Chapter 3
SADIE
Iwake surrounded by him.
Not physically. But Ledger’s scent is everywhere.
Like forest dew and campfire smoke, earthy and masculine as it clings to the sheets, the pillows, and the heavy quilt I've burrowed under.
Every breath I take is full of him, and I hate how my body responds to it…
my belly—and lower—fluttering, my bare skin hypersensitive against the soft flannel sheets.
This is mortifying. I'm an officer, and I'm having absolutely sinful thoughts about a man I was trying to cite yesterday. A man with a criminal record. A man who could probably murder me and hide my body without breaking a sweat.
But he’s also a man who saved me from being swept down the mountain in this storm and freezing to death.
I force myself out of bed before my thoughts can spiral further.
His clothes are way too big on me, the thermal shirt sliding off my shoulder as I move. I tug it back up, but it's a losing battle.
A mirror on the wall has me pausing to try and do something with my hair, which has dried in a tangled nest. I manage to get my fingers through it and braid it again.
The smell of coffee and bacon draws me from the bedroom amid the gentle clatter of cast iron.
The main room is toasty, the fire rebuilt and crackling.
Ledger's standing at the stove with his back to me. He's wearing a dark Henley that stretches across those colossal shoulders, and worn jeans that make me want to slide my hands inside them—
Nope, not going there, I look away quickly, focusing on Bear instead.
The dog bounds over to greet me, tail wagging so hard his whole back end moves.
I crouch down to give him pets and scratches.
"Morning," Ledger says without turning around. His voice is rough and deep. Sexy-as-hell. Ergh. "Mugs are in the cabinet to your left, if you want coffee."
The domesticity of it throws me. Here's this intimidating mountain of a man, spatula in hand, cooking breakfast like it's perfectly normal to have a park ranger wearing his clothes in his kitchen.
I pour myself coffee (black, because I need the jolt). The first sip is heaven, rich and strong, with something that gives it an extra kick of spice.
"Yum," I say, staring into my mug.
He glances over his shoulder, and there's something in his expression—surprise, maybe?—before it shutters again. "Cinnamon. In the grounds."
"You put cinnamon in your coffee?"
"I put cinnamon in a lot of things." He plates the scrambled eggs, bacon, and homemade bread. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
I want to tell him that this is all too…much, but my stomach growls betrayingly. The eggs are fluffy, bacon crispy, and the bread dense and nutty. Even the butter is creamy and fabulous. I’m eating breakfast with the man who yesterday I was chasing through the woods, and it’s…nice. Comfortable.
“You’re a good cook,” I offer, because I feel he needs to know. “All of this tastes great.”
“I’ve been able to practice a lot. Not with guests, of course.” He settles in across from me at the table. “Not much else to do when winter hits besides cook, read, and brew.”
I butter another slice of bread. “I can imagine.”
“Storm's still going strong,” he says, crunching on a slice of bacon. “Weather app says it might last through tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Another night here. Another night surrounded by…him.
"I should check in again with dispatch."
"I did. Told them you were still sheltered and safe." At my look, he shrugs. "They called on your radio. You were sleeping."
"You answered my radio?"
"Would you prefer I let them think you were dead?"
Fair point, but it still feels odd. Intimate. Like we're playing house when we're really just two strangers stuck in a cabin. “No. Thanks for doing that.”
“I gave them a fake name.”
“You did?”
“One I know won’t cause trouble,” he says, handing a piece of bacon to Bear. “Dick Johnson.”
I roll my eyes. “Really. You could’ve at least made up something that doesn’t sound like a prank.”
“What? Dick’s my neighbor to the west. An old man who keeps to himself.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Hope he’s got a clean record.”
“He does,” he says confidently.
“I’m not going to ask,” I reply.
“Good,” he nods, with the hint of a smile.
I hate lying to my department, but I understand where he’s coming from. It’s just more to untangle later.
After breakfast, he won’t let me help with the dishes. Just waves me toward the fire with my coffee while he cleans up.
