The Lumberjack and the Jersey Girl (Woodhaven Mountain Men #1)

Prologue Willow

Driving all night is finally taking its toll, but out here—in the middle of nowhere—there’s nothing to do but keep going.

The road narrows as it winds through dense forest, tall evergreens pressing close like they’re trying to crowd me off the pavement.

Dawn is just beginning to break, thin sunlight struggling through the canopy, catching on frost that clings stubbornly to the branches.

It’s March, but winter hasn’t gotten the memo up here. Everything looks cold.

Held tight.

Frozen in place.

I know how that feels.

I don’t know exactly where I am in Maine. I stopped paying attention to highway signs hours ago, somewhere after my phone lost signal and my GPS gave up the ghost.

It doesn’t matter.

The point is distance.

Space.

Miles between me and everything I left behind.

The heater in my car died a few states back.

I don’t even remember where—maybe New Jersey, maybe Pennsylvania. I just remember the cold seeping in through the vents, biting at my fingers until I cranked the wheel warmer up and pulled my coat tighter around myself.

Heat is a luxury.

And I decided long before I left that luxuries don’t matter anymore.

That thought hits me harder than it should.

Isn’t that odd? How easily I let that go.

I suck in a deep breath and grip the steering wheel, begging my brain not to wander.

Not now.

Not to go into memories that still feel too sharp, too close to the surface.

I tell myself the past belongs where I left it—behind me, shrinking in the rearview mirror with every mile.

To distract myself, I start to hum.

It’s quiet in the car. Too quiet.

The radio crapped out sometime after the heater, leaving me alone with the sound of tires on asphalt and my own thoughts.

Humming fills the space, shaky at first, then steadier.

I don’t even realize I’m doing it until a familiar melody forms—something soft, something my grandmother used to sing while she cooked.

Living in South Florida for the past eighteen years made me soft when it comes to the cold.

I traded snow for sunshine, boots for flip-flops, layers for tank tops.

People joke about the heat down there, but it’s the kind of heat that wraps around you, that sinks into your bones and stays.

Florida has its dangers, sure.

Snakes, gators, hurricanes.

But the snakes I’m afraid of aren’t the kind that slither.

They’re the two-legged kind.

When Dan asked me to move with him, I hesitated.

I remember that part clearly—the doubt.

I remember standing in my tiny Jersey apartment, staring at the packed boxes, feeling something tighten in my chest even after I said okay.

He told me he loved me.

Said he wanted a future.

Marriage. A house.

All the things I thought I wanted.

Things most people are supposed to want.

He begged.

And I caved.

I thought love meant compromise.

I thought fairytales came with rough beginnings.

What I got instead was a slow, suffocating nightmare that took me too long to recognize for what it was.

I don’t know what I expect from all this. Only that I need to put as much distance between myself and Dan Mills as possible.

Quietly. Carefully. Without leaving a trail he can follow.

Hence the road trip.

The cash-only transactions.

The burner phone I barely turn on.

I made one mistake.

One little girl’s indulgence.

I stopped to see my mother.

Her little house in Nutley looks exactly the same as it always has—narrow driveway, flowerpots on the stoop, plastic cover on the couch she never uses.

The town I grew up in.

The place I thought would always feel like home.

It turned into a near miss.

Dan called while I was there.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, his name lighting up the screen like a warning flare. I froze.

My heart slammed so hard I thought I might throw up right there on the linoleum.

I had to beg my mom not to answer. Not to tell him where I was.

And yeah, I left that old phone there. Turned off now.

Mom didn’t understand.

She never does.

She’s old school.

She believes women are meant to endure. That love means sacrifice.

That if you bend enough, keep the peace enough, everything will work out in the end.

She’s my mom, though. And I love her to pieces—but I never told her what he was really like.

I never told anyone.

That part is too humiliating.

Too tangled up in shame to say out loud.

I was dumb. Weak.

I let him convince me I deserved it.

He knew exactly where to press.

My quiet nature.

My tendency to retreat instead of fight.

My body—how I take up too much space in a world that likes its women smaller, quieter, easier to control.

There were the remarks, always framed as jokes.

The little corrections.

The way he monitored what I ate, what I spent, where I went.

No, he didn’t hit me.

But the last confrontation—the way his voice dropped, the way his hands clenched, the look in his eyes—that was when something in me finally snapped into focus.

I really thought he was going to.

So I left.

Quietly. Carefully.

Like a ghost slipping out of her own life.

What did he do?

He emptied our joint account.

Every paycheck I’d earned over the last eighteen months—gone.

He had my name removed before I even realized what he’d done.

I’m not completely stupid. I have a small savings account he can’t touch, one I opened before him, one he never asked about, but I’m sure he knows.

Dan has connections. He’s a bank manager. Dabbles in investments.

And he has friends at other banks.

People who owe him favors.

They can trace things.

Withdrawals. Online purchases. Digital footprints.

That’s why I decided to disappear.

Cash only.

No reservations.

No social media.

No breadcrumbs.

And I hope—foolishly—that if I stay quiet enough, small enough, he’ll eventually forget about me.

But I know better.

Dan doesn’t let go.

The gas gauge dips lower, needle hovering just above empty.

My stomach tightens as I do the math. Less than a hundred dollars to my name.

No job. No place to stay beyond tonight.

I can’t keep running forever.

I need work. Shelter.

Something solid to hold on to before the fear catches up with me.

I had dreams once of what my life would be like when I got older.

Unsurprisingly, this wasn’t what I’d imagined.

There’s one particular one I think of often.

It’s of me sitting on a porch swing with someone I love, who loves me—silly but I still think of it now and then.

And I wonder if I’ll ever have that.

The road curves ahead, vanishing into the trees, and finally, the sun breaks through.

And for the first time since I left, a different feeling slips in beneath the panic.

Hope. Thin. Fragile.

But it’s there.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep driving.