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  CHOPPED

  Taboo Temptations Book 1: Lumberjack

  Colleen Charles

  Table of Contents

  CHOPPED

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  EDUCATED SNEAK PEEK

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Copyright

  Foreword

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  Chapter One

  Gray

  Whack!

  Whack!

  Whack!

  My flannel shirt stretches across the muscles of my back, hugging them in a fabric embrace. Beads of sweat waterfall down my face, falling to the crumbled leaves beneath. The ax feels solid in my grip. Fluffy clouds swirl overhead with peeks of blue appearing to make room for the warm sun. I may not know much about book learning, didn’t care to continue after high school graduation, but I understand the literature of the forest I love. I know how to carve up this tree, and I know how to drag the wood back to my cabin.

  An honest day’s work is good for the soul.

  The wood I harvest warms my cabin during the chilly fall mornings and all winter long here in the isolated woods of Northern Minnesota. My cabin stands more than twenty miles from the small town of Shadow Falls, and that’s just how I like it. These woods have been in my family for generations, ever since the prohibition era when Grandpa Josiah Parker peddled his famous blackberry moonshine. Big city assholes looking to develop five-star resorts along our private lake have come, and they’ve gone.

  The lake teems with huge walleye, a local delicacy. To make ends meet, I allow my friend Tim to take some tourists out from time to time. But I don’t need much. And those corporate suits with their exotic wingtips? As soon as they know I’d rather cut off their balls with my ax than sell them even one acre of my trees, they disappear in a poof of expensive cologne and disappointment.

  Kicking the aspen tree I just chopped down with the front of my steel-toed boot, I heave a sigh and roll my shoulders. After a few more chops, I have the tree broken up into smaller pieces that I throw on my makeshift trolley made of canvas and rope. I’ll use it to haul the wood back to my cabin and stack it up, and I’ll use myself like a draft horse from the pioneer days.

  I chuckle because that’s not very far off from how I live today in this century.

  If your dad could see you now, Gray Parker, he’d be proud. Living the way the Parkers have lived for centuries. Living off the land.

  Eschewing anything technological like a badge of honor and strength.

  I can’t even imagine having a damn cell phone affixed to my hand. That hand is for my ax and my ax alone. Okay, maybe the occasional partner to warm my bed. It’s been years since that hand has caressed the flesh of a woman. If anything, that’s the only part of this isolated life that sucks. Women, they don’t wander up here. If I want one, I’ve got to go into town and talk to a bunch of people I’ve never liked and still don’t.

  And when you fuck a woman, she starts to expect things.

  Want things.

  Demand things.

  And I’m incapable of giving those things to the female persuasion. What woman would want to live like I do in order to have sex with a giant hulk of a man with no more than a few words to say? Conversationalist, I’m not. Although, I do like reading and I read hundreds of books a year from an antique book site that I pick up at the post office a few times a year after my sister orders them for me.

  Julie comes out once a month like clockwork to make sure that I’m still alive.

  She knows I like aged scotch and biographies, and she also knows she’s not welcome unless she comes bearing a case of each. My worrywart sister actually talked me into indoor plumbing. As if I need it. Cooking over an open flame and reading by the light of a lantern is fine by me. But when I don’t listen, she starts in with her babbling and her demands and sometimes I realize that whatever is making me stubborn just isn’t the hill to die on.

  She loves me and I love her, despite her nagging. After the death of our parents in a blizzard, she’s all I’ve got.

  Lifting my ax above my head, I send it soaring downward in one solid, smooth strike. The final log splits easily in two, and I throw it on the canvas. A rustle in the trees lets me know I’m not alone, and a huge hound dog bursts through the foliage carrying a rabbit in his drooping jowls.

  I pat his silky tan coat. “Way to go, Hank. That looks a lot like supper.”

  Hank drops the carcass at my feet and wags his tail. Another pat on the head is his reward and he lets out a howl in response. I got Hank as a pup a few years back, and I’ve spent many long days training him as my hunting companion. Basically, my only companion. We’re tight, Hank and me.

  Grabbing the rope with my gloved hand, I yank and send the pile of wood moving across the forest floor. Hank picks up his rabbit and trots along the crude trail, leading the way, his tail wagging so hard it slaps a few trees along the way. Leaves scatter left and right under the weight of his happy-go-lucky personality.

  If it wasn’t for Hank, I might slip down into a deep depression fueled by loneliness and isolation.

  Watching my dog’s happy tail ripping through the low brush, I flex my shoulders and haul my heavy burden through the leaves and twigs, enjoying the call of a faraway bird. The trill perks up my ears and soul as I inhale the symphony of the forest that I love.

  Chapter Two

  Dove

  “What happens if you don’t find it?”

  I don’t bother looking at Professor Adams as he pushes his glasses up his pointy nose and sits down in his leather office chair. A thatch of gray hair falls over his forehead, the lines underneath it creasing with concern while his kind brown eyes scan me for any weak spot in my armor. He’s my faculty advisor, the one helping me complete my thesis paper on aspen varietals occurring in Northern Minnesota and their effect on the forest ecosystem. I’m due to finish my doctorate in botany at the College of Northern Minnesota soon.

