Page 202 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Neighbors.

The people who saved her, saved me, without even realizing they were doing it.

And the cabin behind it all—my old sanctuary—looks different now.

Still stubborn. Still creaky. Still mine.

But also ours now.

Redone inside like a guest bungalow instead of a hermit’s hideout.

Fresh linens.

A real mattress.

Clara’s touch everywhere—soft throws, candles that smell like vanilla and wildflowers, a framed print of a willow tree in winter hung right where the light hits in the morning.

My workshop is unchanged because some things are sacred.

But the property around it?

That’s different.

Because the world tried to come up here once. Tried to turn me into something they could consume.

So I built walls.

Floodlights. Gates. Locks. Cameras.

And apparently, a big, battered grizzly bear who has decided he lives on my land now like he’s part of the security system.

Whatever.

Scar is cool.

But I’m not thinking about him.

Not when the music shifts.

Not when the air changes.

Not when the murmurs ripple through the guests like a wave and every head turns at once.

My bride.

Clara appears at the start of the aisle and the world narrows to a single point.

Pale yellow chiffon and lace floats around her like sunlight made into fabric. The skirt catches the breeze and moves like it’s alive.

Her hair is swept back with tiny crystals threaded through it, and she looks unreal—like something the mountain dreamed up just to wreck me.

She takes one step.

Then another.

And I feel it in my chest, this hard, aching swell of gratitude so sharp it borders on pain.

I can’t believe I’m the one she’s walking toward.