Chapter 11
By midday, Clara had explored the immediate perimeter of the property. The five acres of timberland were bordered by a rushing mountain creek that tumbled over smooth basalt rocks, filling the air with a constant, soothing rush of white noise. She spent an hour clearing deadfall from the path leading down to the water, using an old Pulaski axe she found hanging in the woodshed behind the cabin.
The physical labor felt good. It wasn't the mindless, soul-crushing repetition of scrubbing diner counters or wiping down sticky tables; it was work with a visible, immediate result. Each log she cleared opened the trail a little wider, letting the sunlight reach deeper into the forest floor.
As she stopped to wipe the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, she noticed a faint blue wisp of smoke rising from the ridge about half a mile further up the timber road.
She froze, her hands tightening around the wooden handle of the Pulaski. In the flatlands, smoke meant trouble—a grease fire, an engine blow, or someone burning evidence. Up here in the Cascades, it meant someone else was sharing the mountain.
She walked slowly back to the cabin, washed her face in the cold basin water, and stepped out onto the porch. Through the thick binoculars she found hanging by the kitchen door, she scanned the upper ridge line where the trees thinned out into rocky alpine meadows.
Parked beside a clearing was a battered black motorcycle with high handlebars and saddlebags strapped tight with nylon cord. A small camp was pitched beneath a tarp strung between two pines. A figure sat on a camp stool beside a low-burning fire, tending a small kettle.
Jax.
He hadn't ridden off into the desert or vanished back down to Reno. He had simply climbed higher, retreating to the edge of the timberline where the road finally turned into pure wilderness.
May you like
Clara lowered the binoculars. A strange mixture of irritation and reluctant respect stirred in her chest. The old man was stubborn, refusing to leave the perimeter of her new life until he was certain she had settled into the soil.
She didn't call out, and she didn't hike up the ridge to confront him. Instead, she walked back inside the cabin, picked up her grandfather’s logbook, and placed it safely on the oak table beneath the deep-set window.
