I shake my head.
She chuckles.
“Don’t you worry about the bears. They mind their business if you mind yours.” She slides the napkin toward me. “You just go see Kelly.”
“Thanks.”
I take the map with trembling fingers, heart pounding for reasons I can’t quite name.
Outside, the cold waits. The road waits.
But for the second time since I entered the state of Maine, I feel it.
Something else waiting for me.
Hope. Possibility.
CHAPTER 3
THATCHER
Mud season.
Aptly fucking named, if you ask me.
I trudge through four inches of thick, sucking sludge that clings to my boots like it’s got a personal vendetta.
Every afternoon we see some of the snow melting, but instead of freedom, we get this—brown hell that smells like wet earth and old pine.
And every night, the shit freezes over again just because it can.
I flip open my battered notebook, thumbing through a handwritten list that runs the gamut from belts and saw blades to industrial twine and—because men are animals—toilet paper, flushable wipes, antibacterial soap, and hand sanitizer.
Winter was rough this year.
Busy as fuck.
And that’s exactly how I like it.
Logging doesn’t slow down just because it’s cold.
If anything, frozen ground makes hauling easier.
Trees don’t care about the temperature, and neither do we.
But once winter lets go, this is what’s left behind—prep season.
Maintenance. Repairs. Mud.
“Yo, boss,” Tim calls out, catching up to me with long strides. He’s got sawdust in his beard and two pairs of gloves layered on his hands.
“We gotta talk gloves. These bargain ones are tearing through too damn fast.”
He holds up his hands for emphasis, fingers poking through frayed fabric.
I grimace and jot it down.
“Yeah. That’s on the supplier. I’ll make sure he gets us the heavy-duty ones.”
