Chapter Twenty #2
I guided him off the gravel and onto the grass that ran along the property line, the transition from hard surface to soft enough that Jasper stumbled slightly, his hand tightening on my arm.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, voice pitched higher with surprise. “A little warning next time?”
“I said we were turning,” I pointed out, already adjusting our course toward the rise of land that had been empty three months ago.
“You said ‘turning,’ not ‘leaving the road entirely,’” Jasper said, but he was laughing now, the sound landing somewhere between exasperation and genuine amusement. “This is definitely a ditch. I’m definitely going to fall in it.”
“You’re not,” I said, guiding him around a small depression in the ground. “Twenty more steps. Tops.”
“Fifteen,” Jasper said. “Fourteen. Thirteen. Are we there yet? Twelve. Eleven. I’m going to count all the way to zero and then sit down wherever I am. Ten. Nine.”
I let him continue—the rhythm of his voice a counterpoint to our footsteps, the warmth of his hand on my arm solid and present—until we reached the property line.
I stopped him with a gentle pressure on his shoulder, turned him to face exactly the right direction, and reached up to pull the bandana from his eyes.
Jasper went completely still.
Where there had been empty meadow three months ago, there was now a two-story farmhouse—white-painted board and batten siding, a wide wraparound porch running the full front width and wrapping both sides.
A porch swing hung at the near corner, the wood pale and new but already showing signs of use. The front steps were wide and shallow, the kind a child could navigate without help or an adult could manage while carrying groceries.
A front-facing gable window caught the afternoon light, the glass throwing back a perfect reflection of the Black Butte mountain that rose behind it.
The house sat on a gentle rise, positioned to take in the full view of the mountain without blocking it from the neighbors.
Through the tree line along the left edge of the yard, the roofline of Burke and Danny’s place was just visible—close enough for help if needed, far enough for privacy if wanted.
Jasper’s breath caught—a quick, sharp inhale that I felt against my side. His hand had come up to cover his mouth, his eyes wide and fixed on the house in front of us.
“What is this,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
“It’s our house,” I said, keeping it simple. “Remember the conversation on the porch after the firefight? The one about building our own place?”
Jasper nodded once—tight, definitive—but didn’t take his eyes off the house.
“Rawley deeded us ten acres,” I continued, each word precise. “Carter and Macon put in the framing and finish work. Burke’s crew handled the rest.”
Jasper turned to look at me, jaw working like he was having trouble forming words. “I thought you were building a barn,” he said finally, voice carrying the confusion of a man who’d been handed exactly what he wanted without having asked for it. “Everyone kept talking about a new barn.”
“That was the point,” I said, the simple statement carrying more weight than its four words should have been able to.
Understanding dawned on Jasper’s face. “You lied,” he said, but there was no accusation in it.
“Not exactly,” I said. “We did build a barn. It’s behind the house.”
Jasper made a sound that wasn’t quite a word, but carried meaning anyway, and then his hand found mine—quick and certain, palm warm against my knuckles.
“Show me,” he said.
I squeezed his fingers once—brief, definitive—and then turned toward the front gate, guiding him with one hand on his arm and one at the small of his back.
The gate swung open at a touch—well-oiled hinges, carefully balanced—and then we were walking up the front path, gravel giving way to wide wooden steps, the sound of our footsteps changing as we moved from ground to porch.
Jasper’s hand had tightened on mine, his breathing quick but controlled—not the rhythm of fear or even excitement, but something quieter and more certain: the simple fact of a man stepping into a life he’d chosen rather than one that had chosen him.
The front door was solid oak with a simple brass handle. I reached for it with my free hand, feeling the weight of the moment land somewhere beneath my sternum.
“This is us,” I said, keeping it simple. “If you want it.”
Jasper’s face did something complicated—not quite a smile, but adjacent to it, a softening around the eyes that made my chest tighten. “Yes,” he said, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should have been able to. “I want it.”
I turned the handle and pushed the door open, guiding Jasper across the threshold with one hand on his arm and one at the small of his back. The warmth of him pressed against my side registered somewhere beneath my sternum—not quite a physical thing, but close to it.