  My hands fly through the air as my passion rises. “I have to find it. All of the clues lead to that aspen tree being native to that region. And I found a closed chat room on the Internet where one of the posters swore they trespassed in the forest and found one to photograph. My thesis won’t be complete without that photograph proving the Minnesota Dark Aspen exists.”

  “Dove… it’s dangerous. What if you run into a bear? A wolf? Or worse? I can’t imagine telling your parents you got mauled to death by a wild animal in the name of botany. I think when they sent you away to school and you told them your major, they stopped worrying about you. Because no one ever dies looking at leaves under a microscope.”

  I snort in a laugh. “They could if they put their magnifying glass in direct sunlight and start a five-alarm forest fire.”

  Professor Adams sits back and tents his hands. “Only a person without a love for the environment would be that careless. And that’s not you. You’re the brightest student I’ve ever worked with, Dove. I’m really going to miss you when you receive your doctorate and go out to
change the world one tree at a time.”

  I just shake my head at the overwhelming compliments as my face turns red and I can sense the rising heat in my cheeks. Tugging at my glasses, I heave in a breath. I’ve never been one to think that highly of myself. There’s always more to achieve in this world, and I’m just getting started.

  “Aw, shucks, Professor. You don’t have to say that.”

  He flicks his wrist. “You deserve all that and more. I can’t remember a better Ph.D. student in all my years here.”

  I nod and hitch my backpack farther up on my shoulder. “Well, I better get back to my apartment and pack. I’ll text you once I get up there, so you don’t worry.”

  With a final wave, I leave Professor Adams’ office and hoof it to my off-campus apartment. It’s not big or fancy, but it’s all mine. I rarely see my roommate, Liz, a fellow graduate student. Between my job at the university and my scholarships and grants, I don’t have to work another job to make ends meet. And if I ever got into financial trouble, I could always ask my folks to help out. My dad’s a CFO for a Fortune 500. They tried to buy me a house up here as an investment, but I put my foot down. Everything I get in this life I want to make on my own. Not only is Liz a great friend, but her half of the rent takes some of the stress off my back.

  After I open the door, my cat Fern lets out a huge and pissed-off meow that her dinner’s late. While I’m gone, Liz will take care of her for me. But despite their proximity-induced truce, I may have shit or piss in my shoes when I return. Fern is temperamental, like her namesake plant, and she makes her displeasure known whenever she can.

  “You’re going to be just fine, Miss Prissypants.” I shake some kibble into her bowl, and she munches and purrs. Taking that as my signal that all is now well in Fern’s world, I throw some essentials into my rolling duffle bag. I’ll only be gone a few nights at the most, so I won’t need much. How hard can it be to find a tree in the forest?

  Chapter Three

  Gray

  After a delicious supper of roasted rabbit and fresh vegetables from my garden, I settle in with my kerosene lantern and my latest biography about Hubert H. Humphrey. The book feels heavy in my hands, and I flip it over and stroke the leather-bound spine as if it were a woman’s curves. I love print books. Not only because I don’t believe in electronics, but I love the history. The way it feels like an intimate secret between me and the author. Wondering where the book’s been before it lands in my hands.

  My ax stands in the corner, shining in the low light. I polished it earlier and put it in the place of honor it holds. Not only does it chop wood for the wood-burning stoves in my living room and bedroom, but it also serves as a weapon in case some random city slicker has the audacity to approach my domicile with nefarious intent.

  Off with their heads.

  I laugh at myself and run a finger down the page, imagining HHH as Senate Majority Whip, authoring the historic Civil Rights Act of 1964. The man fascinates me. Not just because he’s from Minnesota and the airport is named after him, but because he left the world a better place because he was in it. I hope I can do the same. Even though I won’t do that by having a fancy job, wife, or kids, I’m a steward of this forest, the lake, and all the critters that call it home. I’ll damn well make sure the pristine nature of my land will continue on for years after I’m part of it.

  Ah, kids.

  Too bad I love the little bastards, and as I think of what comes with them, their mother, I scrub a hand down my beard and slam the book shut. Every single time my mind drifts to thoughts of her, I lose my focus. I gave my heart once to a woman, and she held it in the palm of her hand. But then she squeezed it until it became reduced to a bloody pulp. Three long years ago, Cindi McEntire told the entire town of Shadow Falls that she was only using me. That’s when I swore off women and having a family, even though my balls tighten when I think about how much I want a baby.

  I want it all.

  But ever since Cindi told God and everybody I was a dumb lummox that she only kept around to find out if the rumors about the size of my wood were true, I haven’t opened my heart and soul to anyone. Even a sliver. Apparently, she posted the results of her unscientific experiment on Facebook. Now, every time I go into town for the supplies that Jules can’t provide, every woman who encounters me walks away or talks about me behind her hand. So instead of subjecting myself to that shit, I work myself to the bone, to the point of exhaustion. I read a few chapters, pet my loyal dog on his silky head, and fall into my featherbed and try not to consider how alone I really am in this cruel world.

