Lumberjack Werebear (Saw Bears Book 1)

by T. S. Joyce

  “I was going to leave, but I saw you. You dropped to your knees when you saw the stars. You cried.”

  Embarrassment flooded her face with fire until the tips of her ears burned. That had been a private moment, not meant for his eyes. “I thought you left.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’ll see you as weak for crying, but I don’t. I already told you that. You dropped to your knees, and that’s what I did when I saw this place three months ago. It touched you. I don’t know how to fix what’s been broken with your paintings, but I have a feeling this place is a start. I don’t want you to go in the morning. I think you owe it to yourself to see this thing through.” He turned his face until his eyes met hers. “I think you’re meant to be here.”

  She dabbed moisture from the corner of her eye with her coat sleeve and dragged her gaze back up to the glittering sky above them. “Maybe you’re right. I do feel different here. I’ve been in a rut for so long, it’s nice to feel something new.”

  “So you’ll stay?”

  Stay in that tiny trailer in a park full of sweaty lumberjacks? She hadn’t considered it before, but she also hadn’t seen this place. And she hadn’t spent time with Tagan. Oh, she’d heard him loud and clear when he’d said he didn’t have affection for her like that. But there was something about him—something that called to her and told her that her life would be lacking if she didn’t get to know him better.

  In one night with Tagan, her heart had been ripped opened and bled slowly with the awful memories of the man who’d hurt her. She’d been tossed this way and that on the tidal waves of her emotions. But at least she felt something. For months, she’d been numb, but tonight, she felt that spark in her chest again.

  She shook her head in disbelief and sighed. “I’ll stay.”

  Chapter Five

  Tagan couldn’t throw the truck into park fast enough.

  “Don’t worry,” Kellen said from the passenger’s seat. “Your mate’s still here.”

  Tagan graced his best friend with an exasperated look. “Would you stop calling her that, man? Rein in the heavy bear shifter shit. She’s not like us. You have to knock it off, at least until she leaves. She’s not my mate.”

  “Your face just went all sad when you talked about her leaving.” Kellen shoved the door open and slid out of the work truck. “She’s your mate.”

  “The fuck she is,” Connor called from his position leaning on the railing of his front porch.

  Tagan stifled the growl that threatened to rattle his throat. Connor, that dick, had probably spent his entire day off pestering Brooke while Tagan was up in the mountains, cutting lumber, stripping logs, loading trucks, and going crazy with the thought of that rangy shifter anywhere near her.

  “We’re just friends,” he muttered. The snarling animal inside of him thoroughly disagreed.

  Brooke’s car wasn’t in front of her trailer, and a flood of panic constricted Tagan’s insides. He jogged toward 1010. “Where is she?” he asked Connor.

  “Looks like you ran her off,” Connor said through a smirk.

  If anyone ran her off, it was that asshole, and if he did, Tagan was going to bleed him. He needed more time with her. Not to claim her. Just to…aw fuck, who was he kidding? He wanted her bad. His bear wanted her worse. She was all long blond hair, eyes the color of honey, and petit—the perfect size for protecting. He could make every excuse in the book to kick her out of here, but after last night, he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of her leaving and not learning more about her.

  He bounded up her stairs two at a time and threw open the front door. Please, please let her stuff still be in here. He bolted for the bedroom and gripped the door frame until it creaked. Rolling his eyes back in his head, he sighed with relief at the sight of her suitcase and unmade bed. He didn’t know her that well, but Brooke didn’t strike him as a person who’d leave without making the bed.

  Paper fluttered from somewhere in the trailer, brushing soft noises against his oversensitive eardrums. What was that?

  He strode back across the living room to the second bedroom on the other side and stopped short when he reached the open door.

  Sheets of oversize paper littered the floor, each painted with an image of the same man’s face. One sat half-finished and clipped to an easel. Tagan knelt down and raised the closest of the discarded pieces to the window light.

  Cold, empty eyes, staring straight ahead…no…straight through him. It was painted in dark colors, and the only highlights were where she’d left the cream-colored paper raw and untouched. The only color other than black was the gray in his eyes.

  He looked around. She had used the same gray in all of the paintings. Some were of the man snarling his lip or looking down. In one, he was laughing, but the smile looked cruel.

  Slow rage built inside of Tagan, small and unassuming at first, then bigger and brighter, until the animal inside of him threatened to shred him from the inside out.

  He hunched forward, crumpling the man’s picture in his fists.

  He’d hurt Brooke, this monster.

  “Not here,” Kellen said softly from behind. “You can’t tear up her home, Tagan. She feels safe here, but she won’t if she sees an animal has ripped up her place.”

  Kellen was right. Dammit, he was always right. Right and levelheaded, and it was Kellen who should’ve been Second in the clan. He just hadn’t been interested. Not like Tagan and Connor had been. Chest heaving against the urge to Change, Tagan loosened his grip on the painting. Seconds dragged on as he fought his animal for his skin. His muscles were so tight, it was hard to move, hard to think. Teeth gritted, he forced his hands open and rested his palms on the cool, laminate flooring.

  Breath. Just breathe. She’s not gone. She’s here. Away from that asshole who hurt her. She’s safe…with me.

