Chapter Two
Vaughn
I slammed the door of my cabin hard enough to rattle the windows. My dog Timber—a massive chocolate Lab with more enthusiasm than sense—bounded over to greet me, tail whipping back and forth like a helicopter blade.
"At least someone's happy to see me," I muttered, giving his ears a distracted scratch.
The day had gone straight to hell thanks to one tie-dye wearing, tree-hugging Californian with a misguided savior complex. I tossed my keys onto the counter and yanked open the fridge, grabbing a beer and popping the cap off with more force than necessary. The satisfying hiss of escaping carbonation did little to calm my nerves.
I took a long pull from the bottle and leaned against the kitchen counter, Timber settling at my feet with a contented sigh. My cabin wasn't much—just a two-bedroom structure my grandfather had built decades ago—but it was mine, situated on a quiet corner of Ridgeway land with a view of Fire Mountain that never got old.
"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, boy," I told Timber, who thumped his tail against the floor in response.
What was it about that woman that got under my skin so quickly? Clementine Fox. Even her name sounded like something out of a children's storybook. I'd dealt with protesters before—occupational hazard in the logging business—but none had rattled me the way she had.
Maybe it was the way those hazel eyes had blazed with righteous indignation. Or how she'd felt in my arms when I'd carried her away from the tree—surprisingly soft and warm against my chest, smelling of wildflowers and something earthy I couldn't identify. I'd been acutely aware of the curve of her waist beneath my hands, the flash of freckles across her nose when she'd glared up at me.
"Christ," I muttered, taking another swig of beer. "Get it together, Ridgeway."
Timber whined, nudging my leg with his nose.
"Not you too," I told him. "She's trouble. Probably thinks 'sustainable forestry' is an oxymoron."
I pushed away from the counter and moved to my desk in the corner of the living room, where stacks of paperwork awaited my attention. Bills, equipment maintenance reports, payroll sheets—the endless bureaucracy involved in running a business my father had handled with seemingly effortless competence.
Dad had built Ridgeway Logging & Timber from a small family operation into a respected regional business, all while maintaining his unwavering commitment to responsible forestry practices. "We're stewards, not owners," he'd always say. "Take only what the forest can regrow."
Since his unexpected death three years ago, I'd been fighting an uphill battle. Larger competitors with fewer scruples about clear-cutting had driven prices down. Equipment costs kept rising. And now a nationwide housing slump had reduced demand for lumber across the board.
I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling the day's stubble rasp against my palm. The harvest scheduled for tomorrow had been meticulously planned to bring in much-needed revenue without compromising our sustainability standards. Every day of delay meant fifteen men—good men with families to feed—standing idle on the payroll.
And now Driving Miss Daisy threatened to throw a rainbow-colored wrench into the works.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Grant McAllister's name on the screen.
"What?" I answered, eloquent as always.
"Well hello to you too, sunshine," Grant's amused voice came through the speaker. As Ashwood's most respected smokejumper, Grant maintained an irritating level of cheerfulness even in crisis.
"Sorry," I sighed, dropping into my desk chair. "Rough day."
"Word travels fast around here. Heard you had to wrestle some protester off your property this morning."
I groaned. "News already made it to the firehouse?"
"Are you kidding? Dan was driving by and saw you carrying a woman in tie-dye away from a tree. By lunchtime, half of Ashwood knew about it. So..." I could hear the smile in his voice. "How was your date with Mother Nature?"
"Hilarious. She chained herself to a ponderosa we're scheduled to harvest tomorrow. Had to cut her loose."
"Dan said she was cute."
I hesitated a beat too long before answering. "Wouldn't know. I was too busy trying to keep her from sabotaging a $30,000 day's work."
"Uh-huh," Grant replied, unconvinced. "So this wouldn't be the same woman Peyton and I saw handing out flyers outside the general store an hour ago? Petite, sandy-colored curly hair, looks like she walked straight out of Woodstock?"
My stomach clenched. "She's still in town?"
"Very much so. Seemed quite passionate about saving trees from, and I quote, 'the corporate guillotine of Ridgeway Logging.'"
"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "She's going to be a problem."
"Only if you let her get to you," Grant said. "Though judging by your tone, she already has."
"She hasn't gotten to me ," I growled. "She's just a nuisance."
"Sure, sure. Hey, want to grab a beer at the Skyline over in Hope Peak tonight? Mack and Ian will be there."
"Can't. Got to go over numbers for tomorrow's harvest. Need to make sure we hit the ground running after today's delay."
"All work and no play, Vaughn."
"Some of us have businesses to run," I replied, but without heat. Grant was a good friend, one of the few people in Ashwood who didn't treat me like my father's disappointing replacement.
After ending the call, I tried to focus on the spreadsheets before me, but my mind kept drifting back to Clementine and her ridiculous painted van. If she was handing out flyers in town, she was likely trying to drum up local opposition to the harvest. The last thing I needed was community pushback when margins were already razor-thin.
I'd have to deal with this myself. Now.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled my truck into a parking space outside Sue's Place. Sure enough, through the large front window, I could see a flash of tie-dye moving among the tables.
The bell above the door jingled as I entered. Susie Wheeler, the diner's owner, gave me a knowing look from behind the counter.
"Afternoon, Vaughn," she called. "Coffee?"
"No thanks, Susie," I replied, my eyes already locked on the colorful figure weaving between tables, distributing what looked like homemade flyers.
Clementine hadn't noticed me yet. She wore the same flower-embroidered leggings from this morning, paired now with an oversized violet sweater that slipped off one shoulder. Her tawny hair was gathered in a messy bun on top of her head, little tendrils escaping to frame her face. She smiled and chatted animatedly with the locals, most of whom were regarding her with the polite bemusement Ashwood typically reserved for tourists.
