I need more of Kaleb, and I need it sooner rather than later…
Chapter 8
Kaleb
The rain finally gave up sometime after midnight. I was half-asleep but I guess my instincts as a mountain man kicked in and I tuned into the sounds outside my cabin before falling back to sleep.
The sky’s clear this morning—crisp blue, the kind that makes the pines look sharper, greener. I’m up early, coffee down, gear packed. Racer’s already bouncing at the door, tail whipping like a metronome. He’s just the best buddy a man could wish for, and that’s on God.
I should be focused on the job: three old maples flagged for inspection deep in the back quadrant. Could be blight, could be nothing. Either way, it’s a solid three-mile hike in, three out. A long day all told.
But my mind keeps drifting to him.
Taron.
I told myself last night—after dropping him off, after watching him disappear up those B&B steps—that I’d keep my distance today. He’s temporary. A city boy with a manuscript and a life that doesn’t include muddy boots and chainsaw oil.
He’ll leave. They always do.
And yet here I am, turning the truck toward Oak Lake B&B instead of straight to the trailhead.
“Stupid,” I mutter to Racer. He just pants happily from the passenger seat. “you’re no help either. It’s like youwantme to see the damn boy.”
I pull up outside the wraparound porch. The fairy lights still glowing faintly in the daylight. Taron’s already waiting—red jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair shining adorably. He spots the truck, grins wide, and trots down the steps like he’s been counting the minutes.
Damn if that doesn’t twist something in my chest.
He climbs in, brings the smell of shampoo and fresh coffee with him.
“Morning,” he says, buckling up. “You’re early.”
“Work starts early.” I pull away from the curb, gravel crunching under the tires. “You ready for a hike?”
“Born ready.” He pats his backpack. “Notebook, water, snacks, Lightening. The essentials.”
I grunt. “Long walk today. Deep into the forest. You sure you can hack it?”
“Positive.” He flashes that bright, city-boy smile. “I want to see more of what you do.”
I don’t answer. Just turn onto the county road that winds out of town toward Hardrock Park. The silence stretches, comfortable at first, then he reaches for the radio.
Classic Rock is halfway through “Sweet Home Alabama” when his fingers twist the dial. Some thumping bassline kicks in—electronic, synthetic, all bleeps and buzzes that make my head spin.
“What the hell is that?” I growl, temped to smack the boy’s hand for such sacriledge.
“Dance remix! It’s fun!” He bounces a little in the seat.
I reach over, flip it back. Skynyrd returns mid-chorus.
He pouts—full lower lip, eyes big and teasing. “You’re no fun.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. That pout. That little flash of defiance. Heat coils low in my gut.
I picture it: pulling over right here on the shoulder, hauling him across my lap, jeans down, hand cracking down until that pout turns to whimpers, then pleas, then?—
“Keep pushing, little boy,” I say, voice clear and low. “And you’ll find out how much fun I can be.”
Taron goes still. Cheeks flush pink. But he doesn’t argue. Just crosses his arms and stares out the window, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile.