Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Jace
I don’t become a different man overnight. Still up before dawn. Light the stove. Make coffee. Drive to my claims, where I find a flat, smooth piece of aspen in the slash pile. It’s pale, fine-grained, and the length of my index finger. I place it in my pocket.
After ten hours with the chainsaw and the axe, I come home with sawdust in my hair and a body too tired for thought.
Though I reach for Rosalind now. On the porch, as the peaks bled from gold to purple, I shift closer. My pinky, callused and rough, brushes hers on the railing. A quiet jolt hums through my hand.
She presses her finger to mine and keeps reading. The small gesture steals my breath.
I need no one. I let no one close. I give no one anything they can take when they go.
I cross those lines every day. I don’t know how to stop. I’m not sure I want to.
After dinner, the fire burns low, a soft crackle in the cabin. Rosalind reads on the couch. A few strands of hair have fallen across her face, catching the firelight.
I reach out, my fingers clumsy to tenderness, and tuck the strands behind her ear. She leans into my hand, a small movement. Her gaze stays on the page.
Her cheek against my palm hollows me. I want to anchor her to me, to feel her touching my skin.
I pull her gently into my lap, and she gasps, a soft sound, then settles. Her body molds to mine.
Rosalind tucks her head under my chin and curls into me. I wrap my arms around her and hold on.
The fire pops. Spool stretches on the floor. The cabin has never felt more like home.
Desire flares in her eyes. She inhales. “Can we…”
I want her, but not like this. Not if it hurts her, or me. “Let’s give your body more time to recover from the first time.”
“I’m ready.”
I growl. “Trust me on this.”
“Okay. Can I read to you?”
Words fail me, so I nod.
She reads Wendell Berry to me. The words settle into the cabin. I press my mouth to the top of her head, and she keeps reading.
At least we have a few more days before the pass opens.
I never thought I’d enjoy reading next to someone so much. But Rosalind keeps shifting her weight. She must be sore from last night and tired. “It’s time for you to sleep,” I say.
She smiles expectantly. “Are you coming?”
“Soon.” I hand her one of my shirts to wear, tuck her into my bed, and kiss her forehead. I watch her until she falls asleep. Then I let Spool take over and go to the kitchen table.
That piece of aspen calls to me. I get it, then I pull out my carving knife.
The smooth wood in my hand feels like old strength returning.
Using a skill I haven’t touched in four years, I round the corners and smooth the edges with fine-grit sandpaper from the toolbox.
On one side, I carve a small open book. Two lines for the spine. Rectangles for the pages.
My hand slips. I catch myself before I cut too deep. The blade glints. I haven’t been this careful with wood in years.
An hour later, I hold the finger-long piece of pale wood, a book etched into one side. Only she will know what this is.
I leave the toolbox open.
My fingertips brush the chisels, a touch I haven’t allowed myself in four years. I look at the kitchen counter where the trim snapped off. A rough edge I’ve left for three winters.
My hand twitches as I imagine the precise angle of the cut needed to fix it. Not tonight, though. I don’t want to wake her.
I slip into bed with Rosalind. I want to watch her sleep, but tomorrow demands I close my eyes.
In the morning, I place the bookmark on her pillow while she’s still sleeping. I can’t watch her find it.
Rosalind and the bookmark fill my thoughts all day. I arrive home at dusk, and she’s on the couch with the bookmark pressed to her chest, both hands wrapped around it, her eyes closed.
I stand in the doorway.
She holds the piece of wood with a reverence that shatters me, making my hands tremble. I remove my boots and jacket, then go to the kitchen. Pour water. Stand at the sink until my hands stop shaking.
Dad carved Mom a birch comb for their first anniversary. She left with it.
I carved a bookmark for Rosalind.
I dry my hands on a dish towel, walk into the living room, and watch her hold the bookmark. She opens her eyes, and her face changes.
Her smile burns into my memory.
She bounds to her feet and launches herself into my arms. “Thank you. I love this bookmark.”
An unfamiliar warmth spreads like ice melting inside me. “Figured a reader might have some use for it.”
“I love it.”
I tower over her, but I still straighten. “Good.” My lips twitch, but I hold it back.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am.” My gaze drops to her mouth.
She bites her lip, looking at my mouth. “I want to kiss you.”
I nearly laugh. “Go ahead.”
She kisses me hard. I want this every night. I wonder if she would stay.
The next morning, the truck’s gas gauge leans to empty. I drive down the logging road to the station at the edge of town. Inside, I grab a coffee and toss a lollipop bouquet onto the counter. I pay, put them in the cab, then pump gas.
Ghost fills his truck. He lives off-grid up the ridge. Tall, leaner than me, his eyes nearly hidden under a pulled-low cap. He nods at me.
I nod back. That’s enough.
I’m still pumping gas when Ghost finishes, and he walks past my truck and glances in the cab. He gives me another nod. One that holds weight. Then he gets into his truck and drives away.
The nod settles deep. My heart thuds.
As I stand at the pump, the warmth Ghost’s nod brings shifts into a cold knot of fear. If the solitary man of the mountains sees her presence, she’s real. And real means I can lose her.
Dread claws through me. Losing her means returning to the silence I escaped. The void will be deeper now that I know light.
When I come home, she’s at the table with Spool at her feet and index cards fanned around her, glasses on, the bookmark sticking out of the book resting in her lap.
Her head lifts, and her eyes brighten. “I missed you.”
Her missing me spreads a potent warmth, a hunger I hadn’t known. I hand her the candy. “No flowers at the gas station, so got these for you.”
She hurries toward me, kisses me, and then takes the lollipop bouquet. “These are much better than flowers. I have the biggest sweet tooth. Thanks.”
Rosalind’s gratitude for even the smallest gesture—a cheap lollipop bouquet—makes me burn with fury. What monsters did she know to make this feel like a miracle? She deserves the world. I want to give it to her.
That night at dinner, she sets her fork on her plate. “I need to go into town tomorrow. I have prep work for Evelyn that requires some things.”
“For how long?”
“Couple hours.”
I nod, though my throat tightens on the word stay. “I can come back mid-day and take you.”
And the next day, I do. Spool goes with us. Dropping her off in front of Bluebird Bookstore makes me want to hurl. “Text me when you’re finished.”
“Thanks, Jace.” And she walks into the shop.
Spool sits beside me, staring at the empty spot in the cab. He whimpers and goes to the passenger window.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I know.”
I drive to the trailhead lot and park. Her hatchback is still there. That makes her seem closer. “She won’t be gone for long.”
At least not this time. I push the thought away.
Time drags. I check my phone for her text ten times in forty minutes, even with notifications on for her.
My phone stays silent. I used to want it that way. Now the quiet hurts. Only her words will fix it.
I stare at the phone, a cold dread twisting in my gut. What if the phone stays dark? What if she doesn’t come back?