Chapter 13
Jada
The rhythmic scrape of my shovel against the barn floor a week later was oddly soothing. The scent of fresh hay, warm animal musk, and the crisp Montana air filtering through the open doors made something in my chest loosen. Out here, doing something with my hands, surrounded by creatures who didn’t expect anything from me—it was the closest thing to peace I’d felt in…well, as long as I could remember.
Which, granted, wasn’t saying much.
I’d been here at Pawsitive Connections nearly every day this week, enamored with the farm-type place where they raised and trained emotional support, service, and security animals. Since it was only half a mile from the cabin, and Hunter already knew the owner, Lark Monroe, we’d found ourselves wandering over here.
Lark, a compassionate and peppy woman about my age with gorgeous red hair, worked beside me now, efficiently forking fresh hay into a stall. “You know,” she said casually, “I should just put you on payroll at this point.”
I huffed out a laugh, pausing to lean on the handle of my shovel. “Yeah? And what exactly would my title be?”
She grinned. “Assistant Mucker of Stalls. Handler of All Things Furry. Expert Dog Cuddler.”
“That last one I’d probably be good at,” I admitted. “The rest? Jury’s still out.”
Lark shot me a look but didn’t press, and I was grateful. Not that I’d gone into town much, but most people here in Garnet Bend didn’t know how to handle the whole I have no idea who I am thing. Some pitied me. Some got weirdly fascinated, like I was some kind of walking true crime documentary.
But Lark? She’d just accepted it. Said everyone had things they had to live with and if there was anything she could do to help, just let her know.
“You do good work,” she said after a moment, tossing another rake of hay into the stall. “Not everyone can handle this kind of job.”
“It’s not hard.”
“Not physically, no,” she agreed. “But it takes a certain kind of person to enjoy it. Not everyone likes getting their hands dirty.”
I did. Or at least, I did now. Maybe I hadn’t before. But now, I almost needed it. The physicality, the structure, the way animals never asked for more than I could give. They didn’t wonder if I was different than I used to be, didn’t try to analyze the gaps in my memory.
Lark moved to the next stall, tossing in fresh hay with practiced ease. I followed, grabbing the water bucket and refilling it from the pump at the back of the barn. The repetitive work kept my hands busy, my mind clear—something I’d started to count on in my week of living in Montana.
“So,” Lark said after a moment, glancing at me. “What have you been up to over at Resting Warrior?”
I shrugged, setting the water bucket down and wiping my hands on my jeans. “Not much. Met a few of the women there—Lena, Evelyn. They’re nice.”
Lark cocked her head, catching something in my tone. “But?”
I sighed. “But…I don’t know. I feel like a science experiment around them sometimes.”
Her brow furrowed. “How so?”
I leaned against the stall door, tracing a knot in the wood with my fingertip. “They don’t mean anything by it. They’re just…curious, I guess. About my memory. About how much I remember or if I’ve had any breakthroughs.” I let out a dry laugh. “Like maybe if they stare at me long enough, something will just…click. But they don’t really talk to me. Don’t seem to want to be friends. I get it, though. They’re close to Kenzie and probably see it as a betrayal to her.”
Lark didn’t say anything right away, just kept working. And that was one of the things I liked about her. She didn’t rush to fill the silence, didn’t try to smooth things over with empty reassurances.
“That’s gotta be frustrating,” she said after a beat.
I exhaled. “A little.”
Lark nodded like she got it. Maybe she did.
I shifted, trying to shake off the heaviness settling in my chest. “I do like Mara, though.”
Lark’s lips twitched. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah?” I arched a brow.
She tossed another flake of hay into the stall. “Mara doesn’t talk much. And from what I’ve seen, you’re not a big fan of being interrogated.”
I huffed a laugh. “True.”
Mara had been a selective mute for most of her adult life and, even now, didn’t talk much. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t probe or press. Like the animals, and I meant that in the best way, she just was —quiet, steady, existing in her own space. And when I was around her, I didn’t feel like someone waiting to be figured out. I was just…me.
I rubbed my palms over my jeans, shifting my weight. “I think the memory thing makes people see me as fragile.”
Lark turned to face me fully, resting her arms on the pitchfork handle. “Are you?”
The question caught me off guard.
I wanted to say no. That I wasn’t fragile, that I was stronger than whatever had happened to me before. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t know who I’d been before. I only knew that whoever I was now hated the feeling of being treated like something breakable.
So instead of answering, I just grabbed another water bucket and got back to work.
