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Anger.
Harsh words.
Strong hands.
Fists connecting with my face and my ribcage.
Because I did it wrong.
Because I was ten and hadn’t yet mastered the task.
Because I failed him.
And Barkers do not fail at anything.
Except me.
My failure looms larger than the tree. It’s what keeps me here on the mountain, cursed to wander the forest and occupy the house in misery for the rest of my life.
Even Callista can’t undo all the damage done by that one decision that snowballed into something so huge I never could have seen it coming.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and refuse to give in to those feelings right now, instead setting to work, swinging the axe and burying the blade deep into the trunk.
It sticks in the wood, and I jiggle it free, then go again.
Powerful muscles built on a lifetime of hard labor on the mountain go to work instantly, allowing me to create the ideal directional notch before I switch to the other side and drive deep, taking out massive chunks with each swing to work on the felling wedge.
The sound of the axe striking the tree echoes across the clearing and down through the gorge. Each thwack vibrates through my brain and my chest the same way the contact does up the handle into my arms.
Some of the tension created by the woman in the house starts to ease, but more shitty memories of Father and growing up here on the mountain move into its place. Most days, I can keep them at bay. But today is one of those that it’s impossible.
What happened with Callista ripped open the part of me that I had long since sealed off, and now, the memories come like a tidal wave.
Every swing of the axe brings a new one.
Each piece of wood that goes flying reminds me of a fist or a foot.
The man has been dead for decades, but it hasn’t changed anything. Not really. His ghost lingers here, along with those of our enemies, even though his body lies where it should, in a beautifully marked plot here on the mountain along with the rest of our ancestors—not at the bottom of the cliff or hidden away in a makeshift grave designed to cover our crimes.
I’ve become a master at hiding things—people, truths, wants, needs, and desires. Until last night, I thought I had succeeded in completely vanquishing the last three from my life. That I would never want or need or desire anything or anyone enough to give in.
And now that I have, everything has come crumbling down like this tree soon will.
It starts to creak, and I step back and analyze it, making sure it’s going to fall as planned. Once it’s down, I can chop it into manageable lengths and store it for use on the property.
Nothing goes to waste out here—and nothing is ever forgotten.
The land holds memories as well as I do, which is why everyone knows Barker Mountain means death.
Leaves rustle behind me.
My back stiffens as I turn and glance over my shoulder.
A flash of silver appears between the trees…
“It isn’t a good time, and you’re too close to the house. I told you to stay away from it, away from her.”
I can’t wait for a response, returning my focus to the tree as it starts to topple away from the clearing. It begins its descent slowly, then quickly accelerates, slamming down twelve feet from the workshop, making the ground shake under my boots.
