Chapter 6
Wyatt
The storm gets teeth as we pull away from the fence line. Big, lazy flakes sharpen into something meaner, and the wind cuts across the open pasture hard enough to make the truck rock.
Sadie’s hands are tucked into the sleeves of my borrowed coat, her shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to make herself smaller, yet the first thing she does is twist around to check on Maisie in the back seat.
“Breathing steadily,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Good girl.”
She’s shaking. She won’t admit it. I turn the heat up two clicks and keep the speed low. I’d know this stretch of road blindfolded, but I don’t take risks in this weather. Risks get people killed, and I’ve seen enough death.
“The bunkhouse is farther,” I say, eyes on the black ribbon of road and the snow that’s trying to erase it. “My cabin’s close. Generator is reliable. You’ll be warmer there.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, as if she’s deciding whether to trust me.
She’s been running those calculations since the stage, measuring every move I make against that one question: safe or not.
I make a quick stop at the ranch house to grab the meds for Maisie, and by the time we turn onto the narrower track that threads the pines, the world shrinks to a blanket of white. My cabin appears with its dark roof, low porch, and woodpile under a tarp snapping in the wind.
I cut the engine, and silence envelops us. “Stay,” I say gently, raising my palm in a wait motion.
Circling the hood, I open Sadie’s door. She climbs out, small inside my coat, while I circle back to lift Maisie from the backseat, settling her weight against my chest.
“Door’s unlocked,” I tell her.
Sadie skitters ahead. Her arms cartwheel as her boots slip on the icy snow before she steadies herself. Every instinct I have wants to catch her. But trust is fragile, and grabbing her without warning isn’t how we build it.
My cabin is spartan. The wooden floors have scuff marks, the shelves hold a few books, field guides, a flashlight that always works, and a small fern that refuses to die because it doesn’t know it lives with me.
The cooktop is clean because I keep it that way.
The blanket slung over the back of the couch is practical rather than decorative.
But with Sadie standing in the doorway—small, damp, determined—the place feels less like a bunker and more like… a home I haven’t earned yet.
I lower Maisie onto the couch just long enough to grab the pallet from the porch. I set it by the hearth, cover it with a blanket, and then move Maisie onto it. She huffs and rolls onto her side, giving me a trusting lick.
Wincing, I rub my side as I straighten, turning to see Sadie untying her boots by the door.
Water ticks off the laces onto the mat. Her socks are damp, thin, and totally unsuitable for a Montana winter, so I quickly grab a pair of mine from the dresser in the bedroom.
She accepts them with a grateful smile. It’s small, but it lands like someone lit a lamp inside my ribcage.
The generator is already humming outside like a low, dependable heartbeat. I feed the fire another split log, releasing a fresh blast of heat.
Sadie hovers as if she’s waiting to be told where to stand.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea,” she says, then adds, “With milk and two sugars, please.”
“Copy.” The word is a habit; it’s how my brain stamps the moment complete.
She gives me a playful salute and smirks like we’re sharing a joke. I file it under Things I Want More Of.
While the water heats, I do the small domestic rounds: clean towels in the bathroom, one of my flannel shirts folded on the bathroom radiator. Considering she only has a backpack, I imagine clothing hasn’t been a priority.
I text the Sutton brothers, then Tex and Tank: Home. All good.
Angus:
This is basically poetry from him.
Henry: Tell Sadie thanks again.
Tom:
Tex: Home with a woman? Look at you, Saint. Growth.
Tank: Keep the door unlocked in case she needs to escape your brooding.
Sadie watches me as I move around, registering the details. Noticing things is her reflex. I respect it because I’m the same way.
“Would you like to take a shower?” I ask. “I’ve put out fresh towels. Door doesn’t lock, but it sticks.”
Sadie hesitates. Is she weighing whether she wants to be vulnerable for the time it takes her to shower in a house that isn’t hers?
“I’ll be here. I’ll keep an eye on her,” I add reassuringly, nodding toward Maisie.
That tips it. She softens like a knot pulled loose. “Okay.”
“You hungry?” I ask, realizing she still hasn’t eaten. “I have leftover lasagna from yesterday.”
Sadie sighs. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”
She disappears down the short hall. The bathroom door doesn’t shut fully—she leaves it like that on purpose, a sliver of sightline to the world. I keep my eyes on the fire and on Maisie and nowhere near that line.
But fuck if I’m not tempted.
Not because I want to see anything she’s not offering. Not because I’d ever cross that line. It’s the trust. The knowledge that she left the door cracked not out of seduction, but survival.
Steam ghosts the hall as the shower runs. The generator stutters once when the hot water kicks in, then levels. She’s letting me hear the water run. Letting me prove I’m a man who stays exactly where he says he will.