Once our chores were done, Lark and I stepped outside, the crisp Montana air a welcome contrast to the warmth of the barn. I stretched my arms over the top rail of the fence, watching as Hunter and Noah Scott, one of the guys from Resting Warrior Ranch, wrapped up their training session with the dogs.
Hunter crouched low, murmuring something to a golden retriever, his hand steady on the dog’s head. The retriever’s tail wagged, slow and deliberate, as if responding to some silent reassurance Hunter was offering. It was strange, seeing him this way—so at ease, so focused. In Denver, he’d always been on edge, his body tight, his gaze constantly tracking his surroundings. But here?
He almost looked comfortable.
Lark leaned against the fence beside me. “Noah has a way with animals,” she said, nodding toward where Noah was scratching behind a German shepherd’s ears. “They trust him, even the skittish ones.”
I glanced at her. “Why?”
“Not sure,” she admitted. “Could be because he understands them. Could be because he’s got the patience of a saint. Or it could be that they know he has an alpaca as a best friend.”
I blinked. “A what ?”
“An alpaca. Al Pacacino. ”
I let out a surprised laugh. “You’re messing with me.”
Lark grinned. “Swear on my life. Noah found him half starved in a field years ago and took him in. Now the damn thing follows him around like a dog.”
I shook my head, still watching Hunter as he stood and gave the retriever a final pat. “Do you think animals could help Hunter? He has PTSD issues sometimes.”
Lark was quiet for a moment. “Maybe. They’ve helped Noah with his very severe PTSD.” She hesitated. “But honestly? It’s been Kate that’s helped him the most.”
“His fiancée?”
She nodded. “Dogs, horses, even an alpaca—they can give you comfort. Stability. But sometimes, what you really need is a person. Someone who sees you—the good, the bad, the broken—and stays anyway.”
Something in my chest went tight.
I glanced back toward the field just as Hunter turned, his sharp green eyes locking on mine. For a second, neither of us moved. Then—almost hesitantly—he lifted a hand in a small wave.
My heart did a stupid little flip. I swallowed, forced my fingers to unstick from the fence rail, and waved back.
Lark made a noise beside me, something amused and knowing. She nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “You like him.”
My spine snapped straight. “What? No. He’s helped me. But there isn’t anything more to it than that.”
She arched a brow.
I huffed. “Okay, fine. Maybe.” I picked at a splinter in the fence rail, refusing to meet her eyes. “It’s complicated.”
Lark snorted. “Complicated? Jada, it’s not complicated. It’s painfully obvious you two gravitate toward each other.”
I shot her a glare. “Why would anyone want to get involved with me? I don’t even know who I am. ”
Lark rolled her eyes. “So what? You think Hunter’s sitting around wondering what your favorite color used to be? If you preferred coffee or tea before your memory went blank?” She shook her head. “That man looks at you like you’re the only thing in focus in a world full of static.”
I swallowed hard. “You hardly even know him.”
“No, but I’ve seen him. And trust me—he’s not the kind of guy who wastes time on things he doesn’t care about.” She gave me a pointed look. “So maybe stop trying to talk yourself out of what’s right in front of you.”
I let out a slow breath, staring out at the field where Hunter and Noah were securing the last of the dogs. “It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.”
I shook my head. “Hunter could do better.”
Lark frowned. “Says who? ”
I hesitated. “Me.”
Lark exhaled, exasperated. “You think he cares about the past you don’t remember? He doesn’t. He cares about you . Who you are right now. ”
I wanted to believe that. Desperately. But doubt curled inside me, stubborn and insistent.
“He deserves someone whole,” I admitted. “Not someone who wakes up every day knowing she’s missing huge pieces of herself.”
Lark studied me for a long moment. “You know what I think?”
I lifted a brow.
“I think you’re scared. Not because of what you don’t remember. But because of what you do know.”
My throat went tight.
I thought about the past week. About the cabin. About how Hunter had stayed with me every night, how I always woke up tangled in his arms, warm and safe. And how every morning, before things could go anywhere, I slipped out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, and pretended I wasn’t aching for something more.
Lark shook her head. “You’re fighting this way too hard.”
I turned back to the fence, watching Hunter laugh at something Noah said, and wondered if she was right.
Noah and Hunter finished up, leading the dogs back toward their kennels. Hunter moved with that quiet confidence of his, his big hands gentle as he latched a gate behind a German shepherd. Once again, I was struck by how settled he looked here. Like this place fit him in a way I wasn’t sure anywhere else did.
Lark dusted off her hands. “Come on, I want to show you something. Or…more like beg for your help.”
Intrigued, I followed her across the yard to a smaller barn set off to the side. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping inside. Then I heard it.
