Chapter Ten
Mack
The house felt wrong without her.
Seventeen days since Brynn's departure, and the cabin had transformed from sanctuary back into prison—four walls that held nothing but emptiness and echoes. Even Scout sensed the shift, his mournful gaze following me as I moved restlessly through rooms that suddenly seemed both too large and suffocatingly small.
I'd driven straight home from the airport, her scent lingering in my truck's cab, her absence an almost physical presence beside me. That night, I'd lain in bed—our bed—surrounded by sheets that still held traces of her and contemplated the brutal simplicity of what had happened: I'd known her less than two weeks, yet somehow she'd breached defenses I'd spent three years constructing.
Now she was gone, and I was left with the uncomfortable awareness of how thoroughly she'd changed me. Before Brynn, isolation had been a choice, a protective measure against a world I no longer fit into. Now it felt like punishment, a hollow mockery of the life I'd convinced myself I wanted.
Her calls helped. Each evening at precisely 8:30 Mountain Time, my phone rang, her voice bridging the two thousand miles between us with stories of editorial meetings and marketing strategies I barely understood but pretended to follow. What mattered wasn't the content but the connection—the reassurance that whatever had sparked between us hadn't been extinguished by distance.
But calls weren't enough to fill the days. I resumed my pre-Brynn routine—chopping wood, maintaining the property, taking Scout on increasingly lengthy hikes. Yet every activity felt mechanical, purposeless, each task merely a way to exhaust my body enough that sleep might come without the accompaniment of dreams featuring hazel eyes and tentative smiles.
A week after her departure, Ian's truck rumbled up my driveway, unusual enough that I met him on the porch, Scout alert beside me.
"Didn't expect to see you," I said as he climbed out.
"Thought I'd check in." He surveyed me with the assessing gaze that had annoyed me since childhood. "You look like hell."
"Always the diplomat."
"Officer, not diplomat." He grinned, some of the professional facade dropping away. "Seriously, though. You okay?"
I shrugged, unwilling to admit the extent of my restlessness. "Fine."
"Right." The skepticism in his tone matched his expression. "That's why you haven't been to town since dropping Brynn at the airport. Even Greg noticed, asking if you'd gone back to hermit mode."
"Just busy." The lie felt flimsy even to my own ears.
"Busy brooding, maybe." He followed me inside without waiting for an invitation, a habit from childhood he'd never outgrown. "Got a message for you, actually. Harriet Lindstrom's been trying to reach you."
That caught me off guard. "Why?"
"Something about an opportunity. Said to tell you to call her when you're done pretending the phone doesn't exist."
The accuracy of Mrs. Lindstrom’s assessment hit uncomfortably close to home. I'd been screening calls, answering only Brynn's.
"I'll think about it," I offered, already calculating how long I could reasonably delay before Ian would report back to the persistently meddlesome orchard owner.
"You do that." Ian settled at my kitchen table, making it clear he wasn't leaving immediately. "She's not the only one asking about you, you know. Ross wants to know if you'd consider joining the volunteer fire department. Half the flood response team mentioned how you organized the sandbagging."
"It wasn't anything special." I busied myself making coffee, back turned to avoid his scrutiny.
"Bullshit." The rare profanity from my straight-laced brother made me turn. "You stepped up when it counted, Mack. People noticed."
"I did what anyone would have done."
"No." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You did what a trained leader would do. There's a difference."
The coffee maker burbled, filling the silence that stretched between us. I didn't know how to respond to praise I wasn't convinced I deserved.
"Anyway," Ian continued when it became clear I wouldn't reply, "call Mrs. Lindstrom. She doesn't take rejection well, and I'm tired of being your answering service."
He left thirty minutes later, extracting a grudging promise that I'd contact her within the week. I watched his truck disappear down the mountain road, conflicted emotions settling like sediment in still water.
That night, when Brynn called, I finally mentioned the conversation.
"The orchard owner—Harriet Lindstrom—wants to talk to me about something," I said after she'd finished describing a particularly painful meeting with her marketing team. "No idea what."
"Really?" Her voice brightened. "Mack, that's fantastic! You really impressed her during the flood."
"Or she needs cheap physical labor."
Her laugh warmed me from two thousand miles away. "Call her and find out. What's the worst that could happen?"
"She could offer me a job I'd have to refuse."
"Why would you refuse?" The question hung between us, quiet but insistent.
I sighed, searching for words to explain my reluctance to re-enter a world that had no place for damaged ex-Marines with questionable social skills. "It's complicated."
"It's only complicated because you're making it complicated," she countered gently. "You're capable of so much more than you allow yourself to believe."
