Gwen Farley bought the cabin for solitude and the quiet work of drawing the plants that grow on disturbed ground. Eleven days later a storm drops a cedar across the property line she shares with her nearest neighbor, and the man who owns the forty acres on the other side shows up with a chainsaw and freckles that go all the way down.

Rory Keane works the boundary the way some men work a body—methodical, thorough, without apology. The trail that runs the lot line is a public easement. Hikers come on weekends. Voices carry. That doesn't stop them.

What starts against the rough cedar siding of her porch becomes a habit written into the moss and the bark and the orange survey flags. Oral on the open trail. Hard and deep against old-growth hemlock. The risk of being seen while he is still inside her. The first time he takes her ass in the rain. The almost-caught that only makes them hungrier for the next time.

She came for the quiet. She stays for the man on the other side of the line and the filthy, careful, open-air way he claims her every chance they get.