Page 4 of Wed By the Lumberjack
Chapter Two
Heath, 13 Years Ago
I tighten my grip on the baseball bat Dad insists I carry when I go exploring through the woods. I doubt it has anything to do with the animals, but rather the odd chance I’ll stumble into some lunatic.
With a population of five thousand people, Moonshine Creek probably has more wolves and bears than loons. But as I near my treehouse, I’ve never been so grateful for Dad’s paranoia, because someone’s inside, and it’s definitely a human. I can tell from the way he’s blowing his nose like a damn trumpet.
Should I ambush him?
Should I make my presence known in hopes that he just runs away?
As I adjust my grip on the bat, I realize that my palms are suddenly sweaty.
Do I actually want an altercation at all?
I’ve never had to swing this thing at someone’s head, though I know I can. I’m the best player on the baseball team but a head’s much different than a ball. That aside, I’ve never had to use my fists. Usually, the sight of me or my cousins sent people running, even the grown men whose height I rivaled at thirteen.
But how big was this squatter?
Deciding it’s best to size up my opponent secretly before acting, I quietly sneak up the staircase and thank the heavens for all the support beams we put beneath it.
My cousins and I have been doing woodwork since we were seven and we built the place together six months ago. It’s more of a little cabin than a treehouse, complete with glass windows, and bean bag chairs. We share it on weekends but the five of us have a solo designated day during the week that’s sacred.
Today’s Monday.
My day.
I know none of my cousins would dare intrude, but if it really is a stranger, how the hell did they find the treehouse at all? It sits in the middle of our family’s massive acreage and not even our parents know it exists.
When I get close to the window, I press myself flat against the wall before peaking inside. At first, I don’t see anything unusual. The bean bags are still in a circle from our meeting last night. There are no traces of food, as we make sure to keep the place free of bear bait, and most importantly, there’s no sign of a human. That is until a bean bag covered with a blanket trembles.
My bean bag.
Someone’s under the cover of my Christmas crocheted blanket from Gran. A gingerbread man with a ginger beard and two candy cane crutches looks up at me merrily as the person beneath it stirs again.
The tiny size of the lump emboldens me a fraction.
This person is little more than a peanut.
Grabbing the door handle I wrench it open and step inside.
“Hey,” I say, and the lump freezes. “This is private property. Get out now or I’ll toss you out.”
And I meant that literally.
The person doesn’t speak but a filthy bedroom slipper pops out from the corner of the blanket. It’s pink and covered in mud and bits of dry leaves.
It’s my turn to freeze.
A girl?
Sure I know they exist, but I’ve never seen one alone in the woods before.
Seconds tick by before I bend down and grab the edge of the blanket. When I pull it, the sight it covered just seconds before makes my heart pound to stop.
It isn’t just any girl. It’s Dixie Rose Fox from the grade below me.
There’s a massive knot on her forehead that makes her left eyelid droop and beneath the ratty sleeves of her too-small pajamas, are nasty bruises that circle her upper arms as if someone had grabbed and shaken her.