Her faith in me was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. What if I disappointed her? What if the man she believed in existed only in her imagination?
"I'll think about it," I conceded, the same non-promise I'd given Ian.
"Good." I could hear her smile through the phone. "Because you deserve purpose, Mack. Everyone does."
The next morning, against every instinct urging retreat, I called Mrs. Lindstrom.
Two days later, I stood among apple trees heavy with early fruit, listening as the silver-haired orchard owner outlined a proposition I hadn't anticipated.
"Operations manager," she repeated when I failed to respond. "Full-time, decent salary, housing included if you want it—though I suspect you prefer your mountain."
"I don't have any experience in orchard management," I pointed out, still processing the offer.
Harriet waved away my objection with a weathered hand. "Calvin's been running the orchard operations for thirty years. He knows every tree by name and talks to them when he thinks no one's listening. You won't be handling the agricultural side."
"Then what exactly would I be managing?"
"Security. Infrastructure. Emergency procedures." She gestured toward the levee system we'd reinforced during the flood. "Staff coordination during harvest season. Building maintenance. Equipment oversight." A pause, then pointedly: "Things you're actually qualified to handle, unlike staring at trees all day wondering why you feel so damn purposeless."
I blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. "That obvious?"
"To anyone with eyes." She surveyed me with the frank assessment of someone who'd lived long enough to dispense with social niceties. "Look young man, I need someone who can think clearly during a crisis, who understands how to move people and resources efficiently, who notices potential problems before they become disasters. Sound familiar?"
It did. Uncomfortably so. The skills she described formed the backbone of my military training—abilities I'd relegated to my past life, convinced they held no place in civilian existence.
"Why me?" I asked finally. "Plenty of qualified candidates who don't live like hermits."
"Because I trust you, Mackenzie Thornton." The simple statement, delivered without embellishment, struck deeper than any elaborate reasoning could have. "You had no obligation to help during the flood. You could have stayed up at your cabin, safe and uninvolved. But you didn't. That tells me everything I need to know about your character."
I stared across the orchard, absorbing her words while trying to quell the instinctive resistance rising within me. Taking this job meant reentering society, abandoning the isolation that had become both prison and protection.
"You don't need to answer today," The woman added, misinterpreting my silence for indecision rather than internal conflict. "Think about it. Talk to that wonderful girlfriend of yours if you need to."
My head snapped up. "How did you—"
She smirked. "I saw how you looked at each other after the flood. Not exactly subtle."
Heat crawled up my neck, and I found myself grateful for the beard that concealed at least some of my discomfort.
"I'll think about it," I promised, the third time I'd offered those exact words in as many days.
Mrs. Lindstrom nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Now come see the equipment barn. It's a disaster area that I want you to help organize."
I spent the remainder of the day touring the orchard's facilities, mentally cataloging inefficiencies and potential improvements despite my unresolved decision about accepting the position. By the time I left, tentative plans for reorganizing the maintenance shed and upgrading the irrigation pumps' housing had already taken shape in my mind.
Scout greeted me enthusiastically upon my return to the cabin, as if I'd been gone weeks rather than hours. I knelt to ruffle his fur, thoughts still lingering on Harriet's unexpected offer.
"What do you think, boy?" I asked. "Ready to become an orchard dog?"
His tail thumped against the wooden floor, apparently approving the concept of regular visits to a place filled with interesting smells and wildlife to track.
When Brynn called that evening, I described the meeting, attempting to present the proposal with neutral detachment. She saw through it immediately.
"You want this job," she said, not a question but a confident assessment. "I can hear it in your voice."
"It's not that simple."
"Actually, it is." Her tone grew softer. "What's really holding you back, Mack?"
The question penetrated defenses I hadn't realized I'd erected. What was stopping me? Pride? Fear? The comfortable familiarity of my routine?
"What if I can't do it?" The admission emerged barely above a whisper. "What if I'm not...fixed enough for this?"
Her silence lasted long enough that I feared we'd lost connection. Then: "You don't need to be fixed, Mack. There’s no such thing, anyway. You just need to be willing to do your best."
The simple truth of her statement settled over me like a blanket. Not dismissing my concerns, not pretending the challenges didn't exist, but acknowledging them without allowing them to become insurmountable barriers.
"I miss you," I said, the words escaping before I could reconsider.
"I miss you too." The emotion in her voice matched the ache in my chest. "Two more weeks. The manuscript's almost done, just final edits left. Then promotional appearances, and I'm coming back for my car...and for you."
"For me," I echoed, still not entirely convinced someone like Brynn could choose someone like me.