I still radio in myself, so they know that Dick Johnson is legit and hasn’t killed me. I tell them I’m in a secure location, well-supplied, and will check-in again when the weather permits me to travel. They seem perfectly satisfied with that.
I the take time to really study the cabin, since everywhere I turn, there's evidence of the life Ledger's built here: Hand-carved details on the furniture. Books on everything from wilderness survival to philosophy. His brewing operation.
“How did you get into brewing beer?” I ask, sitting in an overstuffed chair near the equipment.
He pauses, dish towel in hand, like he's deciding whether to answer. Finally, he throws the towel over his shoulder and moves to the brewing corner, running his hand along one of the glass carboys with something like affection.
"My grandfather brewed," he says. "German immigrant, old-school recipes. Used to let me help when I was a kid, before he died.” He pauses, as I glance at the copper kettle.
“After I got out..." He trails off, jaw tightening.
"I needed something to do with my hands.
Something that required patience and precision.
Something that couldn't be rushed or forced. "
I get up to examine his setup. It's meticulous. Temperature controls, bottles labeled with dates and batch numbers. He takes this very seriously.
"It's something I'm good at." He pulls down a notebook, flips it open to show me pages of carefully documented recipes, notes about temperatures and timing, sketches of flavor profiles.
"Most of my brews are traditional—German lagers, Belgian ales.
But a few years ago, I started experimenting with foraged ingredients.
Wild huckleberries, pine tips, mushrooms."
I point to a bottle of amber ale. “What’s this one?”
“Pine needle IPA.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugs. “I think it tastes like Christmas.”
I lean closer to it. “Interesting.”
He then goes on to explain malt roasting like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“And the truffles?” I ask.
“They're the key to the flavor profile. They add umami and balance the huckleberry’s tartness.”
“Let me see.”
I don't know why I ask. Maybe because the passion in his voice when he talks about brewing is so at odds with his closed-off demeanor. Or maybe it’s because he looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm mocking him. And I want to prove I'm not.
He moves to a shelf, pulls down a jar. Our fingers brush when he hands it to me, and I nearly drop it.
"Careful," he murmurs, cupping my hand to steady it.
I look up—have to crane my neck because he's so damn tall—and his eyes seem darker than before. We're frozen for a heartbeat or two, and then he steps back, leaving me holding the jar.
"Those are dried ones from last season," he says, voice carefully neutral. "The fresh ones are better, but they don't keep as long."
I focus on the truffles, trying to calm my racing pulse. "How do you find them? I hear they're not easy to locate."
"Bear's trained." At his name, the dog perks up. "Took a while to teach him, but he's got the nose for it."
“Wow.” I hand the jar back to Ledger and pat Bear’s head. “What a good boy!” He yips and paws at my leg.
Ledger chuckles. "Took me two years to get the truffle stout just right. The flavor is delicate, easy to overwhelm. But when you get that perfect combination of truffle, huckleberry, and a dark malt base..." He stops, like he's realized he's getting carried away. "It's good. That's all."
"Is that what you're entering in the contest?"
He nods, closing the notebook. "At the Deepwood Mountain Fall Festival.
They have a brewing competition every year.
I've never entered before, but this year.
.." He shrugs, and there's something vulnerable in the gesture.
"Turning forty does things to your head.
Makes you take stock. Figured it was time to see if I'm actually any good or if I've just been lying to myself all this time. "
I understand that feeling—that need to prove something, to yourself more than anyone else.
"I'd like to try it," I hear myself say. "Your signature stout."
His eyes meet mine and he goes over to a high shelf, selecting a dark bottle with a hand-written label.
“I do want your opinion,” he says, pulling out two proper beer glasses. “You seem like someone who tells the truth.” His mouth twitches.
"I try," I mutter.
He carefully pours. "If you're going to cite me for the truffles that went into it, you should at least know if it was worth it."
The beer is as black as midnight, with a thick cream-colored head that settles slowly, clinging to the rim. He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush, sending tingles over my skin. Again.
I bring the glass to my nose first, the way I've seen people do at fancy breweries. The aroma hits me immediately—earthy and complex, with sweet berry notes underneath something dark and almost mysterious.
