Page 1 of Property of The Grump

Chapter One

Kade

I drop another log on the pile and stretch my back, listening to the forest breathe. The creaking of timber, the gentle sway of branches, the steady drone of wildlife chirping and calling as a stream trickles in the distance. A morning like this is a stark dichotomy to every morning I had for five years.

The State of Colorado Correctional Facility sits three counties over behind a double razor wire fence, lethal electric hedges, and armed watchtowers. Inside the prison, there are housing blocks arranged by level of offence. I spent my time in medium security or Gen Pop, a tiered echo-prone area with iron catwalks and metal rails overlooking a central floor. There, mornings sounded like heavy metal doors locking with sharp echoes, jangling keys, buzzers, and muffled arguments between guards and inmates. Even in sleep, there was no quiet to be had as disturbing sounds plagued nearly every fucking dream I had.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to see the inside of a prison cell, but it turns out that’s what most inmates think, at least the ones I spent time with. Most men believed wholeheartedly that the legal system had let them down, or that they were righteous for having done what they’d done.

I’m in the latter camp. The fuck I hurt deserved what he got, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“Hey, man. You’re out here early.” My buddy Tucker steps out from the dusty trail, an aspen branch hitting his pack as he moves into the sunlight. The leaves are just starting to turn yellow, and the tourists are infiltrating the town. It’s good for business, but bad for nearly everything else.

Worst of all is that the traffic has picked up, even on the back roads. Apparently, ‘leaf peepers’can’t be satisfied with Main Street leaves. They need off the beaten path leaves too. Either way, the whole season makes getting into town for a jug of damn milk a huge pain in the ass.

“Yeah.” I settle another piece of wood on the old cutting stump, my eyes on my work instead of Tucker. I want him to understand that this is going to be a short conversation. “Trying to get this wood cut. We’ve got loads of campers coming in tonight. By the weekend, I reckon we’ll be full. How’s the trail after the rain last night? Still passable?”

“There’s a shit ton of mud, but nothing to worry about. That waterfall out at the pass is gorgeous right now. You should check it out if you get the chance. The water is flowing heavy, and there are a few maples turning red just before the bridge.”

I clutch the axe, palms gripping the faint ridges where I’ve worn the handle, then follow the grain of the wood and swing, watching the round split in two with a crack. One half goes flying across the dirt, the other tips sideways on the stump.

“Yeah, I’ll check it out,” I say, pushing the lone piece that split off with the edge of my blade.

Tucker shakes his head and pushes his hair back. “Like hell you will. You’ll split this wood, then you’ll go back up to your cabin and sulk.”

“Sulk?I don’t sulk. Too much shit to do to sulk.”

He shakes his head and grabs another round for my stump. “Oh, you sulk. You’ve been sulking ever since you got out of that place. Some days I wonder if you want to go back.”

“To prison?” I lift the axe again and swing it down quickly, slicing another round in two. This one is a clean break. Ponderosa pine can be unpredictable like this. Some splits are clean, while others are more jagged. It’s the knots in the wood that make it stubborn. That, and the sticky-yellow resin that builds up on the blade, though it does give off a sweet vanilla scent and makes great kindling, which campers are usually looking for.

“Yes,” Tucker groans, “back to prison. Hell, you might as well still be there. You wake up, you eat plain oatmeal for breakfast, you come out here, you chop wood, and you go back inside and sulk.”

“And this is my intervention?” I groan as I bend forward to lift another piece of wood from the pile. There’s nothing more satisfying than splitting wood. It’s rhythmic, focused, and it clears my mind. I could spend all day out here chopping every piece down to pencil-sized sticks.

“I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about a man who gets up, eats a sensible breakfast, and goes to work?” I swing my axe again, relishing the calming thud. Why can’t all things be this straightforward?

Tucker shakes his head and throws a look of disapproval at me. “No, I’m worried about you because you’re avoiding reality again.”

“Now you’re a fuckin’ therapist?” I grab another piece of wood from the pile and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm as I settle it on the chopping block. “I talked to enough fuckin’ therapists in prison. I’m good.”

He groans low and leans his arm against the back wall of the barn, like he’s frustrated with me. “We have a lot riding on this next big client. If you’re in a shitty headspace, the whole thing could go to hell.”

“How many clients have we successfully taken off the map since I was released?” I glance toward him for a moment before cracking into the next round. This split scares a bird off the branch of a nearby tree.

“Too many to count.”

“Okay then. Do you think a man who spends his days sulking would have such proven results?”

He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you call her?”

My stomach clenches and my jaw locks. “Don’t do that.”

“What? You mean I shouldn’t talk about the woman you’re in love with?”

“I’m not in love with her.” I glare at him, my eyes set on his so he knows how serious I am. “Enough.”