Diana kept her misgivings to herself. The wind blew and the tree rocked, the lemon-cedar scent of the redwoods drifted with the breezes.
“When did it happen?”
The moon had risen, illuminating a blanket of mist below them, punctured by black treetops here and there. Logan shut off the lamp.
“Two years ago.”
“God, so recent.”
He pulled her to her feet, clipped her harness into the tree, and, straddling a branch, showed her how to scooch on her butt until they were out on a limb facing northeast. He pointed past the trees to another clearcut with evidence of the mudslide. In the moonlight, the shaved and broken baldness of the clearcut glowed like white in ultraviolet light, a broad scar in the black fur of tree cover.
Literally out on a limb, shame washed over Diana—was the tree swayin
