Page 5 of Challenged By the Rugged Lumberjack
"It's fine," I say, and to my surprise, I mean it. The kid's not wrong. With my beard and size, I probably do look like a bear to him. "Yeah, buddy. Like a bear."
He considers this, then holds up his stuffed rabbit. "Hoppy."
Something long-dormant within me awakes. I nod solemnly. "Nice to meet you, Hoppy."
The boy grins, displaying tiny teeth, and something about that innocent smile makes it suddenly hard to breathe. I nod to Elisa and escape outside, gulping the cool mountain air.
What the hell am I doing? Fixing a generator is one thing, but talking to her kid? Getting involved?
I stride back to my cabin and grab my toolbox from the truck, then collect an armload of split wood from my neatly stacked pile. The physical labor helps calm me, gives my hands something to do besides clench into fists.
By the time I return to Hargrove's cabin, I've almost convinced myself this is just basic human decency. Nothing more. I'd do it for anyone. The fact that she's young and vulnerable and has a child has nothing to do with it. The fact that I recognize the haunted look in her eyes, the way she carries herself like someone expecting a blow—that's irrelevant.
I'm not my father. That's all this is. Proving to myself, for the thousandth time, that I'm nothing like him.
I drop the wood on the porch and knock, more gently this time. When she opens the door, the boy is back on her hip, and I can see she's lit a few candles—not enough for real light, but better than total darkness.
"Let's get you warm first," I say, carrying the wood inside and kneeling at the woodstove. I arrange kindling and smallerpieces, aware of them watching me. The boy has stopped crying, seemingly fascinated by my movements.
"Do you have matches?" I ask.
She rummages in her purse and produces a plastic lighter. I take it, and light the kindling. It catches quickly, and soon the wood is crackling, the first waves of heat beginning to emanate from the stove.
"Oh, thank God," she murmurs, stepping closer to the warmth. In the flickering light, I can see dark circles under her eyes, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She looks exhausted.
"I'll fix the generator now," I say, standing. "Keep feeding the fire. There's enough wood here for tonight, but you'll need more tomorrow."
"I'll figure it out." There's determination in her voice. "Thank you for this. Really."
I nod, uncomfortable with her gratitude, and head back outside to the generator. The repair is simple enough—I've fixed dozens of these over the years. I replace the cracked fuel line, clean the spark plug, and check the oil. Within twenty minutes, I've got it purring.
When I go back inside to tell her, the cabin already feels different. The fire has taken the damp chill from the air, and she's found an old kettle, which steams on top of the woodstove. The boy sits on a blanket spread on the floor, playing with his rabbit and what looks like a plastic dinosaur.
"Generator's running," I announce from the doorway. "I hooked it up to the cabin. You've got power for now."
She flips a switch, and a single overhead bulb flickers to life, casting a yellow glow over the room. Her smile is like sunrise breaking over the mountain—sudden and transformative.
"I can't thank you enough," she says, and there's a catch in her voice that makes me look away.
"It's nothing. Won't last forever, though. Generator needs gas every few hours if you're running lights. Less if you just need the refrigerator."
She nods, absorbing this information. "I'll go to town tomorrow. Get supplies."
"Bell's General," I remind her. "Ask for Marge. Tell her what you need."
"I will." She hesitates, then asks, "Do they have a laundromat in town? Or somewhere I could use a computer? I need to look for jobs."
"Laundromat's next to the diner. Library has computers. It's small, but they've got internet." I pause, then add, "Madeline's Diner might be hiring. Saw a sign in the window last week."
Her eyes light up. "Really? That would be perfect. I waitressed all through college."
I nod, oddly relieved that she has marketable skills. Then I catch myself—why should I care if she finds work or not? It's none of my business.
Except I'm standing in her cabin, having fixed her generator and built her fire, so maybe it is my business now, whether I like it or not.
"I should go," I say abruptly. "Generator's got enough gas to last till morning. I'll drop off the can tomorrow so you can refill it in town."
"Okay." She follows me to the door, the boy trailing behind her, still clutching his rabbit. "Josh?"
