Chapter 10
Jessie
On Saturday morning, Tank asks if I want to go to the lumberyard.
“I need to check on a few things,” he says over coffee. “Won’t take long. But if you want to bring your sketchbook—”
“Yes! I want to sketch the equipment, the log stacks, the way the mountains frame everything.” I've been dying to see where he works, and he knows it. “I mean, if that’s okay. I don’t want to be in the way.”
His mouth twitches. “You won’t be in the way, Smudge.”
The nickname still affects me. Whenever he uses it, he gives me this look, as if he’s enjoying a secret and I’m in on it.
“But you stay where I put you. Those machines don’t care how talented you are.”
I grin. “Noted.”
“And you wear the boots I bought you,” he adds. “Not the cute ones.”
“Tank,” I say solemnly, “I would never risk my life for aesthetics.”
A snort escapes him before he can stop it. “Smart woman.”
I grab my bag, toss in my sketchbook and a handful of pencils, and we head out the door.
The lumberyard sits on the edge of Havenridge Ranch property, about ten minutes from Tank’s cabin.
It’s smaller than I expected—a handful of buildings, a massive equipment shed, and what looks like miles of stacked timber in various stages of processing.
The smell hits me first: fresh-cut pine, sawdust, and something earthier underneath.
It smells like Tank.
“Welcome to my other office.” He parks the truck near a weathered wooden building with “HAVENRIDGE LUMBER” painted across the front.
“It’s quieter than I expected.”
“Saturday. Skeleton crew.” He circles the truck to open my door before I can reach the handle. He always does that now, and I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like it because I really do. I love it. “Sullivan's here. Maybe one or two others.”
I spot him before Tank points him out—a lean man in a faded denim jacket, leading a bay mare toward the paddock near the timber stacks. He moves carefully, deliberately, like someone who’s learned to measure every step. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
I’ve met a few veterans who work on the ranch over the past couple of weeks. They’ve welcomed me into their circle as if I’ve always belonged. No questions, no judgment, just easy acceptance.
It’s disorienting, but in the best way.
“Sullivan’s a good guy,” Tank says as we walk toward the main building, his eyes tracking the other man’s progress across the yard. “Quiet. Keeps to himself.”
Something in his tone makes me look up. It contains a protectiveness, the same careful watchfulness I’ve noticed when Tank thinks I’m not paying attention. How he checks the locks twice before bed, the way he always positions himself between me and the door.
“Like you?” I ask.
His mouth twitches. “I’m not quiet.”
“Fair point.” I bump my shoulder against his arm. “You’re very loud in your silence.”
That earns me a small but genuine smile. “Worse than me,” he says after a moment. “He’s newer. Still figuring out how to be... here.”
I don’t ask what that means. I’ve learned that people open up when they're ready, or not at all. Either way, you don’t push. Tank’s careful phrasing tells me everything I need to know: Sullivan is one of his, and Tank looks out for his people.
It’s one of the things I’m starting to love about him: the way he holds space for others without making it a big deal. Care looks like action, not words.
Tank sets me up on a bench near the equipment shed, giving me a perfect view of the timber stacks with the mountains rising behind them. The morning light is gorgeous—soft gold cutting through the pines, throwing long shadows across the raw wood.
“I’ll be in the office if you need me.” He hesitates, and I think he's going to leave it at that. But then his hands come up to adjust my scarf, pulling it higher around my neck and tugging the wool snug against my chin.
“Wind picks up around ten,” he says, as if he’s not currently short-circuiting my entire nervous system.
He pulls my beanie down over my ears, smoothing the edges with a gentleness that doesn’t match his rough hands.
Then he reaches into his jacket and produces a thermos I didn’t even know he’d brought.
“Coffee. Still hot.” He sets it on the bench beside me. “Don’t let it get cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, aiming for teasing. It comes out breathless.
“I’ll be in the office if you need me,” he says, tapping the toe of my boot with his. “You need anything, just wave. Or yell. Preferably yell.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat, sweet as pie.
He gives me a look that promises payback later, then turns back toward the crew.
