Timber Ridge (Port Promise #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

TIMBER

“Are we going down?” I shout over the engine’s roar as the tiny plane bucks wildly. I grip the edge of the seat and eye the bushy-bearded pilot with a mix of terror and disbelief.

Hank offers me a grin that’s more alarming than comforting. “This is as routine as a surprise test on a Monday, Teach!”

His hands are steady on the controls while I send a prayer to the universe—surely it didn’t line all of this up to watch me do a swan dive into the Alaskan wilderness. I followed the breadcrumbs here. I mean, the job opening might as well have had my name on it. Coincidence isn’t part of my vocabulary. Everything happens for a reason.

“Just think of it as a field trip ... with a touch more turbulence.” Hank’s laughter is lost in the sound of the wind that slams against the fuselage as we narrowly skim a craggy mountain peak .

“Field trips usually have permission slips, signed for safety, not ... near-death experiences!” I laugh because, at this point, it’s laugh or cry, and I’m not about to give in to tears.

“Alright, brace yourself, Timber, we’re coming in hot!” His tone is oddly casual for our precarious descent.

“Fabulous,” I mutter, my voice trembling despite the sarcasm, but I sit up tall because if this is how I bow out, I’m doing it with my spine straight and chin up.

The plane splashes down and skitters across the water as if it’s gliding on my just-released breath, before coasting toward the dock.

“Welcome to Port Promise!” he says cheerfully. The engine dies with a final cough. He tosses off his safety belt and swings the door wide open. He wastes no time tossing my duffle bag onto the wooden planks, followed by the mailbag, and he gently places a box of chirping chicks next to everything.

I’m hit with a sense of unease when I step onto the dock. The chicks inside the crate seem to sense it, too, as they peep anxiously through the air holes. Above, an eagle watches us from atop a lamppost, and for a second, I wonder if it’s waiting for us to make a move or a mistake.

“You’re all set,” Hank says with a hint of worry as he eyes the brewing storm clouds.

I scan the deserted dock, and despite the sinking sensation, I say to the wind, “Well, who needs 24-hour doughnut shops when you’ve got ... endless ocean views?” I let out a sigh, louder than expected, and turn to him. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”

He gives me a knowing nod as he climbs into the plane. “That would be Kane,” he says. “He’s on his way. Kane operates on island time—it’s like waiting for paint to dry or dough to rise. It’ll happen, just not on a schedule. You’ll adapt. You might even find you prefer it to the pace of city life.”

“Island time,” I say with a wry laugh that vaporizes in the biting air. The phrase always conjures images of balmy beaches and drinks garnished with flowers and paper umbrellas. I come here with no such illusions, fully expecting this brisk, secluded reality. Yet the irony isn’t lost on me that they still call it “island time” when the only thing slow here is the sun’s crawl to warm the day. Hugging my coat closer as the wind whips with a frigid frenzy, I ask, “So, what’s the game plan while I wait for this ‘island time’ to bring Kane around?”

“Guard duty,” he answers, nodding toward the nearby box of birds. “Kane would have a fit if he found even one feather out of place.”

“I came here to teach, not be a pet sitter.”

“We all do what we have to,” He says.

I hoist the box of chicks high on my hip, scanning the desolate dock for shelter. “Alright, little ones,” I say with false confidence. “Time for your first lesson: Survival.”

“Sarah? Is that you?” An older woman approaches from the direction of a quaint, weather-beaten cafe. She walks with unhurried steps, her silver hair peeking out from under a blue knit hat, glasses as thick as the bottom of a wine glass perched low on her nose. Despite the chill in the air, her smile is warm as she stops before me and leans forward. She squints in my direction, before shaking her head and taking a step back. “Of course, you’re not Sarah.”

“Uh, no, I’m Timber. Timber Moore, the new summer-school teacher,” I say, but she’s already waving a dismissive hand.

“I can see that now. My Sarah was a slip of a thing, and here you are, all sturdy with light hair and blue eyes.” She pats my arm, her eyes twinkling. “You can’t fault an old woman for wishing. I’m May Sweeney. Welcome to Port Promise.”

“Thank you,” I say, unsure if she means sturdy as a compliment or a jab. “Do you happen to know where Kane might be?”

May exhales a cloud of breath and gives a slight, knowing shake of her head. “Kane will make his entrance from that direction,” she says with a casual tilt of her chin. In the distance, the trees give way to a peek at the ocean. “In the meantime”—she nods to a building whose neon “Open” sign blinks against the salt-sprayed window—“why not take refuge in my café? The coffee’s hot, and it’ll chase away the chill.”

