Page 18 of Claimed on the Ridge

The competence is unreasonably attractive. I've run this lodge for half my life, and in that time I've worked alongsidedozens of people who needed to be told where to put things, how to stack, when to watch for ice.

Kendall watches once and adapts. Her body learns the terrain in real time, adjusting her center of gravity on the uneven ground, and the quick intelligence of her movement does things to my focus that I am handling badly.

We work in silence for a while. The cold is sharp, the wind lower than yesterday. The physical labor generates enough heat that she unzips the coat after the first trip.

The henley underneath clings closer than the oversized sweater did. The curves that the coat hid are visible now, and I'm splitting wood with more force than the job requires because my hands need to be doing something that isn't reaching for her waist.

By the third trip, the exertion has changed her. A flush has crept up her throat and across her cheeks, visible even in the cold. Her breath comes in short white clouds that dissolve against the gray sky.

A strand of hair has come loose from where she pushed it back and it's sticking to the sweat along her temple. She hooks it behind her ear without breaking stride, and the motion lifts the collar of the henley away from her neck.

The skin underneath is damp and flushed. I can see her pulse.

I miss the log I'm aiming for and drive the maul into the stump. The impact jars up my arms. She doesn't notice. Or she pretends not to, which is worse.

On the next trip, I catch her.

She's coming back from the porch stack, empty-handed, and her eyes are on me. Not on the woodpile, not on the path, not on the snow. On my arms. On the pull of my shoulders through the flannel when I swing. The look is quick, and she kills it themoment she realizes I've turned, but a moment too late. Her gaze was low and focused and it wasn't assessing my technique.

She doesn't know I saw. I don't tell her. The knowledge tucks itself into a space behind my ribs and stays there, warm and private, and I let it stay.

She catches me looking a few minutes later. I'm stacking split rounds on the porch, and I look up and she's standing in the snow with a log balanced on her hip and her head tilted.

The expression on her face is the only thing I can call amused disapproval.

"You're watching my hands," she says.

The statement is delivered without inflection. A fact. A challenge. Both.

"I'm making sure you don't drop a log on your foot."

"My hands," she says. "Not my feet. You've been watching my hands since we started."

The accuracy of it is flawless. She's right. I have been watching her hands. The way her fingers wrap around the bark, the grip strength in her wrists, the careful placement of each log on the stack.

Her hands are steady and sure, and I've been watching them the way a person watches a fire, without deciding to, pulled by the motion and the warmth.

"You're observant," I say. It's all I've got.

"You're not subtle."

The line is so dry it could start a fire. I look away first. The motion is voluntary, a conscious choice to cede ground.

She knows it. I know she knows it. The knowing sits between us like a third person in the conversation.

She wins. I let her. The letting feels more honest than anything I've said to her today, including the forecast.

Inside, the lodge is warm enough that the cold from outside dissipates within minutes.

Kendall takes off the coat and hangs it on the same hook, same position, same angle. The exactness of the gesture is automatic, the habit of a woman who replaces things exactly as she found them.

By afternoon, I've restocked the bar, checked the generator with Cameron, updated the weather log, and failed to stop thinking about her hands for any sustained stretch of time. The failure is comprehensive and ongoing.

She's in the main room by the fire, reading one of the books from the shelf. She found it herself, didn't ask, didn't wait for an invitation. The book is old, spine cracked, and she's holding it with the careful grip of someone who respects the object.

She reads the way she does everything: focused, complete. Cameron walks through the room and she doesn't look up. The fire pops and she doesn't register it. Whatever is on that page has her entirely.

The coffee is a decision my body makes before my brain weighs in. I'm at the counter. The mug is in my hand. The coffee is poured, black, because I've watched her drink it black for three mornings and the information stored itself without my permission.