Page 18 of Potent Desire 5

Epilogue

Maddox

Seven Years Later

An icy cold wind consumes me, standing out in the garden, ax clutched in my grip. The wood, like the wind, is freezing to the touch. I stare at the ax’s metal head a while, thinking of every action that’s led me to this point.

Seven years have passed, and I can still feel the sting of my father’s bullet in my shoulder. Somehow, I know it’s more mental than physical. The pain of his betrayal outweighs the steel that struck my skin.

Over the years, I’ve managed to forget about it most days. It’s only on days like today with a weapon in hand, and ready to deliver the final blow, that it comes to me. Winter is always a time for self-reflection. The chill has a way of reminding you, whereas summer’s warmth burns it all away.

“Let’s get this over with then,” I say, pulling the ax over my shoulder.

With one heavy swing, I bring the razor-sharp edge down against its target – a bolt of wood, nestled cozily on a stump where a tree once stood. Gathering the two halves, I set them both back down, chopping them once more into quarters.

I repeat this process, over and over, until there’s a stack of wood at my side. Winter is coming, and so is the snow. What better way is there to stay warm than sitting beside a crackling fire?

“Daddy, Daddy.” My son’s voice cuts through the thrashing wind. I see him running from the house, warmly dressed in a turquoise jacket, skiing pants, and boots. “Mommy says I gotta come help you cut wood.”

“Your mother wants you to wield an ax? Doesn’t much sound like her,” I reply, dropping the ax beside the logs, and I catch Michael mid-step. He giggles and laughs, while I hoist him into the air, before tickling him. He squirms in my grip.

“She said if you’d let me, I can do it,” Michael replies, with wide puppy-dog eyes. I know he’s lying. Isabella would never allow him near a kitchen knife, let alone an ax. But who am I to say no to my little man?

“Did she now?” I look towards the farmhouse in the distance. I see Isabella standing in the doorway. She’s got a warm smile on her face, though her arms are crossed. She knows the boys are up to no good.

“Well then, how can I say no?” I set Michael back on the ground. a hatchet is lying next to my large ax. Another wooden handle, that I typically use for more stubborn sections of wood that need more finesse. I lift it off the ground and hand it to Michael, never breaking my own grip on it.

“You’ve seen me do this a thousand times, so I’m sure you can handle it,” I reply, setting another block of wood on the tree stump. But before Michael even raises the hatchet from the ground, I’m behind him again. I kneel down, holding the bottom of the hatchet in one hand. “All you’ve got to do is lift it over one shoulder and swing down against the grain. The wood splits itself, really.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Michael says, hoisting the hatchet. I guide it with my hand, but let him do most of the work. “One, two, three…” he counts, before slamming the hatchet down, missing the target completely. It gets buried in the stump.

“Oh no,” he whimpers. “I missed.”

“Well, if at first, you don’t succeed, try and try again,” I say.

Michael tries to pull the ax from the wood but fails. It’s not buried deep, but he’s barely reached six years old, and his strength hasn’t come in yet.

“I can’t get it out,” he says, struggling with every pull.

“Let me give it a try,” I say, grabbing the handle and pulling. I grip it, flex my muscles, and pretend to be straining with how deeply he’s locked it into the stump.

“I can’t get it out,” I say finally, breathing out false labored breaths. “You’ve really locked it in place.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Michael looks at me, nervously. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry, son. It’s just a sign of how strong you are.” I smile. “Go on, show me your muscles.”

“You mean these?” Michael’s already forgotten about being sad, while he flexes through the puffy winter jacket.

I squeeze his arm. “You must be eating your greens to be getting this strong.”

“I am,” he says. “I don’t like them all, but Momma makes me. Spinach is good. I’m gonna be like Popeye.”

“And what’s going on over here?” Isabella’s voice arrives out of nowhere. Both Michael and I turn up to her wide-eyed and scared.

“Nothing,” I say, lifting Michael to hide the buried hatchet behind him.

“Daddy’s teaching me how to chop wood,” Michael says, blowing our cover.