Chapter Three
Clementine
I'd spent the morning painting additional protest signs in the back of Dharma, bobbing my head to Janis Joplin while I worked. After yesterday's confrontation with Vaughn Ridgeway at Sue's Place, I'd agreed to postpone my flyer campaign until after our "tour" tomorrow. But that didn't mean I couldn't stage a little demonstration today.
"What do you think?" I asked my rubber cactus, Ferdinand, who traveled everywhere with me. "Too much?"
The sign in question featured a cartoon chainsaw with a red prohibition symbol over it. Beneath it, I'd written: "RIDGEWAY LOGGING: CUTTING TREES & CORNERS."
"You're right," I decided, adding a few more exclamation points. "Perfect amount of righteous indignation."
By early afternoon, I'd positioned myself at the entrance to the logging access road with three signs propped against Dharma's colorful exterior. I'd brought a folding camp chair, a thermos of herbal tea, and a determined attitude. The weather had turned overcast, the air heavy with impending rain, but nothing dampened my spirits when I was in full activist mode.
A few vehicles slowed as they passed. Some drivers honked—whether in support or derision, I couldn't tell. An elderly couple in a shiny silver Cadillac actually stopped, the gray-haired woman leaning out her window.
"You the California girl who chained herself to Ridgeway's tree?" she asked, peering at me over rhinestone-studded glasses.
"That's me," I confirmed, offering her a peace sign. "Protecting the forest one tree at a time."
The woman exchanged a look with her husband. "Honey, I'm Margeurite Ellison. My husband Walter and I own the Ashwood Lodge. We're neighbors to Harriet Lindstrom's orchard next to Ridgeway's operation. She's had that land for fifty years."
I perked up. I'd read about Lindstrom Orchards during my research—an organic apple farm that had been operating in Ashwood for generations.
"You've known the Ridgeways long?" I asked, stepping closer to their truck.
"Known 'em? I went to school with Vaughn's daddy, Thomas. He was the one who convinced Harriet to go organic back in the '80s when everyone thought it was hippie nonsense." She chuckled. "Said the chemicals would leach into the watershed, affect the forest ecology."
I blinked, thrown off-balance by this information. "Thomas Ridgeway advocated for organic farming?"
"Oh, honey," Margeurite said, "Thomas Ridgeway was the biggest tree-hugger in Ashwood, just in a flannel shirt instead of tie-dye. That boy of his might be more rough around the edges, but he was raised right when it comes to the land."
Walter, silent until now, finally spoke. "Vaughn's kept up his daddy's ways, too. Won't harvest more than the forest can replace. Fights those big logging corporations tooth and nail when they try to move in with their clear-cutting nonsense."
"But..." I faltered, my certainty wavering. "I researched them. Their website says they're harvesting old-growth sections."
"Selective harvesting, dear," Margeurite corrected. "Taking a few mature trees while leaving the forest intact. Opens up the canopy for younger trees to thrive. Thomas used to say it was like thinning carrots in a garden—sometimes you gotta take a few to let the others flourish."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. Everything I'd read about sustainable forestry confirmed what she was saying, but I'd assumed Ridgeway was just another profit-focused operation hiding behind eco-friendly marketing.
"You should see the sections they replanted fifteen years ago," Margeurite continued. "Beautiful young forest now. And Vaughn's been using the timber sales to buy up land that those Clear Valley Logging vultures wanted to clear-cut."
The mental image I'd constructed of Vaughn Ridgeway—corporate villain in flannel—cracked around the edges.
"I... didn't know that," I admitted.
Walter smiled kindly. "Maybe there's a lot you don't know yet about our town. But that's why you’re here, isn't it?"
As they drove away, I stood looking at my protest signs with newfound uncertainty. What if I'd misjudged the situation entirely? What if Ridgeway Logging really was the model of sustainable forestry Vaughn had claimed?
"Stop it, Clementine," I muttered to myself. "You're falling for their PR. Tomorrow's tour will reveal the truth."
I remained at my post for another hour as the sky darkened ominously. The first fat raindrops began to fall just as I was folding up my camp chair. Within minutes, the sprinkle transformed into a deluge.
"Perfect timing," I sighed, hastily gathering my signs and tossing them into Dharma's back doors.
I scrambled into the driver's seat, dripping water everywhere. Dharma's windshield wipers—never her strongest feature—struggled against the torrential downpour. I turned the key in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of her engine greeted me.
"Let's get back to town before this gets worse," I told Ferdinand, carefully navigating the increasingly slick road.