  Snuggling back into my leather wingback, I inhale the very masculine scents of my cabin.

  Wood.

  Soap.

  Hound.

  I can’t help but admit how much I miss Cindi’s citrusy smell. Whenever she walked inside, it reminded me of the trees budding in spring, giving new life to the forest after a long, dark winter. And her feather-soft skin underneath my rough and callused hand. There are things about women that can’t be duplicated or replaced.

  As if on cue, my cock twitches in my boxers so I don’t hesitate to grab hold of the length and give it a squeeze. Dates with my right hand have become the norm. And I don’t like it one bit, but unfortunately, a woman isn’t going to fall from the sky and into the canopy of trees outside my cabin. My balls tighten as I move my palm up and down.

  Stroking myself with a firm grip, I picture a tiny, curvy woman in front of me, wet and ready. Her curves fill out her figure in all the right places. Why do the big guys always lust after the most petite women? Who the fuck knows because it’s my damn fantasy. And in this one, my little spinner has waves of raven hair swept up in a bun with wisps falling around her heart-shaped face, sea-green eyes, alabaster skin…

  And glasses.

  She tugs at them as she pulls her lower lip between her pearly white teeth. Kissable lips. Full and lush.

  She’s a writer. Biographies. Her intelligence is only surpassed by her ability to suck me into oblivion.

  Sweeping the steamy mental image away with a groan, I stop and hop to my feet. If I’m going to finish this, it will be in the shower where the cold water will wash the sins of my flesh straight down the drain.

  Chapter Four

  Dove

  Looking up ahead, I see an aspen tree with darker than normal leaves and my heart flips over. This one seems different somehow. Could it be the unicorn in the forest that I’m searching for today? I glance down at the GPS on my phone and see that I’ve wandered deep into the woods, much farther than I should be. The city doesn’t own this portion and permission hasn’t been granted for me to be on this property.

  Private property.

  Angry-looking block-lettered signs dotted along the way make that fact abundantly clear. But like Sherlock on the trail of the case-busting clue, I ignore them and walk toward the elusive tree. This place is so isolated, who’s going to come and tell me to leave? Besides, I’m expedient and I’ll be in and out in a jiffy. The only signs of life I’ve seen that aren’t flora are squirrels and birds. A ray of sunlight beams down from the heavens, bathing the branches and leaves with light. The tree appears angelic, lit from above, and nothing is going to stop me from finding out if it’s the one I’m looking for. The one I need to finish my thesis. All I need from it are a few tiny samples of bark, branches, and leaves.

  Hitching my backpack higher up on my shoulders, I inhale the sweet scent of the tree canopy. Peace reigns supreme in nature, and I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.

  Sans bears.

  Professor Adam’s words of wisdom drift back to me, and a shiver travels up my spine as I glance around, my ears straining. I’ve been on high alert, my can of bear spray in the pocket of my cargo pants. Hiking boots, socks, and long sleeves protect me from ticks and mosquitos as big as your fist. A Minnesota tradition.

  The leaves crunch underneath the soles of my boots as I meander through the fallen twigs and branches. Oc
casionally, I see a felled tree, the trunk snapped in half by lightning or wind. Huffing and puffing, I tromp through the dense woods, taking care that a random branch doesn’t slap me in the face.

  Bending down, I spot a beautiful wildflower. I whip out my iPhone and snap a photo, then reach out and touch the velvety petals with my fingertip. The red flower creates a stark contrast to the green surrounding it, painting the forest floor as if an artist had whipped out their brush.

  A noise halts me in my tracks, and I hold my breath. Nothing. With a sigh of relief, I soldier on. Must have just been a critter.

  Grrrr!

  Oh, my God, it’s a wolf. I’m a goner. I’ll be ripped to shreds. I’ll be nothing but a pile of bones picked of their flesh…

  Prickles spread across every inch of my skin, and I freeze in place as if I’ve been hit with a laser gun. I wait with bated breath for the wolf to burst through the trees and attack me, tearing me limb from limb. The branches rustle and sway as the animal approaches, drawing nearer and nearer with each struggled inhale. My lungs blaze fire. I can’t get enough air, no matter how hard I heave. I will my feet to move. They don’t. The only thing moving on my body is my strangled, galloping heart.

  Run, Dove. Run for your life!

  My mind races, playing tricks on me. But where on earth will I run to? The density of the trees makes travel harder, and the wolf knows this forest because it’s his home. Turning around, I scope out the crude path I came through and tear through the trees, branches swatting and stinging me in the face and neck. Strands of my long hair get caught in them and are torn from my skull. I ignore the pain. Anything to keep from getting eaten alive.

  Steeling myself and forcing my feet to keep moving, I keep a tight, almost painful hold on the straps of my backpack, guarding my precious samples. I imagine the wolf on my scent, its long, sharp fangs bared as drool drips from its black lips. Pumping my legs even harder, I don’t see the fallen log until it’s too late. As I fall, suspended through mid-air, my arms pinwheel in desperation.