Chapter 3
Rachel
M ontana mornings have a particular kind of magic. The sun crests the eastern ridge, setting fresh snow glittering like scattered diamonds across the valley. Pine and wood smoke scent the crisp air, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk cries out across the pristine silence.
Of course, the silence doesn’t last long when you’re renovating century-old cabins.
“No, absolutely not. You are not taking down that wall.”
Garrett pauses, pencil hovering over his notebook, and gives me a look that probably intimidates most of his clients. Too bad for him I grew up with Ryder’s death glare.
“The wall is load-bearing,” he says with forced patience.
“It’s historic.”
“It’s rotting.”
“It has character.”
“It has termites.”
The morning sun streams through dusty windows, catching the gold flecks in his gray eyes as he stares me down. We’ve been at this for hours, the crunch of our boots through fresh snow marking our path between cabins. Each building holds its own particular scent - aged wood, stone foundations, decades of mountain winters sealed in their bones.
I’m trying to focus on these details, on the way each cabin tells its own story. Not on how Garrett’s t-shirt stretches across his shoulders every time he reaches up to examine something. Or how his voice gets all low and rough when he’s explaining technical details.
Not that I’m noticing these things. I’m a professional. Completely professional.
“Fine.” I push away thoughts about his shoulders. “Show me why it has to go.”
He moves to the wall in question, every motion precise and controlled. “See these marks? Water damage, probably from before they fixed the roof. And here—” He takes my hand, guiding it to a spot near the baseboard. “Feel that?”
The wood crumbles slightly under my fingers, but all I can focus on is how warm his hand is on mine. Get it together, Winston.
“Oh,” I manage.
“Yeah, oh.” He drops my hand and steps back, pulling out his phone to take detailed photos of the damage. “Tell me something - what made you choose these particular cabins? There are newer properties available closer to town.”
The question surprises me. Most contractors just want to know the scope of work, not the why behind it.
“I’ve driven by this place so often when I’ve come up to visit Ryder,” I find myself saying. “It always caught my eye. There’s something special about this place - the way it feels separate from everything else, but not lonely.” A jay calls from a nearby pine, emphasizing the point. “Plus, the view isn’t terrible.”
He follows my gaze through the window, where the valley spreads out below us, all snow-covered peaks and endless sky. “No,” he says softly. “It’s not terrible at all.”
Something in his voice makes me look at him, but he’s already moving to examine another wall. “What about you? Elena mentioned you were with Ryder and Garrett in the military, but he never said how you ended up in Heart River.”
“Needed a change of scenery.” His tone suggests that’s all I’m getting, but then he surprisingly continues. “After my last tour... cities felt too crowded. Too many people, too much noise. Montana made sense.”
I think about what Ryder’s told me about their time overseas. About the nightmares that still wake him sometimes. “And does it help? Being up here?”
He’s quiet for a moment, sunlight and shadow playing across his face as clouds drift overhead. “Most days.” He glances at me. “Your brother probably told you I’m not much for conversation.”
“Ryder says a lot of things.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “He also thought Hearts I can feel it in the way the air sharpens with each breath.
We crunch through fresh powder to examine the foundation, our boots leaving parallel tracks in the pristine white. A deer watches us from the tree line, then bounds away in graceful leaps when Garrett shifts some fallen timber.
“The stonework’s solid,” he says, brushing snow away from the base. “They built things to last back then.” His hands move over the rock with surprising gentleness. “See these marks? Hand-cut. Someone put real care into this place.”
“You know a lot about historical construction.”
“My dad restored old buildings.” Something soft crosses his face. “Taught me everything I know about reading a structure’s bones. Before he...”
He trails off, but I remember Ryder mentioning something about an accident. About Garrett learning construction young because his father died before he could finish teaching him.
“He’d like what you’re doing,” I say quietly. “Saving old places like this.”
Garrett’s hands still on the stone. For a moment, I think I’ve overstepped. Then he says, “Yeah. He would.”
Thunder rolls in the distance, and the deer I spotted earlier darts across the clearing with several friends, heading for shelter.
“Smart animals,” Garrett straightens. “We should follow their example. Storm’s coming in fast.”
We make our way back around front, snow starting to fall in fat, lazy flakes. The wind’s picking up too, carrying the sharp scent of approaching winter weather.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, keeping my tone professional despite the way snowflakes catch in his dark hair.
He nods, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Rachel...” He pauses. “This job – it’s going to be complicated enough without...”
“Without what?”
“Just... it’s better if we keep things professional.”
“Of course,” I say smoothly, even as disappointment curls in my stomach. “I’m just here to understand the renovation process.”
He studies me for a moment like he’s not sure whether to believe me. “Right. Well, we’ve got a lot more to assess tomorrow.”
As I head back to my cabin, a gust of wind whips my hair to the side and I turn, catching Garrett watching me. He nods, then waits as I start walking again.
I stand just inside my cabin for a moment, listening to the wind and thinking about the way he touched that hundred-year-old stone. How someone who can handle explosives and demolition can also be so gentle with things that need saving.
Professional, I remind myself firmly. I’m here to restore these cabins, not solve the mystery of Garrett Mitchell. Even if the way he said my name makes my skin tingle. Even if I can still feel the ghost of his hand on mine from when he showed me the wall damage. Even if I want to run my fingers along his tattoo, taste his skin, feel his big strong hands on my body.
The wind howls across the ridge as I take my jacket off, carrying the promise of heavy snow. But somehow, I don’t think the storm outside can match the one brewing inside these cabins.
Or inside my heart.
Professional. I can do professional.
Probably.