I'd made it about half a mile when the first troubling sputter came from Dharma's engine. Then another.
"No, no, no," I pleaded, patting the dashboard. "Not now, girl."
The engine coughed, wheezed, and died altogether, leaving me stranded on a rapidly deteriorating dirt road as rain pounded the roof with increasing ferocity.
"Come on!" I tried the ignition again. The starter whined weakly, but the engine refused to catch.
I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel in defeat. The rain had transformed the dirt road into a muddy river, and the downpour showed no signs of letting up. Cell service in this area was spotty at best, nonexistent at worst.
"Well, Ferdinand," I said to my cactus companion, "looks like we're in for an adventure."
I was contemplating my limited options—wait out the storm, try to hike back to the main road, or perform an impromptu rain dance to appease whatever deity had clearly cursed me—when headlights cut through the gloom behind me.
A massive pickup truck pulled alongside Dharma, and through the rain-blurred windows, I made out an all-too-familiar silhouette.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
Vaughn Ridgeway stepped out of his truck, immediately drenched by the downpour. He jogged to my window, which I reluctantly rolled down a few inches.
"Car trouble, Flower Child?" he shouted over the rain.
"It's temporary!" I called back. "She just needs a minute!"
Lightning split the sky, followed immediately by a crash of thunder that seemed to shake Dharma's frame.
"Yeah, I can see that working out great for you," Vaughn replied, rainwater dripping from his jaw. "Come on, get in my truck before you float away in this tie-dyed shoebox."
"I'm perfectly fine right here," I insisted, even as water began to seep through Dharma's less-than-watertight roof.
Another lightning strike, closer this time. The road behind us was now visibly washing out, transforming into a muddy stream.
Vaughn's expression shifted from irritation to genuine concern. "This isn't optional, Clementine. That road's about to become impassable. My cabin's ten minutes from here. You can wait out the storm, then I'll bring you back when it's safe."
A cold drop of rainwater hit the back of my neck, sliding down my spine. Dharma's interior was growing danker by the second.
"Fine," I conceded, grabbing my backpack and Ferdinand. "But I'm coming back for Dharma as soon as the rain stops."
"Wouldn't dream of separating you from your psychedelic chariot," Vaughn muttered, holding the passenger door of his truck open for me.
I splashed through ankle-deep mud to reach his vehicle, clutching Ferdinand protectively against my chest. By the time I climbed into the passenger seat, I was soaked through, my hair plastered to my face, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to every curve.
Vaughn wasn't faring much better. His flannel shirt had darkened with rainwater, molding to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that made it difficult not to stare. Droplets clung to his eyelashes and the stubble along his jaw.
He cranked up the heater as soon as he was back behind the wheel. "Seat warmer's on too," he said, navigating the truck carefully through the worsening conditions. "Should help."
The unexpected consideration caught me off guard. "Thanks," I said, unable to muster my usual argumentative tone.
We rode in silence for several minutes, the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers and rumble of thunder the only sounds. I snuck glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes as he navigated the treacherous road.
"So," I finally ventured, "do you make a habit of rescuing stranded protesters, or am I special?"
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're the first protester I've ever had to rescue. Usually they just show up, shout slogans, and leave before they have to deal with the actual conditions out here."
"I'm not leaving until I've seen the truth about your operation," I countered, but without my usual heat.
"Well, you're certainly getting the authentic Fire Mountain experience," he replied dryly as the truck splashed through a particularly deep puddle. "Rain season flashfloods included."
We turned onto a narrow, tree-lined drive that wound upward through dense forest. After another couple of minutes, a small cabin came into view—sturdy and well-maintained, with a covered porch wrapping around the front.
"Home sweet home," Vaughn said, pulling up as close to the porch as possible. "Ready to make a run for it?"
I nodded, clutching Ferdinand and my backpack.
"One, two, three—" On three, we both bolted from the truck toward the covered porch. Despite the short distance, the rainfall was so intense that we were both even more thoroughly drenched by the time we reached the door.
Vaughn fumbled with his keys, finally managing to unlock and push open the heavy wooden door. A large dog with fur the color of dark chocolate immediately bounded toward us, barking enthusiastically.
"Down, Timber," Vaughn commanded, though his tone held affection. "We have a guest."
The dog—Timber, apparently—sniffed my legs with great interest before offering a tentative tail wag.
"He won't bite," Vaughn assured me, flipping on lights and shrugging out of his sodden flannel overshirt. Underneath, his gray t-shirt was damp enough to cling to every muscled contour of his torso.
