Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
COLT
The metalwork in my hands glows orange as I pull it from the forge, sparks flying as hammer meets hot steel. Each strike echoes through my workshop, drowning out thoughts I'd rather not have. Like the memory of Sheriff Parker's daughter proposing marriage to me on Main Street yesterday.
I've heard crazy schemes before, but that one takes the prize.
Marriage. To the sheriff's daughter. The same sheriff who's made it his personal mission to run me out of town since the day I set up shop here two years ago.
I hammer harder, letting the metal absorb my frustration. The bracelet I'm working on takes shape beneath my hands, rough lines transforming into something elegant. Something beautiful from something raw. The irony isn't lost on me.
The door to my workshop slides open, letting in a blast of morning light. I don't look up, assuming it's one of my brothers, Ridge or Jax, bringing supplies, now that Ridge is finally back from his hunting expedition.
"Your security is terrible."
That voice doesn't belong to a man. My head snaps up to find Savannah Parker standing in my doorway, silhouetted against the sunlight.
She's wearing a simple sundress that hugs every curve of her body, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun that somehow looks deliberate. Beautiful doesn't begin to cover it.
I set down my hammer, suddenly aware of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and the soot covering my arms. "Most people don't wander into a stranger's workshop uninvited."
"Most people don't have fathers who publicly humiliate strangers on Main Street." She steps inside, looking around with open curiosity. "Nice place."
My workshop isn't much to look at. An old barn I've converted, filled with tools and half finished projects.
The forge dominates one wall, various anvils and workbenches scattered throughout.
But she studies everything like she's in an art gallery, her fingers trailing over a decorative gate I completed last week.
"You actually came." I grab a rag to wipe my hands, buying time to settle my thoughts.
"I said I would." She turns to face me, chin lifted in that way I noticed yesterday. Defiant. Determined. "I've been thinking about my proposition."
"And?"
"And I still think it makes sense." She moves closer, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something light and citrusy that makes my mouth water. "Six months married. I get my inheritance. You get respectability. We both win."
I study her face, looking for signs she's not serious. There are none. Only fierce determination and something else. Desperation, maybe.
"You don't even know me." I cross my arms over my chest. "For all you know, I could be exactly what your father says I am."
"Are you?" Her dark eyes challenge me.
"No."
"Then we have no problem." She pulls a folded paper from her purse, laying it on my workbench. "I drafted terms. Nothing fancy, but it covers the basics."
I stare at the paper without touching it. "Terms."
"For our arrangement." She taps the paper. "Six month marriage. Separate living arrangements. Public appearances together when necessary. Quiet divorce once I inherit. Nothing complicated."
The clinical way she lays it out should be a relief. Instead, it stings in ways I'm not prepared to examine.
"You really think your father will let you marry me without a fight?" I finally pick up the paper, scanning her neat handwriting. "The man hates me."
"My father doesn't control my life." Her voice hardens. "I'm an adult capable of making my own decisions."
"Even spectacularly bad ones, I see."
She laughs, the sound rich and warm in my dusty workshop. "Especially those. Look, I know it's unorthodox."
"Unorthodox." I fold the paper and hand it back to her. "That's one word for it."
"Do you have a better idea?" She doesn't take the paper. "I need to be married by my twenty-third birthday to inherit. That's six months away. You need someone to vouch for your character in this judgmental town. We can help each other."
"And your boyfriend?" I remember hearing rumors about her around town. "What does he think about you marrying another man?"
"Ex-boyfriend as of last night." She shrugs one shoulder. "He said I was making a mistake choosing culinary dreams over stability. I decided anyone who thinks my dreams are mistakes isn't someone I want in my life."
Respect blooms inside me despite my better judgment. Standing up to her father yesterday took courage. Breaking up with her boyfriend over her principles took even more.
"What happens if your father digs into my past? Finds things to use against me?" I'm giving her an out, a chance to reconsider.
"Like what?" She raises an eyebrow. "Street racing charges from a decade ago? I already know about those."
"There might be worse."
"Is there?"
I hesitate. My record has been clean since I got out. The racing charges were the worst of it legally, but there were other things. Bar fights. Bad crowds. Choices I'm not proud of.
"No," I admit finally. "Nothing worse. But that won't stop him from making things up."
"Then we'll deal with it together." She says it like it's simple. Like we're already a team. "That's what partners do."
Partners. The word sits strangely in my mind. I've never had a partner. Never wanted one. My life works because I keep it simple. My forge. My business. My solitude.
"Why me?" I ask the question that's been circling my mind since yesterday. "You could find someone else. Someone your father approves of. Someone with a clean background."
"Because I'm tired of living my life according to what other people think is appropriate.
" She steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head down to maintain eye contact.
"Because you stood there yesterday while my father humiliated you, and you didn't lose your dignity.
Because something tells me you understand what it means to want freedom more than approval. "
Her words hit too close to home. I turn away, moving back to the forge where the metal has cooled. Safer territory. Metal makes sense. It follows rules. Heat it enough, it becomes malleable. Cool it properly, it hardens into something strong. Simple physics. Predictable.
Women like Savannah Parker are anything but predictable.
"Six months is a long time to be tied to someone you don't know." I stoke the forge, watching flames lick at fresh coal. "Especially someone with my reputation."
"I know enough." She moves to stand beside me, apparently unafraid of the heat. "You're a successful business owner. You teach welding to at-risk kids. You haven't been in trouble since you got out of prison despite my father's constant harassment."
"You've been asking about me."
"Research is important before making business propositions." A smile plays at the corners of her full lips. "You can research me, too, if you want. Though there's not much to find."
"Twenty-two-year-old culinary school graduate. Daughter of the sheriff. Works at a coffee shop. Wants to open a restaurant." I list the facts I know. "Willing to marry a stranger to inherit a house."
"See? We're practically old friends." Her smile widens into something genuine that makes my chest tighten.
The smart move would be to say no. To tell her this plan is insane.
To send her back to her safe little life and continue fighting my battles alone.
But something about her pulls at me. It took courage to stand up to her father.
And the way she looks at my work with genuine appreciation instead of suspicion warms something in me.
"I'll think about it." I turn back to the forge, needing space from her intoxicating presence. "That's not a yes."
"But it's not a no either." She sounds triumphant. "How long will you think about it?"
"Give me until tomorrow." I pick up my tongs, selecting a new piece of metal to heat. "This isn't a decision I can make lightly."
"Fair enough." She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. "For what it's worth, I think we could be good for each other, Mr. Reeves."
"Colt." I correct her without thinking. "If we're discussing marriage, you should probably use my nickname."
"Colt." She tests it out, the word sounding different in her voice. Softer. "I'm Savannah. But you can call me Sav."
"I know who you are." Everyone in town knows the sheriff's daughter.
"No." She shakes her head. "You know who my father is. Tomorrow you'll start learning who I am."
She leaves in a swirl of citrus perfume and quiet confidence, the workshop suddenly emptier without her presence. I stare into the forge flames, watching metal slowly turn from solid to malleable.
Could I handle six months of marriage to Savannah Parker?
The idea doesn’t terrify me. Instead, it sparks something I haven't felt in years. Something that feels dangerously close to hope.
I hammer the glowing metal, each strike punctuating the thoughts I can't escape.
This plan is insane. Strike. She deserves better. Strike. Her father will make my life hell. Strike. I want to say yes anyway. Strike.
By the time the sun sets, I've made my decision. God help us both.