See, Woodhaven is buried deep in the wilds of Maine, surrounded by forests we manage responsibly—clear-cutting in cycles, replanting, keeping the land alive.
Logging isn’t just chainsaws and flannel.
It’s permits, inspections, schedules, contracts, and knowing exactly how long a spruce needs to cure before it’s worth a damn.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Kelly appears in the doorway, tablet tucked under her good arm, the other secured in a sling.
She looks like she always does—competent, unimpressed, and two seconds from calling me on my bullshit.
“Oh, he already called,” she says. “Wants a ten percent discount because Emmet’s been an hour late on deliveries all month.”
I swear and rake a hand through my hair.
“This fucking prick. He knows damn well we don’t guarantee delivery times. We guarantee volume. I explain this every month.”
“Preaching to the choir, Thatch.”
She shifts the sling, wincing slightly, and my irritation instantly reroutes.
“How’s the arm?” I ask, voice dropping.
Kelly exhales. “Doctor Carl says I need surgery. With it being mud season and all, I scheduled it for Monday.”
That lands like a log dropped wrong—hard and jarring.
“I know it’s a bad time this year,” she adds quickly. “Spring cleaning and maintenance lists are ramping up, and?—”
“Kels,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You need surgery, you get surgery. Don’t worry about me. Me and the guys will manage.”
It’s a lie.
Kelly isn’t just my secretary.
That word doesn’t even come close.
She runs scheduling, payroll, vendor contracts, compliance paperwork, and—most importantly—she manages the collective testosterone in this place.
She keeps men twice her size from punching each other on the daily. And she keeps me from chewing out buyers when they start whining about knots in the grain.
Without her, I’m one bad phone call away from putting J.T. Lawrence’s head through a wall.
Motherfucker is the top builder in the whole damn state, and his business keeps me in business.
She gives me a look.
It’s thedon’t bullshit melook she perfected sometime in high school.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll find you a good replacement.”
My stomach tightens. “What? No. We’ll be fine. You just take a few days?—”
“Days?” She snorts. “Thatcher, it’ll be six weeks before I can use my arm properly.”
Fuck.
I cross my arms, jaw tight. I hate strangers. I hate change.