  Safe with him? He was losing his mind.

  “Where is she?” Tagan’s voice came out low and gravelly, inhuman.

  “Connor said she went into town for groceries,” Kellen said. “She probably got tired of him harassing her all day.” Kellen cleared his throat and knelt down to run his finger across an angry looking red slash mark across one of Brooke’s paintings. “Connor is going to cause trouble for you. And for her. You realize that, right?”

  “I can handle Connor.”

  “Mmm,” Kellen said, noncommittally.

  Heaving a sigh, Tagan leaned back on his heels and stared helplessly across the room of paintings. Paintings Brooke had created out of the pain churning inside of her. She was scared of being seen as weak—ridiculous woman. She was hiding all of this from the world. His stomach clenched in on itself just thinking about the monumental effort she must put forth everyday just to appear normal. He’d give anything to take this pain away from her, to have saved her from that experience in the stairwell—the one that made her run into the wilderness to try to feel safe and whole again.

  His mate was fierce. His mate was stronger than anyone he’d ever met. She was still getting up every day, trying to fight her fear and heal her scars, and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to show her just how powerful she was.

  His mate? Shit.

  A long, contented rumble left Tagan’s throat, and Kellen smiled like he knew everything that ever was. Tagan needed out of this place. He needed to see Brooke, to reassure his bear that she wasn’t gone forever, just for now.

  He needed to make sure she was safe and whole, not just for her, but for selfish reasons. He had to convince himself she was okay so he could calm the rage that had ignited in his gut, then settled into a discomfort that wouldn’t go away.

  He was sweaty and filthy from working the landing all day, but that didn’t stop him from jumping behind the wheel of his truck and blasting out of the trailer park. Connor watched him go with narrowed, accusing eyes, but Tagan didn’t give a shit. Brooke was his, but he’d be damned if he hurt her more by claiming her. He cared about her enough to be her friend and
let her go. Oh, he’d pine for her always after she left, but he’d be justified in his decision. She’d go back to her life, and he’d hope she looked back on her time here fondly. His bear had chosen her, and she’d always stick. It was how it was with shifters. He’d give her up, though, because he refused to hurt her. Not like that man in the stairwell.

  As soon as he was in range of good reception, he pressed the only speed dial he had programmed into his cell phone.

  “I was wondering when you were going to call,” Meredith said into the phone. Even from hundreds of miles away, he could tell she was smiling as she spoke. He could hear it in her voice.

  “It’s been a long time, Mom.”

  “Too long. I hear you have been taking good care of my girl. She called me an hour ago. Gave me an earful about my rental mistake but admitted she is going to stay for a while. You must have charmed her well.”

  Tagan gripped the steering wheel and glared at the gravel road that was disappearing under his tires. “Why did you send her here?”

  His mother’s answer was simple. “Because you need each other.”

  He bit back a curse because she had always been a right proper lady and hated when his foul mouth ran away with him. His knuckles were turning white from his strangle hold on the wheel. “Right. And when she leaves me, and I feel like my life isn’t fulfilling anymore, like I can’t be happy anymore and my bear is out of control, what then?”

  “I don’t know, son,” she said softly. “I just know that I’ve watched her for years. Seen her grow up as an artist, and everything she does compliments who you are.”

  Tagan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed a long, steadying breath. “The man who hurt her…”

  “You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Brooke said he got out of jail—”

  “Tagan,” his mom said carefully, then repeated slowly, “You don’t have to worry about him.”

  Tagan nodded. He knew exactly what she was saying. She’d probably killed the man in some back alley, claws out as she let him see his doom before it came. That she had avenged Brooke said everything about how important she was to Mom.

  “Okay,” he drawled, his bear settling by a fraction. The threat to Brooke was over, and he wouldn’t have to travel to kill her attacker.

  “I knew he was getting out,” she said, “but couldn’t make a move until Brooke was out of the city and away from it all. His death couldn’t blow back on her, you understand?”

  He did. His mother was a momma bear and protector, down to the core, and an intelligent hunter. That man had conjured the wrath of an apex predator the second he marked Brooke’s neck. Jail had only prolonged his life.

  “Has she painted anything yet?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah, but I think she’s worse off than ever. There are two dozen paintings of her attacker’s face she must’ve done this morning.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? They aren’t exactly the pretty star paintings she talks about wanting to get back to. They’re full of pain and grit and…” Fuck, his bear was doubling him over the wheel just thinking about it.

  “But she’s painting. She hasn’t been able to do that in three months. When someone like Brooke loses their creative outlet, all of that energy doesn’t just leave her. It’s still there, trapped and turning poisonous by the day. If she needs to paint her anger, fine. At least it’s a start. This is something she needs. She needs to work through this, or it could ruin her, Tagan. Not just her ability to make a living, but it could ruin her creativity. Turn it black and untrustworthy. Even from his grave, that criminal could take away her livelihood. Tagan,” she said, voice stony. “Don’t let that happen.”

  The line went dead.