I'd like to say my approach was strategic, but honestly, I just strode directly toward her like a heat-seeking missile. She turned, mid-sentence, to old Calvin Parker, and froze when she saw me. Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing in recognition.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Chainsaw himself," she said, her voice carrying in the suddenly quiet diner. "Come to arrest me for exercising my First Amendment rights?"
Calvin, a retired firefighter who now worked for Harriet Lindstrom's orchard, looked between us with undisguised curiosity before discreetly retreating to his booth.
"I don't have the authority to arrest anyone," I replied evenly. "Though I'm sure Ashwood’s Chief of Police, Ian Thornton, would be happy to hear about your trespassing this morning."
She crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her chin up defiantly. "Public information campaigns aren't illegal."
I plucked one of her flyers from a nearby table. The hand-drawn image showed a crying tree being cut down by a faceless man with a chainsaw. "STOP RIDGEWAY LOGGING FROM DESTROYING FIRE MOUNTAIN'S ANCIENT FOREST!" the headline screamed in red letters.
"Interesting definition of 'information,'" I said, holding up the flyer. "This is defamation."
"It's the truth," she countered, stepping closer. "Your company is planning to cut down trees that have been growing since before America was even a country."
Every eye in the diner was on us now. Sue had stopped wiping down the counter. Greg Summers, the town mechanic, was openly staring, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.
"My company," I said, keeping my voice low but intense, "practices sustainable forestry that keeps fifteen local families fed. We selectively harvest and replant twice what we take. We maintain habitats for wildlife and protect watersheds."
"Oh please." She rolled her eyes, but uncertainty flickered across her face. "Next you'll tell me you personally tuck baby deer into bed at night."
Despite my frustration, I nearly smiled at the absurd image. "Look, Miss Fox—"
"Clementine."
"Fine. Clementine. You've clearly come to Ashwood with some pre-conceived notions about my business based on...what? Some internet research? A documentary you watched while high in your van?"
Her cheeks flushed, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "I've been studying forest conservation for years. I know what commercial logging does to ecosystems."
"You know what irresponsible logging does," I corrected. "Ridgeway isn't that kind of operation. Never has been, never will be."
She stepped even closer, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, close enough that I caught that scent again—maybe sage or cedar?
"Prove it," she challenged.
"Excuse me?"
"Prove you're as eco-friendly as you claim. Show me your operation, your replanting efforts, your selective harvesting techniques."
I blinked, thrown off-balance by her unexpected request. "You want a tour of my logging operation?"
"I want evidence that you're not just another greenwashing corporate destroyer hiding behind PR buzzwords."
The diner remained silent, the collective gaze of half of Ashwood burning into us. I was acutely aware of how this exchange would be recounted in shops and living rooms across town by nightfall.
"Fine," I said, surprising both of us. "Tomorrow. 8 AM. I'll show you exactly how Ridgeway operates."
She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious of my easy capitulation. "Really?"
"Really. Meet me at the access road where I found you this morning. Wear boots, not..." I gestured vaguely at her sandals. "Whatever those are."
"They're Birkenstocks, and they've carried me through protests across three states."
"Good for them. Wear boots anyway. It's a working forest, not a hippie commune."
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost like she was suppressing a smile. "I'll be there. With boots. And a camera to document everything."
"Fine by me. Nothing to hide." I turned to leave, then paused, facing her again. "And stop distributing these." I waved the flyer. "At least until after tomorrow. If you still think we're evil forest destroyers after seeing our operation, then..." I shrugged. "Do what you want."
She regarded me for a long moment, then nodded, a single decisive dip of her dimpled chin. "Deal. But if I find a single unethical practice—"
"You won't," I interrupted. "But on the extremely remote chance you do, I'll personally help you chain yourself to whatever tree you want."
That earned me a genuine smile, brief but dazzling. Something warm and unexpected unfurled in my chest at the sight.
"8 AM," she repeated. "Don't be late, Lumber Jack."
"It's my forest, Flower Child. I'm never late."
I turned and walked out, hyperaware of every eye following me. Only when I was safely in my truck did I exhale fully, my heart hammering against my ribs like I'd just run a marathon.
What the hell had I just agreed to? Giving a tour to a professional protester was risky at best, catastrophic at worst. She'd be looking for any excuse to confirm her biases, any misstep to weaponize against my company.
And yet... that smile. Those pouty lips. The way her eyes had lit up when she challenged me. The fierce intelligence I caught behind her environmental rhetoric.
I drove back toward my cabin, the memory of Clementine Fox—her scent, her fire, her surprising softness—lodged firmly in my mind despite my best efforts to dislodge it. Tomorrow would either resolve this situation or make it infinitely worse.
Either way, one thing was becoming increasingly, disturbingly clear: I was far more affected by this tie-dye-wearing crusader than I had any right to be. And judging by the way her pupils had dilated when I'd leaned closer, the inconvenient attraction might not be entirely one-sided.
"Damn it," I muttered as I turned onto the gravel road leading to my cabin. I was supposed to be focusing on saving my family's struggling business, not getting entangled with the very woman threatening to derail it.
Tomorrow. I'd set her straight tomorrow, show her exactly why Ridgeway Logging was nothing like the corporate villains she imagined. And then, hopefully, she'd take her bus and righteous indignation back to California where they belonged.
But as I pulled up to my cabin, Timber waiting expectantly on the porch, I couldn't quite convince myself I wanted her gone as badly as I should.