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  Shared by the Lumberjacks

  Eddie Cleveland

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  Edited by Proofing with Style

  Copyright © 2018 by Eddie Cleveland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Mary

  2. Hardy

  3. Owen

  4. Mary

  5. Hardy

  6. Mary

  7. Owen

  8. Mary

  9. Mary

  10. Mary

  11. Hardy

  12. Owen

  13. Mary

  Epilogue

  Also by Eddie Cleveland

  1

  Mary

  I sing loudly and off-key at the mixed Christmas playlist. It has all the classics I’ve loved for years. Right now, “Home for the Holidays” is being sung in a velvety baritone that I imagine my book heroes having.

  The road winds up around the edge of the mountain, twisting along the steep edge like a tendril of smoke wisping into the winter sky. I wish I could stop and take pictures of this view, but with the steep embankment and no shoulder to move the car over to, it’s just too dangerous. Still, even from behind the windshield it’s breathtaking. The way the fresh-fallen snow kisses the rolling hills. The way it clings to each tree branch of the evergreens like a newborn animal clings to its mother’s coat. The way the sunlight sparkles off the serene landscape.

  It’s absolutely perfect.

  This is exactly what I needed. I feel like I’m driving into one of my sweet, heartwarming Christmas romance books. I’ve written twenty-two enchanting winter love stories. In every single one, the postcard-perfect escape is just as much a character in the books as the smart, sassy city woman and the hunky hero with the heart of gold.

  For twenty-two books, each couple has met on mountain retreats, by glimmering lakesides and, in one book, even at an old ski resort. My persistent but loving men have charmed my misguided women in beautiful alpine lodges and in sprawling cottages that most people’s houses could fit inside. In those perfectly peaceful settings romance blossomed, capturing the hearts of readers around the globe.

  “Take the next right at Cochrane Lane. Destination is in one mile, on the left side,” my GPS chirps at me.

  I push my robin egg blue, thick-rimmed glasses up my nose and sit up taller, excitement bubbles up inside me. I’m almost there! This was such a great idea. I can almost feel the writer’s block I’ve been suffering chipping away. The creativity that has been dammed up inside me for months now is finally beginning to trickle through the holes.

  Driving carefully up the snow-packed road, I follow my GPS instructions to the mountainside retreat. Squinting through the thick woods, I wait to spot the Christmas-red door from the online picture. The one that will invite me inside a more modest cabin than the ones I usually write about in my books. Still, it looked perfect for a romance writer who can’t unlock the words that once flowed from her fingertips effortlessly.

  I’ve been writing for years now, and every time I sat down at my computer, it was like a spirit possessed me. Like it invaded my body and used my fingers to weave stories about colorful, loveable characters who all learned the true meaning of love, life, and Christmas by the time I typed the words, The End, onto the screen.

  You can’t always count on a lot in life. Men will leave. Agents will come and go. People will flake out on you. There was only one thing I could count on: when I parked my butt in my comfy, white leatherback chair, in my expensive city condo, the words would effortlessly fill the pages of yet another Times bestseller.

  But then they dried up. The words turned to dust and, poof, disappeared into the wind.

  I’ve never experienced anything like it. At first, I figured I was just burned out. Who wouldn’t be after the production I’ve had? Most authors don’t write more than a couple books a year. I’ve been writing five, consistently, for over four years. Every single one of them has taken time and research and dedication, however, they’ve never felt like work. Not until now.

  Something inside me changed. I just couldn’t get the words to shake free from inside me anymore. That magical writing spirit I relied on, the one that possessed me and gave me endless words, it left. And the worst part is, it didn’t even say goodbye.

  “Destination is in two-hundred yards on the left,” the GPS reminds me.

  Bing Crosby serenades me with a crooning “White Christmas” and I just can’t help the smile that’s spreading over my face. My agent was right. This is the inspiration I needed. When I finally admitted to her that not only was I going to need an extension on my deadline but that I hadn’t actually even started writing yet, well, she flipped her lid. After some hyperventilating and deep breathing exercises, she came up with this solution.

  “The problem is, you’re not living what you write!” She sprang back to life as the idea struck her. Nancy popped out of her chair and started pacing the floor of her high-rise office.

  “Well, I mean, have you tried being single in this city?” I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is the era of Tinder hookups and dick pics.” I pouted. “A good man is hard to find in that cesspool.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But a hard man is good to find, am I right?” She smirked at me, but then let it slide off her face when her eyes met mine. “Listen, I don’t mean that you need a man to write romance. Knowing the kind of dudes you write, it’s probably better if you just stick to vibrators and your imagination, okay?”

  I frowned at her. “Are you saying there’re no good men left out there?”

  “Look, I’m not saying there are none.” She power walked around her office in circles. “I’m just saying they probably don’t exist outside of your novels. And that’s great,” she clapped her hands, “because it’s bleak out there. Your books and the movies that come from them, they give all us women hope. Or at least something to imagine when we’re being drilled by Mr. No Foreplay, Have-you-cum-yet-baby, Jackhammer dick.

