Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
WYATT
I've seen a lot of surprising things in my years on this mountain, but nothing quite as unexpected as Sophia Coleman keeping up with my crew for eight straight hours without a single complaint.
Not when the mud nearly sucked one of her boots off.
Not when a sudden rain shower soaked us all to the bone for forty minutes.
Not even when Barry accidentally sprayed her with chainsaw debris while cutting a particularly stubborn pine.
Now, as the sun begins its descent behind the western ridge, I watch her talking with Mike about our hauling schedule, scribbling notes in a small book she's somehow kept dry.
Her dark ponytail is damp and coming loose, streaks of mud decorate her face, and her clothes are filthy.
She looks nothing like the polished consultant who walked into my office yesterday.
And somehow, that makes her even more attractive.
I scowl at the thought, turning to check the chain on my saw more aggressively than necessary. This isn't part of the plan. I'm supposed to be resisting her ideas, not fighting an attraction to her.
"Your consultant's tougher than she looks," Mike comments, approaching after finishing his conversation with Sophia. "Asks good questions, too."
I grunt noncommittally.
"She wants to ride with the hauling crew tomorrow morning to see that end of the operation." He adjusts his hard hat. "You okay with that?"
"She's going to do what she wants regardless," I reply, but we both know it's not an answer.
Mike gives me a knowing look I don't appreciate. "I'll take that as a yes. We're wrapping up for today. Last load's heading down in twenty."
I nod, my eyes drifting back to Sophia. She's walking the perimeter of our cutting zone, studying something on the ground, likely trying to understand our selective harvesting patterns. The fading sunlight catches in her hair, revealing strands of deep chestnut among the black.
"You should probably take her back to the office," Mike suggests. "She's seen enough for one day, and those clouds to the north aren't looking friendly."
He's right. The weather changes fast up here, and another storm is rolling in. "Tell the boys good work today. I'll see them tomorrow."
Mike heads off to coordinate the final activities while I make my way to Sophia. She's crouched down, examining the growth rings on a recently cut stump, fingers tracing the circular patterns with surprising gentleness.
"Each ring tells a story," I say, and she looks up, startled by my approach.
"About seventy years old?" she asks.
I nod, impressed despite myself. "Good eye."
"I did my homework on logging before coming here." She stands, brushing dirt from her hands. "What's this mark mean?" She points to a blue spray paint dash on the side of the stump.
"That's our sustainable harvesting system. We mark trees for cutting based on age, health, and proximity to other growth. Ensures we're not taking too much from any one area."
Her eyes light up. "So you do have systems in place."
"Of course we do." I'm slightly offended. "Just because we don't do everything on computers doesn't mean we don't have methods."
"I never said you didn't." She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. "But documenting those methods might help with consistency across crews and training new workers."
The urge to wipe that smudge away with my thumb is so strong I have to shove my hands in my pockets. "We're heading back. Storm's coming."
She looks toward the darkening northern sky and nods. "Your crew works hard."
"Best in the state."
"I can see why." There's genuine respect in her voice. "What you've built here is impressive, Wyatt."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at her words, at the way my name sounds in her mouth. I immediately try to tamp it down.
"Truck's this way," I say gruffly, turning before she can see whatever might be showing on my face.
The drive down the mountain is quieter than the morning's journey. Sophia seems lost in thought, occasionally making notes in her little book. The silence isn't uncomfortable, which bothers me more than if it were. We shouldn't be comfortable together.
"We'll stop at the office so you can get your car," I say as we near town. "Then you can follow me to my place."
She looks over, surprise evident. "You were serious about me staying at your cabin?"
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"I appreciate it, but I can find somewhere else. Maybe there's a room for rent in town, or—"
"There isn't." I keep my eyes on the road. "Unless you want to sleep in your car again or drive an hour each way to the motel, you're staying at my cabin."
"Why the change of heart?" she asks, studying me.
I consider lying, but for some reason, I go with honesty. At least partial truth. "You earned it today. You worked hard. Didn't complain. Asked smart questions."
She's quiet for a moment, and when I glance over, she's watching me with those intelligent brown eyes. "Thank you."
Two simple words, but there's a warmth in them that slips past my defenses.
When we reach the office, I wait while she transfers her things to her car. The first heavy raindrops begin to fall as we pull out, heading toward the outskirts of town and up the winding road that leads to my property.
My cabin sits on twenty acres of land, partially cleared around the structure but wild and forested beyond.
It's bigger than most cabins—two stories of timber and stone that I designed and built myself after the divorce.