The mountain hadn’t moved—wouldn’t move—would go on sitting exactly where it was regardless of what happened in its shadow.
I understood, with Jasper’s hand warm in mine and the house solid around us, that we had handled this exactly the way we should have.
I walked Jasper through the house room by room, watching his face at each threshold. The entryway opened into a wide front room with wide-plank hardwood floors that caught the afternoon light.
A river rock fireplace dominated the north wall, stone running floor to ceiling with a thick oak mantel at chest height—the kind you could rest an elbow on while leaning in to adjust the fire.
The trim throughout was dark-stained oak, the ceilings high enough that the room felt open rather than confined. South-facing windows ran the full length of the wall, generous enough to flood the space with light but positioned to avoid the glare that happened at certain times of day.
A staircase with a turned banister rose from the entry to the second floor, the wood smooth under my palm when I rested my hand on the newel post. I’d watched Macon work the banister himself—three nights of careful shaping, the attention of a man who treated wood like it was alive and deserved respect.
“Jesus Christ,” Jasper said, voice barely above a whisper. “This is—“ He stopped, apparently unable to find the right word.
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. “Kitchen’s through here,” I said, guiding him with one hand on the small of his back.
The kitchen ran the full back of the house—a deep double sink under the east window, a long wooden worktable down the center that Macon had built from a single oak trunk.
Open shelving lined the walls rather than cabinets, the choice of people who used their kitchen rather than just visited it. A walk-in pantry opened off the south wall, the door wide enough for a wheelchair if needed someday.
The dining area opened off the kitchen, windows looking east toward the mountain, a table that could seat eight without crowding positioned to take advantage of the view.
I’d helped Macon with the table—three weekends of careful work, of two people who communicated better with tools than with words.
Jasper moved through the space with the carefulness of someone who thought he might break something just by touching it—fingers trailing along the edge of the worktable, palm flat against the refrigerator door, eyes tracking the line where counter met wall.
“It’s exactly right,” he said finally. “How did you—“
“I listened,” I said, keeping it simple.
He turned to look at me directly, the expression on his face of a man who’d been handed exactly what he wanted without having to ask for it. “Show me the rest,” he said, already moving toward the hallway that led deeper into the house.
I took him to the study first—a quiet room with built-in shelves Macon had fitted himself, each joint dovetailed and level, the craftsmanship visible in the perfect alignment of wood grain. A window faced the meadow, the glass catching the light that happened just before sunset.
“Your desk comes tomorrow,” I said, nodding toward the empty corner. “The one from the farmhouse living room. Carter’s bringing it over in his truck.”
Jasper nodded, accepting what I’d offered without pushing for more. “And this?” he asked, pointing to the room beside it.
“That’s an infirmary,” I said, the statement simple, but carrying more weight than its three words should have been able to.
I pushed the door open with my foot and guided Jasper inside with one hand on his arm.
The room was exactly what I’d asked for—exam table against the far wall, supply cabinets with glass fronts, a proper sink with adjustable height, the kind of setup Jasper would need for nursing calls out of the house.
“I’m not licensed in Montana,” Jasper said immediately.
“Application went in last month,” I said. “Calloway’s brother-in-law expedited it. License should arrive next week.”
Jasper turned to look at me, jaw working like he was having trouble forming words. “You did this?” he asked finally.
I kept my face neutral, but I could see it landing—a gift he hadn’t known to ask for. “We all did,” I said. “Carter on the paperwork. Macon on the construction. Burke on the equipment. Rawley on the permits.”
Jasper nodded once—tight, definitive—and then his hand came up to cover his mouth, his eyes suddenly brighter than they’d been a minute ago.
Between the infirmary and the study, behind a section of paneling that read as wall until you knew what to look for, was the first-floor safe room. I showed Jasper the latch without ceremony—a p depression in the wood that, when pressed, released the hidden door.
“Steel frame,” I said, voice carrying the matter-of-fact quality I used for tactical briefings. “Its own ventilation. Dedicated radio. Water and supplies for seventy-two hours.”