A way to preserve what he taught me before it's forgotten."
"Is that why you retired? To build this camp?"
A shadow passes over his face. "Partly. Fucked up my back two years ago. Doctor said if I kept swinging an axe, I'd end up in a wheelchair by fifty."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.
He shrugs. "Had a good run. Twenty-five years in the business, just like my dad and his dad before him."
"And now you're the last," I realize aloud.
"Unless I can show people there's still value in it." His eyes lock with mine, intense and earnest. "Not just cutting trees, but understanding them. Working with them. The relationship between man and forest."
I've never thought of logging that way—as a relationship rather than an exploitation. It's unsettling how compelling his vision sounds when he describes it like that.
“So,” I blurt, desperate to shatter the tension. “Your lumberjack reenactment camp. It’s just… axe-throwing and beard contests?”
His lips twitch. “You forgot the log-rolling. And the chainsaw artistry.”
I smirk. “Ah yes, defacing trees for profit. How noble.”
“Preserving history,” he corrects, stretching his legs. “Your people write papers. Mine teach skills.”
“My people keep ecosystems from collapsing.”
“And mine kept towns from starving.” He leans closer, his knee brushing my thigh. “Funny how survival works.”
Thunder growls overhead, and I huddle deeper into his sweatshirt. “Why these woods?”
His fingers still on the flask. “Granddad logged woods just like these. Pa too. When I came from back East to my cousin Mitch’s wedding, this place called to me.”
The raw ache in his voice catches me off guard. “You miss it? The logging, I mean.”
He stares into the storm. “Miss the rhythm of it. The way the woods talk if you listen.” His thumb traces the flask’s rim. “Camp’s my way of… I dunno. Keeping that alive.”
I bite my lip, unexpected sympathy pricking me. “Your dad approve?”
“Died before he saw me retire.” His jaw tightens. “Would’ve hated the camp. Called reenactors ‘fools tryin’ to pretend they’re real men.’”
“Then why do it?”
Blue eyes lock onto mine, intensity burning through the gloom. “Because I’m not him.”
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and sharp. My pulse thrums as rain pelts the nylon.
“What about you?” He leans in, close enough that I can see how thick his eyelashes are. “What’re you really chasing?”
I’m about to say I’ve already told him. But the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s after something deeper. I sigh. “A thesis that matters. Something that… changes how people see these forests. Not just data charts, but—but a story .” I swallow hard. “I’ve written six proposals. My advisor keeps saying they’re ‘lackluster.’”
Connor’s brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m failing,” I whisper.
His hand brushes mine—a fleeting touch that shocks me more than the lightning outside. “No way. You’re out here fighting harder than anyone I’ve met.”
My laugh trembles. “Fighting losing battles, apparently.”
“Losing?” He gestures at the storm-ravaged woods. “This place is still standing, isn’t it?”
Our eyes meet. There’s something happening in this tiny space, a tentative bridge forming between our worlds.
Connor shifts closer. "Your camp is impressive for a city girl."
And just like that, the bridge collapses.
"City girl?" I bristle. "I've done three field seasons in the Cascades and one in the Amazon. I think I know how to set up a damn tent."
He holds up his hands. "Whoa, didn't mean anything by it. Just making conversation."
"By assuming I'm some clueless urbanite who wandered into the woods with an REI catalogue and a prayer?"
"That's not?—"
"You know what your problem is?" I cut him off, frustration boiling over. "You think anyone with an education must be out of touch with reality. That textbooks somehow make us less capable of understanding the real world."
His jaw tightens. "And you think anyone who works with their hands is a mindless destroyer who doesn't give a shit about the environment."
"I never said that!"
"You didn't have to." His voice is dangerously quiet. "It was all over your face the moment you saw me in that stream. 'Oh look, a brainless lumberjack about to chainsaw Bambi's home.'"
The accusation stings because there's truth in it. I had judged him before he spoke a single word.
"Fine," I snap. "Maybe I did make assumptions. But you're doing the exact same thing. 'City girl.' Like I'm playing dress-up out here."
"At least I'm willing to listen to your side," he growls. "You've been fighting me at every turn."
"Because this isn't just about opinions! It's about science, facts?—"
"And tradition means nothing? Experience means nothing?" The muscle in his jaw jumps. "My family's been working these kinds of mountain landscapes for generations. You think we don't know the patterns? The cycles?"
We're both breathing hard now, the tent charged with a different kind of electricity than before.
"I know more than you think," I say finally, voice lower.
"And I care more than you think." His eyes are fierce in the dimming light.
Silence falls, heavy with unspoken words. The rain has gentled to white noise, no longer the violent barrage of before.
Connor runs a hand over his beard. "Let's just... get some sleep. Rain should be cleared by morning."
"Fine," I mutter, crawling toward my sleeping bag.
"Fine." He turns his back to me, settling into his own makeshift bed on the other side of the tent. But the space between us might as well be miles.
Somewhere between anger and aching want, sleep drags me under.