I forced my eyes away, taking in the cabin instead. It was surprisingly cozy—an open living space with a stone fireplace, comfortable-looking furniture, and walls lined with bookshelves. Not the utilitarian man-cave I'd expected.
Water dripped from my clothes onto the hardwood floor, forming small puddles around my feet. My teeth had begun to chatter without my permission.
"Bathroom's down the hall, first door on the right," Vaughn said, moving toward the fireplace where he began arranging logs. "I'll find you something dry to wear."
"I have clothes in my backpack," I told him, though the bag itself was nearly as soaked as I was.
"Those are probably wet too," he pointed out reasonably. "Go get dried off before you catch pneumonia. Arguing with me will be a lot less fun if you're in a hospital bed."
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "So you admit arguing with me is fun?"
He glanced over his shoulder, the hint of a genuine smile playing on his lips. "I didn't say that."
But he hadn't denied it either.
The bathroom was clean and simple, with rustic touches that matched the rest of the cabin. I peeled off my wet clothes, using a fluffy towel to dry myself as best I could. My hair hung in damp ringlets around my face, and my waterlogged backpack had indeed failed to protect my spare clothes.
A soft knock at the door made me clutch the towel tighter around myself.
"I've got some dry clothes," Vaughn's voice came through the door. "I'll just leave them out here."
"Thank you," I called back, waiting until I heard his footsteps retreat before cracking the door open.
The neatly folded pile contained a flannel shirt in a deep forest green and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. Both would be comically oversized on my frame, but they were blessedly dry.
I slipped into the offered clothes, rolling up the sleeves and pant legs to make them somewhat manageable. The shirt hung to mid-thigh, enveloping me in soft fabric that carried the scent of pine and something uniquely masculine that I assumed was just... Vaughn.
When I finally emerged, Vaughn had changed as well, now wearing dry jeans and a navy henley that stretched across his shoulders. He'd started a fire in the fireplace, the flames casting a warm glow throughout the room. Timber had settled on a large dog bed in the corner, watching us with curious eyes.
"Better?" Vaughn asked, looking up from where he knelt by the fireplace.
I nodded, suddenly self-conscious in his borrowed clothes. The flannel shirt swallowed me, making me look like a child playing dress-up. I'd rolled the sleeves, but they kept unrolling, covering my hands.
A strange expression crossed Vaughn's face as he took in the sight of me drowning in his shirt. Something darkened in his eyes before he quickly looked away.
"Fire should warm the place up soon," he said, his voice oddly rough. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll see what I can find for dinner."
I moved closer to the fireplace, drawn to its warmth. Outside, the storm raged on, rain lashing against the windows, wind howling through the trees. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but in here, everything felt unexpectedly... safe.
I sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, holding my hands out toward the flames. Vaughn moved around in the kitchen area, the domestic sounds of cupboards opening and closing oddly comforting.
This was not how I'd expected my protest day to end—sheltered in the home of the very man I'd come to oppose, wearing his clothes, warming myself by his fire.
He returned with two mugs, handing one to me. "Hot chocolate," he explained. "Only thing sweeter than coffee that I had on hand."
The unexpected gesture touched me more than it should have. "Thank you," I said, accepting the mug and wrapping my fingers around its warmth.
Vaughn settled in an armchair nearby, his own mug cradled in hands that bore the calluses of physical labor. In the firelight, his features seemed softer somehow, less the corporate enemy and more simply... a man.
A very attractive man, my traitorous mind added, whose clothes I was now wearing, whose scent surrounded me, whose cabin sheltered me from the storm.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, "still planning to chain yourself to my trees after our tour tomorrow?"
I took a sip of hot chocolate to buy myself time. The conversation with the Ellisons earlier had planted seeds of doubt that were rapidly taking root.
"I guess that depends on what I see," I answered honestly.
He nodded, seeming to appreciate my candor. "Fair enough."
Another roll of thunder, another gust of wind rattling the windows. I pulled the sleeves of his flannel shirt over my hands, unconsciously seeking more of its warmth, more of its comfort.
Vaughn's eyes tracked the movement, lingering on my hands swallowed by his sleeves, then traveling up to my face. That same darkening I'd noticed earlier returned to his gaze, sending an unexpected shiver through me that had nothing to do with being cold.
"Looks like we're in for a long night," he said, his voice lower than before.
And as our eyes held across the firelit room, I wondered what exactly I'd gotten myself into—and whether I might discover a side of Vaughn Ridgeway that would change everything I thought I knew.