  Tagan flipped the phone onto the passenger’s seat and scrubbed his free hand over his two-day stubble. He could barely keep his crew from tearing each other’s throats out when Jed was away, and now Brooke’s happiness rested on his shoulders? What if he screwed this up? What if she ended up hating him because of it? What if he pushed too hard, and she lost her love of painting completely?

  He knew exactly how important muses were. He’d been raised by an artist, after all. The urge that lived inside of Brooke, the one that told her she must create, was just as important as her talent to do so.

  He hit the gas as he blasted past a green sign that informed him Saratoga was twenty-five miles away.

  Whatever he had to do to help Brooke get her life back, he’d do it.

  Chapter Six

  Brooke eyed the fabric swatches in the home improvement aisle at the general store on the main drag in town. It only sold two shades of blackout curtains, sky blue and sunny yellow.

  She’d had big plans to sleep in this morning after the late night she’d kept, but the blaring sunlight in her bedroom had other ideas. Her eyelids were probably sunburned from her attempt to ignore it. And then, out of frustration, she’d woken up and did something awful. Painted something awful. Lots of somethings.

  She’d never actually felt pain when she was painting before, but this morning, she’d almost made herself sick with the images of her attacker that flowed from her paintbrush and onto those canvases.

  She snatched a couple of packaged curtains in blue and tossed them into the cart. She made to speed off toward the art supplies section but pulled the cart to a stop and stared thoughtfully at a shelf of bathmats. A gold one kind of matched the baby-diarrhea-colored bathtub. She grabbed that and took another look down the aisle. It was kind of fun shopping for her trailer, now that she was going to stay for a while. A kitchen mat, a towel set for the bathroom, a miniature whicker trashcan, and a pair of soap dispensers later, Brooke was looking forward to decorating her little place. It had already been furnished when she came, but the little personal touches were missing. And the more she found enjoyment out of picking out those personal touches, the more 1010 felt like a home away from home.

  With her bags in hand, she stepped out of the general store and waved to an older man in coveralls who waved back. Without her asking, he grabbed the heavy bags and walked her to her car, chatting about the weather and how it was supposed to rain tomorrow. She thanked him, and he tipped his ball cap and went on his way, but she stood there for a minute, watching him leave. That was the first time anyone had offered to help her with her bags, and he was a complete stranger.

  She looked down Bridge Avenue and smiled at the hustle and bustle of the town’s residents after getting off work. A number of restaurants seemed to be drawing in the crowds, but even the busiest passersby nodded their heads in greeting. She liked this place. Everyone seemed friendly. This was different from the city where she sometimes felt like a number in the masses.

  She locked up her car and jogged across the street to a small grocery store. She’d been too stubborn to beg breakfast off Connor this morning, and now she was starving. Intending to fully stock the small swing-door pantry in 1010 and fill the fridge, she pulled the door open and grabbed a cart.

  Shopping on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. She wanted every food she passed by. The basket was already half full by the time she stopped in front of the cold cuts in the back.

  Steak, yes.

  Pork chops, absolutely.

  Bacon? Hell yes to that. She had a craving, and it involved copious amounts of the savory strips of meat.

  Someone ran into her cart with theirs, and the sound of metal on metal nearly made her jump out of her skin.

  “Hey there, stranger,” Tagan said through a cocky grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  His bright blue eyes held her trapped, her body locked against any movement. He’d filled her mind all day, but was the last person she’d expected to see here. “H-hi.”

  His grin deepened. “You planning on eating all that bacon yourself?”

  She stifled a smile, because really the man shouldn’t be encouraged. “Are you judging my groceries?”

  “You don’t want to cook bacon in a trailer.
”

  “I want a BLT.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, leaning on the front handle of his cart. His muscles looked yummy all flexed like that, and when his T-shirt stretched farther up his arm, a small tendril of ink was exposed on his tricep. A tattoo? Dammit, she was a sucker for those.

  “Brooke? You okay?”

  With a monumental effort, she dragged her gaze back to his and cleared her throat. “I’m fine.” Except her voice had gone up an octave. She cleared her throat again and tried to mentally stifle the burning heat that was creeping up her neck. “Bacon, lettuce, and tomato.”

  His dark eyebrows drew down. “Pardon?”

  “A BLT. It’s a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Put them on some toasted bread with mayo and bingo bango, magic in your mouth.”

  His eyes dipped to her lips, and the heat in her cheeks flamed hotter.

  A knowing smile crooked those sexy lips of his, and he pulled his attention back to the refrigerated shelf of meat. The grin slowly faded. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Okay.” That sounded foreboding.

  “I saw those paintings you did this morning.”

  Horror slammed into her middle. Gripping the bar of her cart, she gritted her teeth to stifle the urge to verbally filet him right here in front of the meandering shoppers. “You had no right to go into my place.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said, the humor gone from his voice. “I thought maybe you left. I was making sure your stuff was still in there.”

  His tone sounded hurt, and her ready insults froze on her tongue.

  “Now, listen before you get on me, woman. I’m not good at talking, and I don’t say the right things most of the time, so bear with me. That’s not all I wanted to tell you.” He stopped, searching her eyes like he didn’t know how to go on.

  “What else, then?” she asked, scared of what he would say but too curious to let him go without attempting.