  I blushed furiously. Not because of the jackhammer dick thing. Nancy has been my agent long enough that I’ve gotten used to hearing worse. Much worse. No, the heat that stung my cheeks was at the realization that I might actually be spending my life looking for a man that truly only exists in my imagination.

  Well, and on paper.

  “What you need to do is get away from the city. Isn’t that what the chicks in your books always do? They pack up, head out to some woodsy paradise and get lost in the Christmas magic, right?”

  I mean, the way she said it made it sound so cheesy. I wanted to defend my books. My characters. Tell her it wasn’t as simple as that. They went on a journey of the heart. Of the spirit.

  “Yeah,” I answered simply.

  “And that’s what you need. I’m going to book you a cabin or whatever. You need to pack up your stuff, no distractions, no Hallmark Channel, just you and your words out in some snowy wilderness. It’ll be perfect. And, who knows, maybe in a couple weeks you’ll be able to bang out another bestseller, huh? I mean, it’s not impossible, right?” The hope etched on her tired face was too much for me to deny.

  I’ve never missed a deadline before and I didn’t want to start now. “I mean, it’s possible,” I agreed.

  “Great! Okay, leave this to me. I’m gonna find you the sweetest, most charming little cottage in all of New Hampshire. You’ll be surrounded by ins
piration. Those words will get rolling and the next thing you know you’ll be back to normal. This is gonna be great, trust me.”

  A distinct buzzing interrupts my memory, popping it like one of those cartoony thought bubbles that hang over characters heads in comic books.

  Zzzche-zzzche.

  I search the dash of the car, looking for something that could make that weird noise, but I don’t see anything. I pull up the long driveway of the cottage and the sparkle of my excitement falls flat. This is a far cry from the charming cabins I write about. Instead of long, sturdy walls made of thatched logs and floor-to-ceiling windows with full, pretty curtains hanging in them, I drive up to, well, it’s looking a bit like a shack.

  Some of the shingles on the side have been split by cold and damaged by wind. The windows look like someone did a rushed job of Windexing a decade of grime from them. The setting sun hits the streaks, emphasizing just how much dirt once covered them. The only thing that’s actually the same as what Nancy described is the bright red entrance. That one Christmassy pop of color is the only truth to this entire writer retreat.

  I park my car and step outside, soaking it all in. I mean, sure it’s not perfect. But do I really need some indulgent, oversized alpine loft just to get the feeling back? I turn and look out at the view from the mountainside. It’s impossible not to be overcome by the beauty. Maybe I can make this work after all. Optimism fills my chest and makes me float toward the door like a helium balloon.

  I get to the cheerful, red entrance and read a small, scrawled note taped to the front:

  Door’s open. Key’s by the sink. Let us know if you need anything.

  ~Management

  Uh, okay then. Most Airbnbs had someone waiting to hand me off the keys, give me a tour, sometimes they even threw in a few nice extras like a fruit basket or a bottle of wine. I guess this place is more about the escape and less about the frills.

  I turn the doorknob with my mittened hand and try to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. I drop my bag on the porch and use both hands, and the knob turns, but the door seems jammed.

  “Of course it’s stuck.” I shake my head.

  Exasperated, I turn back toward my car and stomp my foot on the planks. My eyes travel down the hill from my porch about a hundred yards and fall on another cabin. With two big trucks in the driveway and woodsmoke pouring up from the chimney, people must live there. They’re probably the “management” that signed my note. If I can’t get this door open in ten more seconds, I’m going down there and making them open it for me.

  I face the red door and take a deep breath. Tugging my mitts off with my teeth, I stuff them in my pockets and blow on both my palms before practically strangling the knob between them. This time, as I turn it, I shove my entire body weight into it, slamming against the door with my shoulder.

  Finally, it cracks open. “Aha!” I can’t help but feel proud of my minor accomplishment. Look at me. Maybe this city girl has a few tricks up her sleeve after all. The door swings in, giving me my first glimpse inside. My eyes adjust to the dark and I kick the snow free from my boots so I won’t trample it inside.

  Whoosh!

  I don’t have time to figure out the sound let alone react to it. A perch of snow slips free from the roof over the doorway and covers my head, face, and shoulders in about a foot of the white, fluffy stuff.

  “Damn it!” I frantically brush the cold, rapidly melting landslide from my body. I shake my head like a dog that just got bathed and it goes flying in every direction. It takes a second, but I finally get cleaned off and slip inside before anything else has the chance to go wrong. Shutting the door behind me, I glance around the simple loft.

  “It’s not bad, actually.” I nod my head and soak in the details. The living room has a large, stone fireplace. It’s a bit gloomy right now, but it’s easy to picture it with a cozy, inviting fire. It looks exactly like the kind that I would have a new romantic couple hang their stockings on in one of my novels.

  There’s a set of steep wooden steps, they’re actually so steep they might as well be a ladder, that leads to an open bedroom loft.

  The kitchen is simple but seems to have everything I could need to cook. There’s a fridge, stove, sink, and butcher block counters to chop veggies or make meals on. I peek into the washroom and it’s far from luxurious, but it will do the trick. I think I can work with this simple design. It’ll be nice to have a distraction-free environment to lose track of myself in. I just want to get lost in the serenity and bring yet another sweet Christmas couple to life in my next manuscript.

  Zzzche-zzzche!

  My eyes dart around, searching for the source of that noise. What on earth?

  It’s not coming from inside though. Frowning, I swing the door open and step back outside where the terrible sound chews up the peaceful atmosphere and grinds against my eardrums. Stepping back out, it doesn’t take long to spot the source. Two men down at the other cabin are revving huge, loud chainsaws. My lips tug down and my frown deepens as I watch them buzz their saws through the base of a huge tree. It sounds like ten million mosquitoes on steroids, all thirstily hunting for a blood source. Finally, they stop the awful noise and the tree cracks and crashes to the ground under their control.

  It’s hard not to be impressed by the manly way they make nature bend to their will. The two of them are clearly experienced, with their thick muscular arms and broad backs. I bite my lip and a heat washes down over me like I just stepped off a plane onto a tropical tarmac in the midday sun.

  Zzzche-zzzche.

  The men make quick work of cutting through the fallen tree, turning what was only seconds ago a towering reminder of how the unspoiled countryside must have looked a hundred years ago into eight-foot logs. The noise seems to grow louder as they let their saws chew through the lumber, oblivious to me watching them.

  I snap back to reality and realize that these guys are going to ruin everything. How am I supposed to get any writing done with all this noise? I study the two burly, wild men. How am I going to meet my deadline with all of these distractions?

  I can’t.

  There’s just no way I’m going to get any words written when they’re chewing through the forest with their chainsaws. My agent was supposed to specifically request a quiet, peaceful retreat. Not this. No one can work with this.

  I shake my head and push my glasses up my nose. Each time they buzz their saws, my temper flares, and my patience diminishes. Finally, I’ve had enough. I’m not about to spend two weeks here trying to fight for the calm cabin I’m paying for from my book advance. No way. I’m going to march down this hill and get those lumberjacks to stop all their racket, or else they can give me a full refund.

  2

  Hardy

  The chainsaw bites into the wood, chewing through the thick trunk effortlessly. I love the smell of the fresh cut tree mixed with the exhaust from our saws. Tiny bits of sawdust float around us, falling down into our hair like snowflakes. If we keep up our pace, we’ll have no problem getting this last shipment of carefully chosen, quality logs out before Christmas.

  I bring the blade down to the fallen tree and guide it through the lumber, lost in a simple world where hard work equals good pay. When Owen and I built up our logging company, we knew we didn’t want to clear-cut, leaving ugly scars of splintered stumps through the forest.

  When our great-grandfathers worked this land, they did so carefully. Then, somewhere along the way, greed became more important than giving a crap about the next generations. I’m not against making a living. We all want nice things, and who knows, maybe one day I’ll have a little boy of my own to pass some of those things on to. But money and fancy toys don’t mean shit if you’ve destroyed the very world those kids need to grow up in.

  From the corner of my eye, I see something bright yellow. I ignore the flurry of color closing in on me and let the chain eat through another length of wood. A thick spray of dust and woodchips spew up from the blade in a bei
ge arc and splat against a woman in a canary-colored coat.

  Shit.

  This must be the lady renting the cabin. From the way her full, red lips twist down and her eyebrows knit together under her bright blue glasses, I can see she’s not too impressed. She starts waving her hands and shouting something, but I can’t hear her over the noise.

  I immediately cut the engine. “What’s that?”

  Suddenly it’s like someone turned off the mute button on a television. Her voice is shrill and angry.

  “I said that this noise isn’t acceptable,” she sputters and frantically brushes the wood chips from her coat. “When I rented your cabin up there, I was promised a calm, quiet escape. This noise is impossible to work with. I mean, how am I supposed to write when you’re making so much racket?”

  I shoot Owen a pointed look, but he doesn’t catch it. He’s still slicing through his end of the tree. This is exactly why I didn’t want to turn our other cabin into a rental. The last thing I need is uptight city folks out here expecting life to be some magical movie moment. Like, just because they decided to hole up in a cottage for a week or two now all of a sudden they can feed wild animals out of their palms while birds sing along with them.

  “Writer, huh?” I don’t hide that I’m sizing her up. I let her stand there uncomfortably pouting as I slowly study her. She’s cute but fiery. I like that. The way her red hair is lying perfectly around her pretty face, the way her ridiculously blue glasses frame her brown eyes, the way her lips are painted a pop of red that I’d normally think means she wants to get fucked like a little slut in a dingy bar bathroom, but on her it somehow looks as classy as it does sexy.