“Jesus, Tank,” one of the guys calls as he passes. “You bubble-wrapping her now?”
“She’s an artist,” another adds. “Delicate.”
I cup my hands around my mouth. “I bruise easily and require snacks every two hours.”
That earns a laugh. Tank shakes his head like he doesn't know me at all, but the corner of his mouth lifts anyway.
His eyes darken. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me properly, but he brushes his lips across my forehead instead, so quick I almost miss it. Then he disappears inside.
I sit there for a full thirty seconds, clutching the thermos like an idiot, my forehead tingling where his mouth touched.
Get it together, Jessie.
I take a sip of coffee—perfect, of course, exactly how I like it—and pull out my sketchbook.
The view is stunning in that harsh Montana way, with its endless sky, rolling hills, and mountains cutting the horizon like teeth.
Timber stacks rise in neat rows, pale wood catching the morning light.
In the distance, Sullivan has turned the mare loose in the paddock and is leaning against the fence, watching her move.
There’s something peaceful about the scene, something still.
I lose myself in the work: the scratch of pencil on paper, the way light falls across the landscape, the distant rumble of equipment from somewhere deeper in the yard. It’s meditative, grounding in a way my life in the city never was.
I’m shading the tree line when I hear it.
A sharp whinny from one of the horses. A crash. Then a sound that makes my blood run cold—a man's ragged, gasping breath.
My head snaps up.
Sullivan is on the ground, not moving right as the spooked horse circles with wild eyes. He’s curled in on himself, hands pressed over his ears, body shaking.
Tank is already running.
“Sullivan. Hey. You’re at the yard. You’re in Montana. Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t respond. His breathing is ragged, too fast, and his eyes are open but seeing something else entirely. Somewhere else. Somewhen else.
“I need you to breathe with me,” Tank says, calm as still water. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?”
I realize with a jolt that the horse’s panicked snorts and stomping hooves are making things worse for Sullivan. I don't think. I just move.
As I reach the horse, I slow down, approaching carefully, keeping my movements deliberate. Its ears are pinned back, but it doesn’t bolt.
I edge closer, murmuring comforting sounds and soothing nonsense.
“Easy.” My tone stays soft. “Easy. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
The horse snorts and stamps, but I get a hand on the halter, guiding the twitchy animal toward the gate. When I turn back, Tank is watching me.
A flash of something in his eyes makes my whole body go hot. Then his attention returns to Sullivan, who’s breathing slower now, hands dropping from his ears.
“There you go,” Tank says. “That's it. You’re doing great.”
“Sorry.” Sullivan’s voice is hoarse. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. The mare spooked. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should’ve—”
“You did everything right.” Tank’s hand lands on Sullivan’s shoulder, steady and sure. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Take your time.”
I watch them together. Tank’s calm is unwavering, his complete focus on Sullivan. No judgment. No impatience. Just his presence and care.
Something cracks open in my chest.
One of the other workers appears. I didn't even notice him arrive. Tank exchanges a look with him, some silent communication I don’t understand. The man nods and settles beside Sullivan.
“I got him,” the worker says quietly. “Go on.”
Tank hesitates, then nods. He crosses to where I’m standing, and his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me away with a touch so light I can barely feel it.
I feel it everywhere.
We walk in silence until we're behind the equipment shed, out of sight.
Then Tank stops, and I stop with him, the air between us thickening.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Me?” I stare at him. “I’m fine. That wasn’t about me.”
“You helped with the mare. That was smart.”
“I didn’t think. I just—” I shake my head. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Episodes happen. He knows how to come down from them.” Tank’s jaw tightens. “It’s not the first time. Won’t be the last.”
“And you just handle it. Every time.”
“It’s what he needs.”
Such a simple statement. Such a massive understatement. I think about the calm in his voice, the steadiness of his hands, the way he made himself safe without ever seeming small. He knows exactly what to do and say.
“How?” I ask. “How do you stay so calm?”
“Practice.” His mouth twists, but it’s not quite a smile. “And panicking doesn’t help anyone.”