"For you," she confirmed. "So maybe have something to show me when I return? Like a new job you're excited about?"
I smiled despite myself. "Subtle."
"I never claimed subtlety as a strength." Her laugh eased some tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. "Just promise you'll consider it? Really consider it?"
"I promise."
The following morning, I called Mrs. Lindstrom and accepted the position.
Ian's reaction when I told him bordered on evangelical fervor. "About damn time, bro," he declared over beers at his place while Scout and his Lab mix played in the fenced backyard. "Knew you'd come around eventually."
"Don't make it a bigger deal than it is," I warned, uncomfortable with his enthusiasm. "It's just a job."
"It's a start," he countered. "A good one."
That night, for the first time since Brynn's departure, I slept without dreams of desert sand or mountain ditches. Instead, my unconscious mind filled with apple trees and irrigation systems, practical problems with practical solutions.
I started the following Monday. Mrs. Lindstrom introduced me to the small year-round staff with minimal fuss, emphasized my military background and flood contribution, then left me to establish my own working relationships. By day's end, I'd reorganized the equipment maintenance schedule, inspected the recently repaired levee system, and begun drafting emergency procedures for various potential crises.
It felt good. Useful. Purposeful.
The days developed a rhythm I hadn't experienced since leaving the service. Each morning brought concrete challenges requiring specific solutions. Each evening I returned to the cabin pleasantly tired rather than restlessly empty. Scout adapted to the routine with characteristic flexibility, enjoying the expansive orchard grounds and the attention of staff who slipped him apple slices when they thought I wasn't looking.
Two weeks stretched into three. Brynn's calls remained consistent, though sometimes abbreviated as her publication deadline approached. Her manuscript was complete, she explained, but her promotional schedule had expanded beyond initial expectations.
"Just a few more days," she promised, disappointment evident in her voice. "The New York signing was added last minute. I can't skip it."
"I understand," I assured her, surprised to discover I genuinely did. Her career mattered—to her, but increasingly to me as well. I wanted her success as much as I wanted her return.
"How's the job?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Good." I surprised myself with the simple honesty of the response. "Really good, actually. Mrs. Lindstrom—er, Harriet as she insists I call her now—is letting me implement some security upgrades I suggested. The staff seems to be accepting my presence."
"Of course they are," she said with such certainty that I almost believed her. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Maybe she was right. The thought occurred with increasing frequency as spring edged toward summer, as I settled more comfortably into my role at Lindstrom Orchards. The job suited me in ways I hadn't anticipated—the blend of physical labor and strategic planning, the clear chain of command with Harriet at the top, the satisfaction of visible improvements under my supervision.
For the first time since returning from Afghanistan, I felt necessary. Not just tolerated or accommodated, but genuinely needed for skills only I could provide.
The day Brynn was scheduled to return dawned clear and warm, Montana's early summer painting the landscape in vibrant greens and golds. I'd taken the afternoon off, planning to meet her at the small regional airport, but a last-minute call about a malfunctioning irrigation pump pulled me back to the orchard.
"I'll catch a taxi," she assured me when I called to explain. "Don't worry about it. Greg messaged that my car's ready anyway, so I can pick it up directly."
"I'm sorry," I began, frustrated by the timing.
"Don't be," she interrupted. "I'll see you soon enough. I know exactly where to find you."
I spent the morning replacing the damaged pump housing, periodically checking my phone despite knowing her flight wouldn't land until early afternoon. By noon, I'd moved on to supervising the installation of new security lighting near the equipment barn, my attention divided between the electrical work and the gravel driveway leading to the main office.
A rental car appeared just after two, dust rising behind it as it navigated the unpaved road. My heart rate accelerated embarrassingly as it came to a stop, the driver's door opened, and Brynn emerged squinting against the bright sunlight.
She looked different somehow—more polished in tailored slacks and a silk blouse, her dark hair styled in ways that spoke of professional attention rather than cabin practicality. For one terrifying moment, I wondered if she'd return to Montana only to discover she'd outgrown what we'd found here.
Then she spotted me, and her entire demeanor transformed. The professional veneer fell away as she broke into a run, crossing the distance between us with single-minded determination that left no doubt about her feelings.
I caught her as she launched herself into my arms, her momentum nearly unbalancing us both. Her mouth found mine with an urgency that matched the ache that had built during our separation, a kiss that contained both homecoming and promise.
"Hi," she whispered when we finally separated, foreheads pressed together, her arms locked around my neck.
"Hi yourself," I managed, still holding her against me, unwilling to surrender even an inch of contact. "Missed you."
"Missed you more." She kissed me again, softer this time but no less affecting. "You look good…Really good."