A tiny, high-pitched mewl.
My gaze darted toward a wooden crate in the corner, and my heart did a ridiculous little somersault.
Inside, nestled in a soft pile of blankets, were three of the smallest kittens I’d ever seen.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, dropping to my knees beside the box.
One of them—a tiny gray ball of fluff—lifted its wobbly head and let out another little squeak.
I was gone. Instantly, hopelessly gone .
Lark crouched beside me, her voice gentle. “Their mama died last week.”
“Oh no!” My heart pinched. “That’s awful.”
She nodded. “They’re about nine weeks old and weaned, so that’s good, but they need a quiet place to settle for a bit. Too much activity here.”
I felt the tiny vibration of purring as I lifted one into my hands, pressing my face into its ridiculously soft fur. My entire chest melted.
Then Lark hit me with the kill shot. “Think you’d be willing to take them to your cabin?”
My head snapped up. “Me?”
“They’d only be there for a while,” she said. “Just until we’re sure they’re stable.” She hesitated, watching me. “Hunter’s already on board. Said it’s up to you.”
Something settled inside me at that. He’d known. He’d known I’d love them.
I looked down at the tiny kitten in my hands, felt its impossibly small paws press against my palm.
As if there was ever a choice.
I exhaled, smiling. “Guess we’re taking in some kittens.”
“Thought you might say that.” Lark left with a knowing smile, leaving me alone in the barn with three kittens. I sat cross-legged on the ground, watching them stumble over one another, batting at the folds of my jacket. Their tiny paws pressed against my palm, their bellies warm and soft against my skin.
I didn’t even notice Hunter until he crouched beside me, his presence a steady, grounding thing.
“Lark says they need a temporary home. Somehow I didn’t think you’d say no.” His voice was low, amused.
I looked up, finding those sharp green eyes already on me.
“You’re sure it’s okay?” I asked, searching his face.
He shrugged, reaching out to scratch behind the ear of the gray one I’d been holding earlier. “You like them.” As if that was the only reason that mattered. “So, yeah.”
Hunter Everett—the man who could disappear into a crowd without a trace, who could probably kill someone forty different ways with his bare hands—was sitting here, letting a nine-week-old kitten crawl onto his palm.
The sight of it did something to me.
The kitten stretched up, sniffing at his fingers before butting its tiny head against his thumb. Hunter huffed out a quiet breath—something close to a laugh. He ran one roughened finger down the kitten’s back, his touch careful, almost reverent.
It was too much.
I swallowed, looking away before my heart got any more reckless ideas. Lark had been right. Hunter wasn’t thinking about who I used to be, about the blank spaces in my memory or the weight of my past mistakes. He was just here with me.
I exhaled, watching as the kitten curled into his palm, a tiny ball of warmth and trust.
A few minutes later, we packed everything they needed and drove back to the cabin. The heater hummed softly as the box of kittens sat between us on the seat. Every so often, a tiny mew broke the silence, and each time, I caught Hunter glancing over like he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d just signed up for.
By the time we made it inside, the sky had shifted to a dusky gray, the chill outside settling into something deeper, sharper. But inside, the cabin was warm. Safe. Hunter built a fire, and I kicked off my shoes.
He set the box in the front corner away from the door, while I grabbed an old fleece blanket from the closet, arranging it into a soft nest. The kittens tumbled onto it instantly, tiny paws kneading the fabric before they collapsed in a messy heap.
I crouched beside them, grinning. “Okay. They need names.” I watched the gray one yawn so wide its whole tiny body shuddered. “That one’s Sir Pounce .”
Hunter let out a long-suffering sigh.
“The tabby will be Biscuits ,” I continued.
His lips twitched. “Why?”
“Because she keeps making biscuits with her paws—like the blanket is dough.”
He muttered something under his breath, but I caught the small curve of his mouth before he could hide it.
“And the black one,” I mused, tapping my chin. “I think he’s a Moose .”
Hunter blinked. “That thing is, like, half a pound.”
I shrugged. “It’s ironic.”
He exhaled through his nose, but there was warmth in his gaze. He might have rolled his eyes, but I knew he secretly loved it.
The kittens, now officially named, burrowed into their blanket, their tiny bodies pressed together in sleep. I sat back on my heels, the weight of the moment settling over me.
Because now, with the kittens taken care of, it was just us . I heard Lark’s voice in my head. You’re fighting this too hard.
Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time I stopped running from what I wanted and ran toward it instead. I pushed to my feet, pulse kicking up as I met his gaze.
And then, before I could second-guess it, I took a step closer.