“Appreciate it, May, but first”—I glance down at the chirping box—”I gotta do something with these guys.” I tilt my head skyward and nod toward the bird still eyeing them for his next meal.

“Ah, always looking out for the young’uns,” she says. “You’ll fit right in.” She points up the dock and to the right. “The storage room is just over yonder. That should do for now. Just prop open the door a smidge for air.” May turns and walks back up the dock to her café.

“Thank you,” I call after her. I lug the box of chicks to the room, setting them carefully inside. “There you go, fluff balls. You won’t be eagle snacks today.”

As the chicks settle, I step back onto the dock, taking in the sights and sounds around me. Waves lap gently at the pilings, and gulls squawk overhead, their cries echoing against the backdrop of dense forest.

From where I stand, I spot the only street in town—the essentials with their weather-beaten storefronts. From my research, there’s May’s Café, a bar, and a secondhand store. Right next to the community center is a place to do laundry and get drinkable water. The central hub seems to be the dock with a fueling station for boats, a bait and tackle shop, and a small grocery store. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to work with.

“You signed up for this,” I remind myself, taking one last look at the water. “Warmth first,” I say, as the incoming storm settles in my bones. “Everything else can wait.” As I head toward the building, a creaking and groaning sound draws my attention to the inlet.

May pops her head out of the café door and points to a large, imposing boat as it cuts through the choppy waters. “Looks like your man is here.”

“Oh, he’s not my man.” The words claw their way out, each syllable a shard of glass in my throat. The ghost of my ex-husband lingers in a sharp presence that still cuts deep.

“Kane’s a good man. You could do worse,” May says.

I meet her gaze, the weight of every letdown in my life hanging heavily. “I’m not looking,” I say flatly, the words a shield against expectations I can no longer bear.

May’s lips curve up with a hint of knowing. “That’s when love finds ya.”

I shoot her a cynical look. “Right, because I need love like a case of the pox—itchy, irritating, and leaves you scarred for life.”

May shakes her head before entering the café and closing the door.

The boat nears the dock, and at the helm is a man with sharp angles and rough edges, from his waxed, weathered jacket to the set of his bearded jaw.

He slides his boat next to the dock with the ease of a seasoned professional and secures it with a rope before turning to acknowledge me.

“Timber Moore?” His voice is like gravel, the words barely making it over the wind.

“Yep, that’s me,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I am.

He hoists a bin onto the dock and steps back toward the boat, pausing. “Apologies for the delay. Had an argument with the engine earlier.” He nods at the vessel, which bobs gently in the water as if in agreement. “You’re a long way from home. Why Alaska?”

“I could use the extra money, plus it seems like it will be an adventure.” The truth is, I inherited my mother’s tiny one-bedroom home when she died, and everything from the plumbing to the air conditioner needs fixing. Summer jobs are hard to find, and this one landed in my lap.

“The quicker I get these fish offloaded, the faster your adventure begins. We need to get the salmon on ice before the storm hits. Will you give me a hand?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Start loading the bin with fish.”

Before I can process his words, he tosses a shiny, slippery body. I dodge it with a yelp. “Wait, I’m not ready.”

“Salmon waits for no one. These fish are paying your salary,” he states flatly, making it clear that complaining is not an option. I catch the next glistening fish, but it slips through my fingers and hits the dock with a thud.

“Fish are friends, not projectiles!” I say, snagging one mid-air and dropping it into the bin, a flash of pride washing over me until another smacks into my chest and falls to the dock. “Woah, hold on a second.”

“Storm’s about ready to break. We need to hurry.”

After delivering what seems like an entire school of salmon to a plastic holding cell, Kane jumps to the dock and tosses several sanitizing wipes to me.

“Good job.” He hoists the mailbag over his shoulder and disappears briefly into one of the old shanty-style buildings while I attempt to remove the scales and slime from my hands and jacket. When he returns, I follow as he drags the salmon bin to the top of the dock and fills it with ice from a nearby machine. He stops and looks around. “Have you seen a box of birds? ”

I point to the storage closet. “May said to put them in there.”

With a grunt of acknowledgment, he strides over, retrieves the box, and for a moment, his gaze softens as he looks inside.

“Will they be family pets?” I ask.

He chuckles, closing the container with care. “Nope, they’re Sunday dinner in about three or four months.”

“Ah,” I say, the reality of my new life settling in. In an environment like this, sentimentality has no place. As a teacher, I've learned to accept the reality of raising animals for food, understanding the necessity of it for survival.

“Ready to see your new home?”

“Yes.” The word is a whisper, my chest hammering against my ribs, nerves simmering beneath the surface.

“Then let’s go.” He takes off at a double-time pace.

