Challenged By the Ex-Military Lumberjack (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #1)

Chapter 1 - Jade

The house smells like dust and decades when I push the front door open for the first time with the actual key in my actual hand. Not rented. Not borrowed. Mine.

I stand in the doorway and let that sink in for a second, because it's the first thing that's been entirely mine in longer than I want to admit.

The real estate agent is already backing down the porch steps, clearly eager to escape before I change my mind or discover whatever structural nightmare is probably hiding behind these faded floral wallpapers.

"You've got my number if you need anything," she calls over her shoulder, which I'm pretty sure is code for *please don't call me when you realize what you've done.*

"Thanks," I say, but she's already in her car.

I watch her taillights disappear down the long driveway, then turn back to survey my new kingdom. And it is a kingdom, in the way that all slightly decrepit, questionably wired, definitely haunted-looking houses become kingdoms when they're yours and yours alone.

The living room is bigger than I expected. Hardwood floors that might be beautiful under the grime. A fireplace that probably hasn't been used since the nineties. Windows that look out onto trees, so many trees I can't actually see where they end.

It's perfect.

It's also a disaster, but that's fine. I've become very comfortable with disasters lately.

I drop my bag on the floor and the sound echoes. *Empty house, empty house, empty house*. I should hate that echo. I should feel the weight of it, the loneliness of it. But instead, I feel something that might be relief.

No one here knows me. No one here knows about Mom, or the hospice, or the apartment I couldn't stand to stay in after she died because every corner of it still smelled like her lavender lotion.

No one here has that look, the one people get when they're trying to figure out if you're coping or if you're about to shatter across their shoes.

Here, I'm just the new girl who bought the old Porter house.

I can work with that.

By day three, I've scrubbed the kitchen within an inch of its life, discovered that two of the four burners on the stove actually work, and learned that the water pressure is what I can only describe as optimistic.

I've also introduced myself to exactly nine people, including the mailman, the woman who runs the new coffee shop on Main Street, and a very enthusiastic golden retriever named Biscuit.

Blackwater Falls is the kind of town that probably looks exactly the same as it did thirty years ago, and I mean that as a compliment.

There's a main street with a hardware store, a diner, a post office, and a bar that I haven't worked up the courage to enter yet.

Everyone waves. Everyone asks where you're from.

Everyone has an opinion about the weather.

It's aggressively charming, and I'm trying very hard not to love it too much too fast, but I'm failing miserably.

The problem, and there's always a problem, is that the house needs work.

Real work. The kind of work that involves pipes and wiring and things I know absolutely nothing about.

I can paint a wall. I can assemble furniture using only rage and determination.

But I cannot fix a kitchen sink that's currently dripping in a way that sounds like a slow, judgmental countdown to disaster.

Which is how I end up at the hardware store on a Thursday morning, staring at a wall of pipe fittings like they might start making sense if I just glare hard enough.

"Can I help you find something?"

I turn to find a man in his sixties wearing a name tag that says *FRANK* and an expression that suggests he's already resigned to whatever chaos I'm about to bring into his life.

"Yes," I say. "I need to fix a sink."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's dripping."

"From where?"

"The…sink part?"

Frank sighs the sigh of a man who has had this exact conversation a thousand times. "Let me get you a washer kit."

I follow him down an aisle that smells like metal and sawdust, asking approximately seventeen questions about things like water pressure and pipe diameter and whether it's normal for a house built in 1987 to sound like it's sighing every time I turn on a faucet.

Frank answers about half of them. The other half he just sort of shrugs at, which I'm choosing to interpret as *that's just old houses, kid.*

"Now, if it's leaking from the base, you're going to want to—"

"That's not right."

The voice comes from behind me. Deep. Flat. The kind of voice that doesn't waste words because it doesn't have to.

I turn around.

And I have to tilt my head back. Way back.

He's tall. That's the first thing. Not just tall, fucking tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Thick beard. And eyes, gray eyes that look like a storm deciding whether or not to break.

He's staring at the washer kit in Frank's hand like it personally offended him.

"What's not right?" I ask, because apparently my mouth doesn't care that the rest of me is still processing the fact that this man is enormous.

Those gray eyes flick to me. Just for a second. Then back to Frank.

"That's for a compression faucet," he says. "She said it's dripping from the sink. If it's the base, it's the O-ring. If it's the spout, it's a cartridge issue."

Frank blinks. "Could be a washer."

"Could be," the man says. "But it's not."

There's a pause. I look between them. Frank looks mildly embarrassed. The tall man looks like he's already regretting speaking.

And I… I grin.

"I didn't know the hardware store came with a grumpy expert," I say.

His eyes cut back to me, and for a second, I see something flicker there. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Like he's not entirely sure what to do with me.

Then he turns and walks away.

Just, walks away. Down the aisle, past the paint cans, and straight out the front door without another word.

I stare after him.

"Well," I say, turning back to Frank. "He was delightful."

Frank snorts. "That's Eli Cross. He doesn't come into town much."

"I can see why. Does he hate people, or just me specifically?"

"He doesn't hate people," Frank says, but he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "He just…keeps to himself."

I glance toward the door, where the man—Eli—has already disappeared. "How long has he lived here?"

"Six years, give or take. Bought some land out past the ridge. Works as a lumberjack. Keeps his head down."

"Is he always that chatty?"

