Page 19 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Designer heels.

On a mud-soaked mountain road.

In a thunderstorm.

I blink once, slow.

“Are those… heels?”

She looks down like she forgot she put them on. Like her feet are a separate problem she hasn’t processed yet.

“They were a choice I made for work this morning,” she mutters.

Of course they were.

I rub my thumb across my jaw, trying to figure out how the hell a woman like this ends up out here.

The mountain doesn’t lure people in by accident.

The road is half-washed out, unmarked, and mean on a good day.

The storm has turned it into a trap.

She’s either lost. Or she’s looking for something.

And that thought crawls up my spine, prickly and unwelcome.

Because lately people have been looking. For me.

And I really don’t want to be found.

I start to ask the question—Who are you and what do you want?—but nature makes up its mind for me.

A low huff carries through the wind.

Not thunder.

Not the trees.

Something close. Heavy. Alive.

My shoulders go rigid.

The beam of my flashlight swings instinctively toward the tree line—and there he is.

Scar.

The old battered-up grizzly who wanders these woods like he owns them—because he absolutely fucking does.

He’s big even for a Maine bear.

One ear torn. One eye milky.

A jagged scar down his flank that makes him look meaner than he usually is.

He’s older than he should be, slower than he used to be, and he’s mostly harmless if you don’t act like prey.

But she doesn’t know that.