Chapter 1: Introduction
The morning air was sharp with the scent of dry leaves and damp earth, the kind of chill that bit at your nose but left your hands warm enough to grip the chain saw without complaint. Tom wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, the fabric rough against his skin. The woodpile was growing steadily—small logs sawed to length then split and stacked in neat rows, ready for winter. He glanced over at Rick, who was swinging the axe with surprising ease for a guy who spent most of his time in an office in town. He had his own place, small and neat. But he liked the room on Tom's spread.
Rick’s curly hair bounced with each swing of the splitting ax, his breath coming out in quick, visible puffs.
He was built like Tom—thick beard, shoulders that looked carved from oak. He moved with a loose, easy confidence, unlike Tom's solid and slow ways. You might not realize how well built he was, dressed in a loose flannel shirt.
Tom watched him for a second longer than necessary before turning back to his own pile. He'd been cutting the chunks with the chainsaw while Rick split them into firewood sizes. The sounds echoed through the trees, sharp and satisfying.
Tom's hands were calloused, the skin toughened by years of labor. He'd been doing this since he was old enough to hold a saw, and it showed in the lines etched into his face. His beard, a thick, dark growth, was speckled with sawdust and wood chips. He looked up as Rick finished his swing, the axe biting deep into the wood.
"Damn, Rick," Tom said, wiping his brow again, "you're getting good at that."
Rick snorted. "I've been doing this as long as you have. I should be at least as good as you at it." Rick leaned the axe against the chopping block and stretched, his back popping audibly. "Besides, I've got an ulterior motive."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"
Rick grinned. "I figure if I help you out with the wood, you'll owe me one. Maybe then I can get you to try that new fishing spot I found."
Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "You're always trying to get me to go fishing with you, Rick. You know I'm not much of a fisherman," Tom said, his voice a low rumble. He took a swig from his beer bottle, the glass cold and slick in his calloused hand.
Rick shrugged, a smirk on his lips.
"That's the point, Tom. I'm trying to get you to try something new. You're stuck in your ways."
Tom chuckled. "And what's wrong with that? I like my routines. Keeps things simple."
"Not that it's much my business," Rick offered, "but hey, it might help with your marriage. Just saying."
"Your sister is..." Tom stopped. "Whatever." He shook his head. "I'm hot and thirsty. What say we take a break. I've got some cold beer in the cabin."