And still—still—my body tightens at the thought of her in there. Stripping away the day. The nerves. The weight she’s been carrying since the moment she stepped on that stage. Her hair damp and loose. Her skin flushed from the steam. Her guard lowered a little.
That’s what tempts me.
Not her body, though God help me, that’s a hell of a thing. It’s the thought of her finally relaxing. Letting go. Letting herself feel safe enough to close both eyes.
And the part of me that’s still broken wants to earn that. Wants to be the one she turns to after the shower, after the worst of it’s scrubbed away, after she’s warm and clean and maybe even okay.
So I stay rooted right where I am because trust like that is more intimate than anything skin-deep.
I give Maisie half a tablet of the carprofen I grabbed from the ranch house with some stewing steak I cooked earlier.
When Sadie returns, she’s wearing black leggings and my flannel. Seeing her in it does weird things to my heart. Her dark hair is damp and curling around her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink from the heat. She looks… softer.
“Take a seat.” I indicate the kitchen table, where a plate of lasagna and a hot mug of tea are waiting for her.
She sits, cradling the mug in both hands, blowing across the surface. “Thank you. For this. For... everything.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “It’s not conditional.”
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for the catch. When she doesn’t find it, some coil I can’t see loosens a quarter turn.
“I’ll go shower while you eat,” I say, sensing she needs quiet and space to adjust to her new surroundings.
When I return, dressed in a clean T-shirt and joggers, Sadie is curled up in the chair near the hearth. A gust of wind stirs the pines outside. The windowpanes hum.
She glances toward it like she’s listening for more than weather. So am I. There’s a difference between wind and a car engine at idle. Tonight, I only hear the wind.
“Thank you for the meal,” Sadie says as I sit on the couch, maintaining a respectful distance. “It was delicious. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“I guess food hasn’t been a priority.”
Sadie shakes her head, her eyes sad. “Not for a while.” She pauses, biting her lip. “About the sleeping arrangements…”
“It’s a small place,” I say gently. “One bedroom.”
She nods slowly.
“You’re taking the bed,” I add, firm but calm. “I’ll take the couch.”
She frowns. “I can take the couch. I want to stay near Maisie.”
I glance toward the dog, curled in a blanket beside the hearth, snoring like a miniature chainsaw. Sadie’s hand keeps drifting toward her unconsciously, her fingers brushing the fringe of the blanket as if she needs to remind herself that the dog is still breathing.
“I can bring her into the bedroom—”
She’s already shaking her head. “No. Here’s better. If she whines or wakes up, I want to be right next to her.”
The way she says it isn’t about comfort. It’s about control. And control is the closest thing she has to safety. I won’t take that from her.
I nod. “I’ll grab the spare duvet and pillows.”
I return from the hall with the bedding tucked under one arm and a folded flannel blanket in the other. The couch creaks softly as I kneel, fluffing the pillow, spreading out the duvet, and folding the blanket at the edge in case the temperature drops again tonight.
My ribs twinge as I straighten, a dull, familiar pull beneath the scar. I rub the spot absently.
“Does it hurt?”
I turn to find Sadie’s eyes locked on mine.
“Aches now and then,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
She shifts her weight, tucking her legs beneath her. For a second, the domesticity of the moment tightens around my lungs—her curled on the chair, firelight flickering across her face like it was always meant to be this way.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “For what happened. For… whatever caused it.”
Most people pity the wound. She recognizes the weight. It disarms me more than any bullet ever did.
I shake my head. “Don’t be. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“No, but I know what it’s like. To carry pain that doesn’t always show.”
Her words hang there, raw and unpolished, but something about their honesty settles deep.
I walk to the hearth and adjust the firewood, stoking the flame higher to give her more warmth. When I turn back, her eyes are on me again. Watching. Not guarded anymore—just there. As if she’s letting me glimpse the version of her that existed before fear rewrote her edges.
I move toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” I pause at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. “If you need anything—”
“I won’t,” she interrupts. But her voice falters on the last word.
I give her a slow nod anyway.
“Wyatt?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re safe here,” I remind her, because truth needs repetition to stick. “As long as you want to be.”
I retreat to my room. Not because I want distance but because if I stay in that room—close enough to see the way the firelight dances in her hair, close enough to listen to the rhythm of her breath—I won’t sleep at all.
And she deserves more than a man who doesn’t know how to want gently.
I hear the couch creak, followed by Sadie’s exhale, like the sound of a person setting down a load she forgot she was carrying.
I don’t sleep right away. The storm moves around the cabin, testing its edges. The generator murmurs. Breath by breath, my body remembers how to rest while someone else is under my roof. It feels like getting a life back I didn’t know I could have.
Finally, I settle down to sleep with one ear open and my knife positioned hilt-first on the nightstand. As I sink into sleep, one thought keeps looping through my head: No one is taking her from here or from me. Ever.