Chapter 1
Hall
I stepped back as the pine trunk groaned in surrender.
Forty years of growth, gone in minutes. The tree fell exactly where I’d planned, crashing through the underbrush with a sound like thunder rolling down the mountain.
“Clean drop,” Colt called from behind me. “You make it look easy.”
I killed the chainsaw and set it down, rolling my shoulders against the ache that had settled there hours ago. My arms were heavy and my back tight, but it was thegoodkind of tired. The kind that meant I’d earned my rest.
We’d been at it since dawn. Thirty-six trees down, limbed, and ready for transport. Colt must be pleased. He was my boss, and he didn’t oversee my logging runs often.
I wiped sawdust from my face with the back of my glove and surveyed the clearing we’d made today. Good work. Honest work.
The kind that didn’t require much talking.
“Come on,” Amos said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Beers at the Bear Den. You’re buying.”
“I bought last time,” I grunted.
“Yeah, and you’ll buy this time too. Consider it payment for my sparkling company.”
I snorted. Amos had been my best friend since we were kids throwing rocks at each other across the creek. He talked enough for both of us, which suited me fine. But I wasn’t in the mood for company tonight.
“Naw. Not this time. You go out. I’ll see you tomorrow, man.”
I raised a hand goodbye as I headed to my truck. The noise of the logging site faded as I climbed into my pickup, and I felt my shoulders drop for the first time in hours.
The drive out to my place was as familiar as breathing. I effortlessly shifted my truck over every curve and pothole as the headlights cut through the growing dusk. As I got closer to home, the trees closed in around me like old friends.
My window was cracked open, letting in the cool mountain air as I drove, and I thrummed my fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm to the music coming from my stereo.
And then I washome, my respite from the world.
The cabin was dark when I pulled up, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like mine.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough for me. I’d built it with my own hands and only built what I needed. One room for sleeping and another for living. Plus a kitchen and a bathroom that were more afterthought than design.
But it was solid. And quiet.
I heated up leftover stew on the stove and ate standing at the counter, not bothering with a plate. The food was fuel, nothing more. I’d never learned to cook anything fancy, and I’d never seen the point in trying. A man living alone didn’t need garnishes.
After I washed the pot and set it to dry, I grabbed the Kit-Kat from the cabinet where I kept my small stash of indulgences and headed out back. I let myself have one bar a night. My only real vice.
Outside, the air had a light, crisp bite that meant winter was leaving and spring was on its way.
I lowered myself into the old porch chair that lived on my deck while the mountains rose around me, shadowed shapes against the dark sky. Somewhere an owl called, singing into the night.
This is how I spent my evenings, looking out where the trees opened up. The whole valley spread out below like a painting I’d never get tired of looking at.
The telescope sat beside me, same as always. I’d bought it years ago on a whim during one of my rare trips to Fernwood. The stars had always fascinated me. Looking up at all that space made my problems feel small.
The stars turned my loneliness into just another kind of quiet.
I unwrapped the Kit-Kat and broke off a piece, letting the chocolate melt on my tongue as I tilted my head back. The sky was clear tonight. The Milky Way smeared across the darkness like someone had spilled cream across black velvet. I could pick out Orion, the Big Dipper, and Cassiopeia. Old friends who never asked me questions I couldn’t answer.
This was my ritual. Had been for years. After dinner it was just me, the stars, and silence. It was the one time of day I could be myself with no one trying to pull words out of me. I always reveled in the comfortable weight of being alone.