A place meant just for me, where I could live exactly as I wanted without compromise.
And now I'm bringing a woman into it. A woman who represents everything I've been fighting against for years.
I pull up to the covered area beside the cabin just as the rain starts coming down in sheets. Sophia grabs her bags and follows me to the front door, both of us hurrying to escape the downpour.
Inside, I flip on lights to reveal an open living area with vaulted ceilings, a stone fireplace dominating one wall.
The furniture is solid wood, much of it built by my own hands.
Large windows would normally showcase the mountain view, but now they reflect our images against the darkening storm outside.
"Wow," Sophia breathes, taking in the space. "This is beautiful."
"It's home," I reply, oddly pleased by her reaction. "Guest room's upstairs, first door on the right. Bathroom's across the hall. Make yourself comfortable while I get a fire going."
She nods and heads up the wooden staircase, her boots leaving small mud prints on the steps. I don't mind as much as I should.
By the time she returns, I've got flames crackling in the fireplace and am pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
She's changed into clean jeans and a soft-looking sweater in a deep green that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, still damp but combed through, and her face is clean of mud, revealing more of those light freckles across her nose.
She looks younger without the armor of her professional clothes, more vulnerable somehow. It makes something protective stir in me, which is ridiculous. She's here to change my business, not to be protected.
"Can I help with dinner?" she asks, approaching the kitchen area.
"You cook?"
She raises an eyebrow. "I'm twenty-four, not fourteen. Yes, I can cook."
"You any good at it?"
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Are you?"
"I manage not to starve."
"High praise." Her smile widens, and something shifts in my chest. "How about I chop the vegetables while you handle the meat?"
I hand her a knife and cutting board. We work in surprisingly comfortable synchronization, preparing a simple meal of grilled venison steaks, roasted potatoes, and a salad. The storm rages outside, rain lashing against the windows, occasional thunder rumbling across the mountain.
"You hunted this?" she asks as I season the steaks.
I nod. "Last fall. Deep freezer's full."
"My dad used to hunt," she says, the information offered casually but feeling significant nonetheless. "Not that I ever went with him. Mom wouldn't allow it."
"Where are they now? Your parents?"
"Dad passed when I was sixteen. Car accident." Her knife keeps moving steadily. "Mom remarried and moved to Arizona. We talk sometimes, but we're not close."
The simple facts of her life, delivered without self-pity, make me want to know more. "What brought you to business consulting?"
She smiles slightly. "Would you believe a love of systems and organization? There's something satisfying about taking chaos and finding the patterns, making everything work better."
"And what makes you think my operation needs that?"
Her eyes meet mine. "Every business does, Wyatt. Even successful ones. Especially when they're growing."
I slide the steaks onto a hot cast iron pan, the sizzle filling the kitchen. "I'm not interested in growing. I'm interested in sustainability. Doing things right."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive goals." She finishes the last of the vegetables and rinses her hands. "The right systems can protect what matters while eliminating inefficiencies."
"And make my investors happy."
"Yes," she admits. "That too."
At least she's honest.
We eat at the kitchen island, the storm providing a wild soundtrack to our meal.
The conversation flows more easily than I expected, touching on the day's operations, the history of Grizzly Ridge, her previous consulting jobs.
She's smart—I already knew that—but she's also funny in a dry, understated way that catches me off guard.
"You lived in cities your whole life?" I ask as we clean up after dinner.
She nods. "Chicago originally, then Denver for college and my MBA."
"And now Grizzly Ridge. Quite a change."
"I've worked in small towns before." She hands me a plate to dry. "Though I admit, none quite this remote."
Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel that same jolt of awareness I've been fighting all day. Her eyes flick up to mine, and I know she felt it too.
For a moment, we're frozen in place, the air between us charged with something neither of us is acknowledging. She's close enough that I can smell the floral scent of her shampoo, see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.
Then thunder crashes directly overhead, making her jump slightly, breaking the moment.
"I should get some work done," she says, stepping back. "Review my notes from today."
I nod, relief and disappointment warring inside me. "I've got some paperwork myself."
She retrieves her laptop from upstairs while I settle at my desk in the corner of the living room. We work in companionable silence for about an hour, the only sounds the rain, the crackling fire, and the occasional tap of her keyboard.
When I glance up, I find her curled in an armchair, laptop balanced on her knees, firelight playing across her features. She looks like she belongs here, which is a dangerous thought.
Because come morning, we'll be back to being adversaries. Her job is still to change everything about how I run my business. And my job is still to resist.
No matter how good she looks in the firelight of my cabin.