Chapter 12
twelve
Nobody spoke.
Not at first. The only sound was the faint rattle of the back door as it swung shut behind Ghost. Cinder’s dark shape followed him into the cold, swallowed by the dark yard beyond the porch light.
Anson stayed where he was, crouched beside Bramble under the table, one hand smoothing the dog’s trembling flank. He could still feel the echo of the crash—the ceramic mug shattering against tile, the coffee bleeding across the floor like a wound. Now, the house held its breath.
River, of course, broke first. “You see the look on his face? For a second, I thought he was about to shiv somebody.”
“Ghost doesn’t shiv,” Jonah said. “He just… disappears and then you hear about the body two counties over.” It should’ve been a joke, but it landed with a real weight. “He’s not okay.”
Jax rose from the couch. He had Oliver’s jacket in one hand, and the kid hovered close. The little squirt’s eyes were big as saucers.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked. “Why do your faces all look all pinched like when I dared Tate to try a lemon?”
Jax relaxed slightly and ruffled Oliver’s hair. “Grown-up stuff, buddy. Go pick up your stuff. We have to head home. It’s bedtime.” He waited until Oliver was occupied with packing up his art supplies, then turned back. “Someone should talk to him.”
“I nominate Jax,” River said, then held up his hands with Jax scowled at him. “What, you’re already our resident Ghost-whisperer. Just make sure you wear something stab-proof, yeah?”
Jax gave him the middle finger, being careful to keep it low so Oliver wouldn’t see.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jonah muttered, dragging a hand over his face, “but River has a point. He’s talked to Jax more in the last six months than the rest of us combined over the last three years. He’s not going to want company, but… I don’t know. He seems off.”
“He’s always off,” X pointed out.
Anson stayed silent, his palm still resting on Bramble’s soft flank.
The wolfhound had stopped trembling, but remained pressed against his leg, sensing the tension in the room.
He’d never seen Ghost react like that—or rather, not react.
The man had just stared at those broken pieces like they were foreign objects.
Then that blank mask had slipped into place, the one Ghost wore when he was shutting everything down.
Bear grunted. “Not like this. A broken mug shouldn’t have set him off.”
Anson eased out from under the table, giving Bramble a final reassuring pat.
The room had gone uncomfortably quiet, the earlier laughter sucked out like air from a vacuum.
He glanced at the trash can where Ghost had dropped the broken pieces, something twisting in his gut at the sight of that blue ceramic peeking through coffee grounds and paper towels.
Anson pushed himself up from the floor, watching his bunkmates’ eyes shift uncomfortably around the room. None of them wanted to acknowledge what they’d just witnessed—Ghost breaking, even if it was just for a split second.
“He’s not mad about the mug,” he said and crossed to the trash can, staring down at the ceramic pieces among the remnants of dinner. He’s mad about the… about being seen.”
Jonah nodded. “None of us like being in the spotlight.”
“Speak for yourself.” X scoffed and reached for one of the candy bars. “Some of us are born for the spotlight.”
River snorted a laugh. “Yeah, we know. Cartier Cowboy couldn’t survive five minutes without an audience.”
Oliver returned with his backpack and Echo trailing at his heels.
“All right, I’ll talk to him,” Jax said and bundled the kid into his coat. “Can’t guarantee he’ll talk back, but I’ll try.” He zipped up Oliver’s jacket and pulled the hood over the kid’s head. “C’mon, bud. Let’s get you home before your mom sends out a search party.”
“But I’m not tired,” Oliver protested even as a yawn threatened and his eyes drooped.
“Tell that to your sleepy face,” Jax said, smiling. He whistled for Echo, who bounded to his side. “Night, guys.”
Anson reached into the trash can without saying a word. He fished out the pieces, brushing off coffee grounds and yesterday’s sandwich wrapper. He gathered every shard he could find, cradling them in his twisted, scarred hands.
“What are you doing?” River asked, eyebrows shooting up. “You can’t fix that.”
“Didn’t ask your opinion.” He wrapped the pieces in a clean dish towel, leaving River staring after him as he headed for the door.
Bramble followed, sticking close enough that the dog’s nose was practically up his ass. He didn’t mind. Over the last year, he’d learned how to function with the giant nervous beast glued to his side.
The night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside. Fall was settling in, bringing that bone-deep Montana chill that warned of winter’s approach. His breath plumed in front of him as he made his way toward the workshop, the bundle of broken ceramic cradled carefully against his chest.
Bramble kept bumping his nose against his hip, seeking reassurance with each step.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “It wasn’t your fault. King needs to learn some manners.”
Bramble grumbled his agreement and loped ahead when they reached Coldwater Creek. The footbridge over the little bubbling stream marked the boundary between the ranch proper and the section that Anson considered his sanctuary.
The small barn and outbuilding had been used for extra storage when he’d first arrived at Valor Ridge five years ago, but Walker had let him convert it into a forge and workspace.
It was the only place on the property that felt entirely his and he spent more time out here than in his room at the bunkhouse.
The shop smelled like wood shavings and coal, with a lingering trace of the oak he’d burned last night while working on a custom belt buckle for Walker.
Anson flicked on the lights, and they buzzed to life, casting a warm glow over his domain.
Tools hung in perfect order on the wall—hammers, tongs, chisels, all arranged by size and purpose.
The forge sat cold and dark in the corner, waiting for tomorrow’s fire.