“You’ve done this before. Not just with Sullivan. Before.”
He knows what I mean. The military. The deployments. The things he doesn’t talk about.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve done this before.”
I look at him, really look at him. This man who builds things because he needs his hands busy. Who makes coffee for two without being asked. Who steps into a crisis like it’s his natural habitat and comes out the other side still standing, still steady, still him.
“You’re incredible.”
His whole body goes still. “Jessie—”
“I mean it.” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “What you just did. What you do every day. The way you take care of everyone. You don’t even realize how rare that is.”
“I’m not—”
“Stop it.” I grab the front of his shirt, fisting the worn flannel in my hands. “For once in your life, just shut up and let someone tell you you’re amazing.”
He grips my wrists, holding me in place. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” I press closer and feel the sharp intake of his breath. “I’m saying you’re a good man, Sawyer Granger. The best man I’ve ever known. And if you try to argue with me, I swear to God—”
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not tentative. He kisses me like he’s been holding himself back with both hands, and the chains just snapped. His fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head back, and I open for him with a sound I couldn’t stop if I tried.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Home,” he says roughly. “Now.”
I don’t argue.
The drive back to the cabin takes ten minutes but feels like ten hours.
Tank’s hand rests on my thigh the entire way, his thumb tracing slow circles through my jeans. Every time I shift or breathe, he notices. His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.
I look out the window at the mountains, the endless sky, the pines flashing past, and something settles in my chest—something that feels terrifyingly like peace.
This could be my life, I think. This man. This place. This quiet.
For the first time, the thought doesn’t scare me.
We barely make it through the cabin door.
His mouth is on mine before I can kick off my shoes, his hands already under my shirt, rough yet reverent against my skin. I’m yanking at his flannel—that goddamn flannel that smells like pine, sawdust, and him—and then he’s shrugging it off and wrapping it around my shoulders instead.
“Looks better on you,” he mutters against my throat.
“Everything looks better off.”
His laugh is low and rough, stirring heat within me.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist as we stumble toward the bedroom, and I think yes, yes, this is everything; nothing can touch this—
My phone rings.
I ignore it.
It rings again.
“Leave it,” Tank growls against my collarbone.
“Planning on it.”
But the phone keeps ringing, insistent and shrill, and something cold slides down my spine. I pull back, frowning, and dig the phone out of the flannel pocket.
I feel the blood drain from my face as I look at the screen. “It’s Albert.”
Every muscle in Tank’s body tenses beneath me. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.” But I’m already swiping. “Hi, Albert. I said I’d send the sketches by—”
“Jessie.” His clipped, impatient tone indicates I’ve inconvenienced him. That tone used to make me scramble to apologize, but not anymore. “I’m not calling about the sketches. I’m here.”
The words don’t register. “What do you mean, here?”
“I drove six hours through godforsaken mountain roads to save you from whatever breakdown you’re having.” A pause, thick with judgment. “There’s a gate. Some kind of security checkpoint. They won’t let me through without authorization.”
My stomach drops. “You’re at Havenridge Ranch?”
“I’m at a gate in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cows and men who look like they belong on a Most Wanted poster.
” His sigh crackles through the speaker.
“Jessie, this has gone on long enough. The Whitmore Commission is getting anxious, your social media has been dead for two weeks, and frankly, I’m concerned about your mental state. You’re not thinking clearly.”
I look up at Tank, this man who makes me feel safe, seen, and wanted, exactly as I am.
“That’s private property,” I manage. “You can’t just—”
“I can, and I did.” Albert’s voice sharpens.
“I’m your agent, Jessie. I’ve spent five years building your career, and I won’t watch you throw it away because some cowboy made you feel special for five minutes.
Now, are you going to let me in, or do I need to call the police and report a kidnapping? ”
The threat lands like a slap. Not because it’s real, but because it’s so Albert. Control disguised as care.
I’ve spent five years letting him speak to me like this, five years shrinking myself to fit his vision of who I should be.
Not anymore.
“Fine.” My voice comes out flat. Dead. “Stay there. I’m coming down.”