“Welcome back to Hollow Pines,” Evan said, standing and brushing cracker crumbs off his jeans. “Where even the wildlife has opinions about your life choices.”
And for the first time since stepping off that bus, I felt like maybe I could do that. Maybe I could figure out how to be Nate Harrington in Hollow Pines again, older and scarred but not broken. Not completely.
15
ASH AND WHISKEY
EVAN
The mill had been running since dawn, the steady rhythm of machinery cutting through pine logs with mechanical precision. I adjusted my grip on the cant hook, rolling another log into position while Jonah worked the controls for the head rig saw. The familiar dance of lumber production played out around us—logs becoming boards, boards becoming stacks, raw forest transformed into something useful.
Sweat gathered at the base of my neck despite the September morning chill. Physical labor had always helped quiet the restless energy that came with pack bonds and Alpha expectations, the simple repetition of lifting and moving and organizing providing a kind of meditation that sitting still never could.
“Watch the knot pattern on that one,” Sienna called from her position at the edger, where she was cleaning up rough boards.
I nodded, adjusting my approach to the log she'd flagged. The knot would affect how the wood split, where the grain would want to separate. Understanding those patterns was part of thejob, reading the story each tree carried in its growth rings and responding accordingly.
“That's the Henderson order, right?” Theo asked from his position at the planer, raising his voice over the whine of spinning blades. He was newer to the pack, still learning the particular rhythms of mill work, but eager and careful in ways that reminded me of myself at that age.
“Part of it,” I confirmed, checking the invoice clipboard that hung near the sorting station. “She wants eight-foot sections for her fence project.”
“The fence that's allegedly two inches over the property line?” Jonah asked with a grin that suggested he'd been following local gossip.
“That's next month's town council problem,” I said, but couldn't keep the slight smile off my face. Small-town politics had a way of turning mundane property disputes into epic dramas that lasted for years.
The work continued around us, pack members moving with the synchronized efficiency of people who'd learned to anticipate each other's movements. Conversation flowed in the natural pauses between cuts, covering everything from weekend plans to the upcoming harvest season to speculation about whether the Evernight Café would finally get that new espresso machine Martha had been threatening to buy.
Normal pack life, the easy camaraderie that came from working together toward common goals. It was what I'd grown up with, what I'd expected to spend my life maintaining. Simple, straightforward, uncomplicated by questions about what I wanted versus what was expected.
Then Dad's voice cut through the mill noise, calling out from the office doorway.
“Evan, I need you to handle the afternoon's deliveries. Something's come up that needs my attention.”
I looked up from the log I was positioning, catching the tension in his posture that suggested whatever had “come up” was serious pack business. The other workers continued their tasks, but I could feel their attention shift slightly, pack bonds picking up on Dad's stress even if they couldn't identify the source.
“Everything alright?” I asked, setting down my tools and walking toward him.
“Phone call I need to take. Council business.” The way he said it made clear this wasn't small-town council business but something more significant. “Can you handle Henderson's delivery and the Morrison order?”
“Of course.”
Dad disappeared into the office, closing the door behind him with. Through the office windows, I could see him settling behind his desk, phone already pressed to his ear, expression serious.
“Wonder what that's about,” Sienna said, appearing beside me with a stack of sorted boards balanced on her shoulder.
“Pack business,” Theo said with the certainty of someone who'd learned to read the signs. “The Alpha only gets that particular look when someone's testing boundaries.”
The observation was casual, but it reminded me that even the newer pack members understood the layers of responsibility that came with our shared nature. Dad wasn't just a mill owner or a town council member—he was Alpha, responsible for protecting territory and maintaining peace with neighboring packs.
Responsibilities that would someday be mine.
I pushed down the familiar weight of that knowledge and turned back to the work at hand. Whatever Dad was dealing with, he'd handle it. That's what Alphas did—they carried the weight so everyone else could focus on their daily lives.
“Back to work,” I said, grabbing my cant hook. “These boards won't cut themselves.”
The morning passed in comfortable routine, the mill's mechanical rhythm providing a soundtrack for the physical demands of processing timber. By lunch break, we'd filled most of Henderson's order and made good progress on the Morrison delivery, stacks of fresh-cut lumber organized by size and grade.
Jonah perched on a pile of two-by-fours, unwrapping the sandwich his mother had packed for him despite the fact that he'd been living independently for over a year. Some maternal habits died hard, especially when your son worked in an industry where missing lunch often meant working through dinner as well.