This place steadied him. Always had. Even on the worst days, when the memories crashed down and the nightmares followed him into daylight, he could come here and find something solid to grip onto.
He set the bundle of broken ceramic on his workbench and carefully unwrapped it. The pieces lay there, jagged and lost, no longer resembling anything useful. Just like most of the men who came to Valor Ridge, himself included.
Bramble settled onto his ratty couch near the old wood stove—he dog was too big for a typical dog bed, so Anson had found him the couch at a yard sale.
Brambled watched with those liquid gold eyes as Anson pulled open the drawer where he kept his small repair supplies.
He found the superglue and a pair of tweezers, then settled onto his stool.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Anson muttered to the dog. “I know it’s probably stupid.”
He arranged the blue fragments on the workbench, trying to fit them together like a puzzle. The ceramic had broken cleanly in some places, jaggedly in others. The handle was in three pieces, and a chunk from the rim was missing entirely.
Anson squinted, turning a piece over in his calloused fingers. His hands were built for metal and wood—for forcing stubborn materials to bend to his will. His fingers felt too big, too clumsy against the fragile ceramic.
He just had to think of it like his leatherwork, he decided.
It was a hobby he’d picked up last winter, and at first he’d thought he’d be no good at it, that his twisted hands were too ruined for the delicate craftsmanship needed to craft the leather.
But he’d found a rhythm, a patience, and the leather had responded to his touch in a way he hadn’t expected.
This was different. The blue ceramic was unforgiving. Every time he tried to align two pieces, they’d slip just slightly out of place. The curve wasn’t right, the edges didn’t match perfectly.
“Shit,” he muttered as a sharp edge nicked his finger. A bead of blood welled up, and he wiped it on his jeans before it could stain the ceramic.
He didn’t want to add his own mark to Ghost’s mug. The man was particular about his things—what few he had.
Anson had noticed that about Ghost from the beginning.
Most of the men at Valor Ridge arrived with duffel bags full of their past lives—clothes, photos, books, trinkets.
Ghost had shown up with a backpack containing the bare essentials—toiletries, a few changes of ill-fitting clothes that had been obviously donated to him.
Was it any wonder he’d grown so attached to that mug after Boone gave it to him?
And now it was in pieces.
The second attempt wasn’t much better. The handle refused to stay attached, and the crack down the middle kept separating no matter how firmly he held it. The fucking thing mocked him, refusing to become whole again.
Bramble whined softly from the couch.
“Yeah, I know,” Anson sighed. “Some things aren’t meant to hold again.”
He set down the tweezers and leaned back, stretching his stiff shoulders. The shop was quiet except for the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall and Bramble’s rhythmic breathing. Outside, an owl called once, then fell silent.
Anson glanced at the letter he’d been writing earlier, now sitting half-finished on the corner of his workbench.
He’d been telling Maggie about the new commission he’d taken from a rancher over in Helena—a set of custom gate hinges with pine cone details.
He’d sketched the design for her, knowing she’d appreciate the craftsmanship even if she couldn’t see it in person.
He pulled the letter toward him now, flipped it over to the blank side, and picked up his pen.
P.S.
Something happened tonight. Ghost—you remember I told you about him, the quiet one who runs security—he had his mug broken in an accident.
Just a beat-up old blue thing, but the way he looked at those pieces.
.. It reminded me of the way Walker had looked at that filly last spring, the one with the broken leg that wouldn’t heal, when Dr. Garrison told him there was nothing more that could be done.
That same quiet devastation, like something precious had been lost and couldn’t be fixed.
Walker still won’t talk about that. I think losing this mug is going to scar Ghost just as deeply.
So I’m sitting here trying to glue this thing back together like an idiot, but the cracks won’t line up, no matter how careful I am. Isn’t that always the way? The things that matter most are usually the hardest to fix.
I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen someone break so completely without shedding a single tear.
Is that what I looked like, back when I first came here?
Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here with this broken mug and bleeding fingers, trying to put together something that probably can’t be fixed.
Maybe we’re all just trying to glue our broken pieces back together.
I should go to bed, but I think I’ll try one more time with the mug. There’s something about knowing when to quit and knowing when to keep pushing. I never was good at telling the difference.
Yours always,
Anson
He set the pen down and stared at his words. The letter felt too honest, too raw, but he couldn’t bring himself to cross anything out. Maggie had a way of pulling the truth from him, even though he’d never met her.
He folded the letter and slid it into an envelope, adding it to the small stack waiting to be mailed. Maybe someday, he’d actually meet Maggie in person. For now, these letters were enough—the only place he could be truly honest. The only safe space for his thoughts to land, raw and unfiltered.
Not for the first time, he wondered what Maggie looked like. They’d started exchanging letters as part of an inmate pen pal program when he was still in prison, but in all these years, they’d never exchanged pictures.
For all he knew, she was an eighty-five-year-old widow surrounded by doilies and cats.
It wouldn’t matter to him if she were. He loved her.
She’d been his lifeline through his darkest days, and he’d be forever grateful to her for that.
If she were eighty-five, he hoped she would live to a hundred and fifty, so the letters would never stop.
Bramble chuffed, and he looked over at his dog.
“I know. I know. It’s stupid to love her. For all I know, she’s a he living in his parents’ basement.”
The wolfhound’s eyes glowed like molten gold in the dim light of the workshop, and that unwavering gaze triggered an idea.
“Gold,” he muttered and looked back down at the mug. He smiled.
He could fix it.