"Okay," I say. "That smells amazing."
I take a sip, and oh…Oh.
It's not like any beer I've ever had. The truffle flavor is there but subtle, adding depth without overwhelming.
It feels like it shouldn't work but absolutely does.
The huckleberry comes through at the end, a hint of sweet and tart that pushes through the rich, roasted malt.
It's smooth, layered, and absolutely delicious.
"Oh my god," I breathe. "Ledger, this is...this is wonderful. There’s so many layers and so much depth." I look up at him. "It’s extraordinary."
His whole face changes. The guarded expression cracks, and what shines through is not quite a smile, but something luminous and surprised, like he didn't expect my reaction. It transforms him completely, and my entire body aches.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough as he watches me lick foam off my lip.
"Are you kidding? This is—" I take another sip, trying to find the right words. "This is competition-winning good. This is 'start your own brewery' good?"
He ducks his head, and he's blushing under that scruff. "It's just beer."
"No, it's not." I take another sip, slower, savoring. "This is passion. This is what you're meant to be doing."
He runs a hand through his hair, obviously uncomfortable with the compliments.
"What's the prize for the contest?" I ask.
"Five hundred dollars. But mostly..." He pauses, and I see the vulnerability again. "Mostly it's about being part of something. Seeing if I can still exist around people. If they can see me as someone who makes good beer instead of just..." He doesn't finish the sentence.
I think about my dad, about the way he always said that people deserve second chances. That who you were in your worst moment doesn't have to define who you are forever.
I think about the way Ledger saved my life without hesitation, the way he built this beautiful cabin, the way Bear adores him.
And the way he lights up when he talks about brewing—like it's the thing that keeps him human.
"You need permits for the truffles," I start. "It's not personal, it's just conservation regulations. But I can help you get them. Expedite the process, maybe, if I explain the situation."
"What situation?" His eyes narrow slightly. "That you caught me breaking the law?"
"That I met someone with a legitimate need for traditional foraging rights who didn't understand the permitting process." I meet his gaze steadily. "Someone who clearly respects the land and understands sustainable harvesting."
He goes very still, watching me like I might vanish if he moves. "Why would you do that?"
"Because it's the right thing to do." I say it simply, meaning it. "And because I think you deserve to enter that contest. To be proud of what you've created."
"I don't need your pity."
"Good, because I don't pity you." I'm getting annoyed now, which is better than the fluttery thing my stomach's been doing. "I'm offering to do my actual job, which is helping people navigate regulations. Now stop being stubborn and let me help."
"I've been alone for eight years," he says, and there's something raw in his voice now. "I don't know how to let people help anymore."
"Then learn."
We stare at each other, and the air between us feels charged. Electric.
Bear chooses that exact moment to shove between us, yipping and demanding attention with absolutely no regard for whatever he just interrupted.
Ledger steps back fast and I busy myself petting Bear, my heart hammering.
"I should—" Ledger gestures vaguely toward the door. "Need to check the wood supply. Make sure we have enough for the night."
The day passes in a strange dance of proximity and distance. The cabin's maybe six hundred square feet total, and every time I turn around, we're in each other's space.
He reaches over me to get a book from a high shelf, and I'm trapped between his body and the wall, ultra aware of every inch of him.
I slip on a wet spot near the door, and his hand is instantly on my elbow, steadying me with careful strength.
"Sorry," I breathe.
"Stop apologizing." His hand lingers a second too long before dropping. "You're not doing anything wrong."
But I am.
I'm thinking things I shouldn't think. Noticing things I shouldn't notice.
Like how his big calloused hands are gentle when he handles his brewing equipment.
How he hums under his breath when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
How his rare almost-smiles transform his whole face from intimidating to. ..handsome.
And I’m thinking how much I want him to touch me. Everywhere.
Lying in his bed again that night, surrounded by his scent, I stare at the ceiling and admit what I've been avoiding all day.
I'm in trouble.
And it's not the kind I can handle with my badge.