I race down the dock to grab my duffle and rush behind him along the wooden walkway that seems to go on forever.

“How far does this go?” I call out as I race to catch up.

“It connects most of the houses in town. It’s our version of a superhighway, but built for ATV’s, snowmobiles, and foot traffic.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It’s convenient.”

Rain falls from the sky, and I pull my jacket tighter, cursing myself for not dressing warmer. I should have splurged on the higher-rated down coat, but all my research suggested that what I bought was appropriate. I suppose they didn’t consider I was from Phoenix, which often has temperatures equaling the fiery pits of hell.

We walk for what seems like an eternity, but likely only ten minutes.

“We’re here,” he says as he stops before a log cabin.

I take a moment to absorb the sight: weathered wood logs forming the walls, a pitched roof covered with green shingles or maybe moss. There’s a small porch adorned with a set of antlers over the door. Off to the side is a quaint water pump, which I find oddly charming. It would look adorable with a pot of flowers planted beneath it. The cabin is nestled in a small clearing, surrounded by towering trees that create a picturesque backdrop. I’m awestruck by how perfect it is.

“Let me show you the inside.” Kane pushes open the unlocked door and leads me into the one-room cabin.

“Cozy,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. Inside, the reality is far from the fairytale image I had conjured. There are no rocking chairs flanking a stone fireplace. No quilts hanging on the walls. It's more utilitarian than charming. The room is sparse, with just a bed, a table, and chairs. The far wall is lined with shelves, and below them is something that resembles a sink. This isn't the retreat I had envisioned. It's a stark reminder of the bare-bones functionality required to live here. I look back at the door.

“No locks?”

“Not necessary,” he says. “You’ll find you have everything you need. There are battery-operated lanterns around the room.” He points out three. “You’ll need to start a fire.” He nods toward a wood stove in the corner, which looks like it belongs in a museum.

“Right.” I stare at it, willing it to ignite by sheer force of will.

Kane sighs and moves past me. “The first one is on me.” He expertly stacks the kindling and wood, lights it, and for a moment, there’s the comforting crackle of flame—then smoke billows out, surrounding us in a choking fog.

“Awesome,” I cough, waving my hands futilely.

“Damned flue.” He gives the stovepipe a rattle, there’s a clank, and suddenly, bits of charred who-knows-what rain down, but the smoke clears.

“Thank you,” I manage between coughs.

“Don’t burn the place down. It’s been in the family for a hundred years.”

I want to point out that I wasn’t the one who nearly set years of history ablaze just now, but I keep quiet.

“My sister Eliza should’ve mentioned that it’s a dry cabin with no running water. There’s a water pump just outside to the right, and you’ll find the outhouse by the forest’s edge straight ahead,” he says.

I pause, taken aback. Eliza said it was a rustic cabin but had all the amenities I’d need. “Outhouse?” I took it for granted that all the amenities I needed included running water and a bathroom.

One of his eyebrows lifts, and I notice how his eyes are not quite blue or gray. They are the color of the storm churning outside, beautiful but dangerous .

“Welcome to the wild. Cell phone service is not good. It’s spotty at best. Food is in the kitchen.” He nods at the far end of the cabin before striding toward the door.

The food turns out to be jars lining the shelves, the contents looking back at me like pickled science experiments. My stomach churns at labels proudly proclaiming Squirrel Stew and Beaver Bolognese.

“Is there anything here that wasn’t living in my yard last week?” I call after him.

“Check the bottom shelf,” he shouts back, his voice fading with distance.

Relief floods me as I see more recognizable fare, such as salmon and fruit compote, lined up five jars deep.

The door slams shut as the wind lashes against the small windowpanes, leaving me with the echo of its bang. I stand alone, center stage in a one-woman play called Timber Takes the Tundra .

“Okay, this is it,” I say, rolling my shoulders back. “This will be a fabulous experience or a spectacularly poor decision.”

I toe off my boots and pad over to the solitary bed, pressing down on the lumpy mattress. The springs groan beneath the comforter like they’re telling tales of past guests. I laugh. It’s a sharp sound that’s more nerves than humor, and I peel back the cover to see the sheets. They’re cold but new looking. I sit on the side of the bed and reach inside my pocket for the familiar edges of the postcard that led me here. Pulling it out, I hold it up to the last remnants of light filtering through the window. It was postmarked over three decades ago, but the scene on the front looks the same: the dock, the water, and the pristine mountains in the background.

I turn it over. Almost nothing is legible. No addressee, no name for return, only a faded message.

Please come back. I love you. We can work it out.

I trace the worn corners and realize there’s so much I don’t know.