I realized she was assessing me much as I'd assessed her—noting changes, seeking reassurance that what we'd found remained intact despite time and distance.
"So do you," I said, meaning it despite my momentary uncertainty. She looked beautiful, confident, radiant with the satisfaction of professional accomplishment.
"Liar." She laughed, gesturing at her travel-rumpled appearance. "I've been on planes or in airports for the past fourteen hours. I'm a disaster."
"Most beautiful disaster I've ever seen." The words emerged without conscious thought, earning me another kiss that suggested I'd said exactly the right thing.
We stood wrapped in each other for long moments, reestablishing connection that electronic communication couldn't fully maintain. Eventually, the awareness of our public location penetrated my Brynn-induced haze, and I reluctantly loosened my hold.
"You're working," she said, noticing the crew pretending not to watch us. "I'm interrupting."
"They'll survive." I kept one arm around her waist, unwilling to relinquish physical contact entirely. "Come see the office? It's not much, but Harriet gave me a decent space."
Pride colored my voice, surprising me. A short time ago, I'd been a recluse existing on my brother's charity. Now I was showing off my workplace to a woman who mattered, a woman who'd returned to me despite logical reasons to stay in her glamorous New York life.
The small office reflected my developing role—maps of the orchard property covered one wall, maintenance schedules another, a desk supporting a computer that had finally dragged me into the technological present. Brynn examined everything with genuine interest, asking questions that reflected her desire to understand this part of my life.
"I have something for you," she said once the tour concluded, reaching into her oversized handbag to extract a hardcover book. "Advance copy. It won't be in stores for another two weeks."
The cover featured dramatic mountain scenery, the title— Shelter from the Storm —emblazoned across a stormy sky in elegant typography. Beneath it, Brynn's name: not a pseudonym, she'd explained during one of our calls, but her real identity as an author.
"It's beautiful," I said, turning the book over to examine the back cover blurb describing a stranded writer and a reclusive mountain man finding unexpected connection during a Montana winter.
"Open it," she urged, an uncharacteristic nervousness coloring her voice. "The dedication."
I complied, carefully opening to the first pages, finding the dedication centered on its own page:
For Mack,
Who taught me that real heroes are human
And that some stories can only be lived.
Something tightened in my chest, a complex emotion I couldn't immediately name. Pride, certainly. Gratitude. But something deeper as well—the profound recognition of being truly seen by another person.
"Brynn," I began, voice rougher than intended.
"Too much?" she asked, uncertainty flickering across her features. "I wanted you to know what you mean to me, how much you've changed me as a writer and as a person. But if it makes you uncomfortable—"
I silenced her with a kiss, pouring into it everything I couldn't articulate about what her words meant to me. When we separated, both slightly breathless, I kept her close.
"It's perfect," I assured her. "I just don't know what I did to deserve it. To deserve you."
"You were yourself," she said simply. "Authentic and flawed and trying. That's all anyone can ask." She hesitated, then continued: "I meant what I said before I left. I've fallen in love with you, Mack Thornton. Completely and irrevocably."
The declaration hung between us, her courage in speaking it outright challenging me to equal honesty.
"I love you too," I said, the words simultaneously terrifying and liberating. "Have since... hell, maybe since I pulled you from that car. Definitely since before you left."
Her smile could have illuminated the darkest night. "So what happens now?"
"Now?" I considered the question, acknowledging the challenges still facing us—her career in New York, my new life here, the geographic and lifestyle divide that might have seemed insurmountable weeks ago. "Now we figure it out together. You mentioned writing from Montana might be possible..."
"More than possible." Her enthusiasm was contagious. "My editor says I've never written better than what I produced here. They're already talking about a series set in a small Montana town."
"Imagine that," I deadpanned, earning a playful swat against my chest.
"Very funny. But seriously, there's nothing keeping me in Manhattan. I can write anywhere. And here..." She gestured toward the window, the orchard beyond, the mountains framing the horizon. "Here inspires me. You inspire me."
"And the cabin?" I asked, referring to discussions we'd had about potential living arrangements. "It's small. Remote. Not exactly equipped for a professional writer."
"Nothing a satellite internet connection and some bookshelves won't fix." Her confidence in our compatibility bolstered my own. "Besides, I hear the owner’s pretty great. Bit of a recluse, but he's working on it."
I laughed, the sound still unfamiliar but increasingly frequent since she'd entered my life. "Sounds promising."
"It is." She stood on tiptoe to kiss me again, brief but full of promise. "It really is."
For the first time since returning from Afghanistan, I looked toward the future and saw not emptiness, but possibility. Purpose. Connection.
Home.