Frank grins. "That was chatty for Eli."

I let that sit for a second. Then I look back at the washer kit in Frank's hand, then toward the door again.

"I'm going to need to know everything about him," I say.

Frank laughs. Actually laughs. "Good luck."

Frank is still grinning at me like I've just announced I'm planning to climb Everest in flip-flops.

"What do you mean, 'good luck'?" I ask.

He shakes his head, moving back toward the counter with the washer kit still in hand. "I mean that Eli Cross is about as interested in people as a bear is in traffic. Nice enough guy, don't get me wrong. Just distant."

"Distant like shy, or distant like witness protection?"

"Distant like he bought a cabin in the woods six years ago and hasn't come up for air since.

" Frank sets the kit down and leans against the counter, settling into what I recognize as storytelling posture.

"Ex-military. Did a couple tours overseas.

Came back different, the way some of them do.

Keeps to himself now. Works the lumber, takes care of his dog, comes into town maybe twice a month if that. "

I process this. "So, he's not unfriendly. He's just—"

"Unfriendly, yes" Frank says. "But for his own reasons."

There's something in the way he says it that makes me not push. I know that tone. It's the same one people used when they talked about Mom toward the end, when *how is she* really meant *is she still here* and everyone tiptoed around the hard parts because acknowledging them felt too heavy.

"Well," I say, "he was right about the washer."

"Usually is," Frank admits. "Man knows his way around just about anything you can build or fix. Just doesn't offer the information unless something's wrong enough to bother him."

"And me getting the wrong part was wrong enough?"

"Apparently."

I laugh, and it echoes a little in the quiet store. "Okay. So, what do I actually need?"

Frank walks me through it: O-rings, cartridges, the difference between a compression faucet and a ball faucet and about six other types of faucets I didn't know existed.

I leave twenty minutes later with a small bag of supplies and the distinct feeling that I'm still going to screw this up, but at least I'll screw it up with the correct materials.

The air outside is crisp and clean in a way that city air never is. It smells like pine and dirt and weather. I take a breath and let it fill my lungs, then head toward my car.

That's when I see him.

Eli.

He's leaning against a massive pickup truck that looks like it's seen some things, arms crossed, talking to a dog.

Not a person. A dog.

The dog is huge. Some kind of mutt with gray fur and ears that don't quite match. It's sitting at attention, looking up at Eli like he's delivering a sermon.

I slow down, because I'm nosy and because there's something about watching this enormous, gruff man have a full conversation with a dog that I find absolutely fascinating.

"I know," Eli is saying. "But we're not getting the good kibble until Friday, so you're going to have to make do."

The dog makes a low sound that might be a grumble.

"Don't start," Eli says. "You ate half a deer carcass last week. You're fine."

I'm trying very hard not to laugh. I'm failing. He must hear me, because his head snaps up and those storm-gray eyes lock onto me.

"Hi," I say, because I've already been caught and there's no point pretending I wasn't eavesdropping.

He straightens. Doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like I'm a problem he didn't anticipate. The dog, however, has no such reservations. It trots over immediately, tail wagging, and shoves its nose directly into my hand.

"Well, hello," I say, crouching down to scratch behind its mismatched ears. "Aren't you friendly?"

"Ridge," Eli says. Just the name. Like that explains everything.

"Ridge," I repeat, looking up at him. "That's a good name."

He doesn't respond. Just watches me like he's trying to figure out what species I am. I stand back up, and I have to tilt my head back again to meet his eyes. He really is absurdly tall.

"I'm Jade," I say. "I just moved here. Bought the old Porter house."

"I know."

Of course he does. Small town. Everyone knows everything.

"Thanks for the help in there," I say, nodding toward the hardware store. "Frank was about to sell me the wrong thing."

"Frank means well."

"I'm sure he does. But you saved me from a very embarrassing phone call when my kitchen flooded."

The corner of his mouth twitches. It's not a smile, not even close, but it's something.

"You know how to replace an O-ring?" he asks.

"Nope," I tell him. "But I'm going to YouTube the hell out of it and hope for the best."

He stares at me for a long second. Then he reaches into the bed of his truck, pulls out a small toolbox, and sets it on the tailgate.

"You'll need a basin wrench," he says, opening the box and pulling out something that looks vaguely medieval.

"And pliers. The O-ring sits here—" He holds up his hand, miming the shape.

"You'll see it once you take the faucet apart.

Just don't overtighten when you put it back, or you'll crack the seal. "

I blink. "Are you actually helping me right now?"

His jaw tightens, like he's surprised at himself. "You'll flood the place otherwise."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Wasn't a vote," he says. "Just a fact."

Ridge bumps against my leg again, and I reach down to give him another scratch. "Your dog likes me."

"Ridge likes everyone."

"Do you?"

"No," he says simply.

I should probably be offended. Or at least deterred. But instead I just grin.

"Fair enough," I say. "I'll try not to take it personally."

He closes the toolbox, slides it back into the truck bed, and opens the driver's side door. Ridge jumps in without being told.

"Good luck with the sink," Eli says.

And then he's gone. Just like in the hardware store. Climbs into the truck, starts the engine, and drives off without another word. I stand there in the parking lot, bag of O-rings in hand, watching his taillights disappear down the road.

Frank was right.

Good luck is exactly what I'm going to need.

But here's the thing about me: I've never been particularly good at just letting things go.