Chapter 10
Sadie
As the quiet stretches, his arm steady around me, something Shay said nudges into my mind.
I tilt my head back to look at Wyatt. “Why did Shay call you Saint?”
Wyatt lets out a low, resigned sigh like he’s been waiting for the question.
“The callsign Jackson and Sawyer gave me.”
“Jackson and Sawyer? You mean Tex and Tank? Those are their real names?”
He nods.
“Why Saint?”
He rubs the back of his neck, a faint flush touching his cheekbones. “Because I had… morals when we were on deployment.”
“Morals?”
“Yeah.” He huffs, embarrassed. “I didn’t hook up overseas.
Or on leave. Ever. Tank said I was ‘single-handedly ruining the team’s reputation for debauchery.
’ Tex said I was ‘emotionally constipated.’” His gray eyes lift to mine.
“But the reason they never saw me with a woman was because I wasn’t looking for temporary. ”
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m no virgin,” he admits quietly, “but I’ve never been that guy.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, warm and unsettling and safe all at once.
“So ‘Saint’ wasn’t about purity,” I say quietly. “It was about… intention.”
He nods once. “Yeah. That.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “I like it.”
His eyes heat, hungry, and my heartbeat jumps.
“That so?” he asks quietly.
“It suits you,” I murmur. “What would my callsign be?”
He studies me with that steady, assessing focus he uses on everything that matters.
“Dove,” he says softly.
I frown. “Doves are prey, Wyatt.”
His lips tilt in a ghost of a smile. “People think that because they’re soft. White. Pretty. Easy to underestimate.”
“And they’re not?” I challenge.
He shakes his head slowly. “Not even close.”
Wyatt shifts closer, his knee brushing mine, his voice dropping into that low, anchored register he uses when he wants me to really hear him.
“Most of the birds the military used to run messages in combat were trained rock doves. Homing pigeons. Same family. Small enough to slip past fire. Smart enough to find their way home even under fire. They flew through smoke, shrapnel, storms. They kept going when everything bigger and stronger fell out of the sky.”
A breath catches in my throat.
“They look delicate,” Wyatt says, brushing his thumb along my jaw, “but they’re loyal. Precise. Quiet. And almost impossible to break.”
My pulse stutters. “You think… that’s me?”
His eyes soften with a gentleness that unsettles something deep in my chest. “I think you’ve been flying through hell with half the world shooting at you. And you’re still here. Still yourself. Still choosing gentleness when life didn’t give you much of it.”
I swallow hard and blink fast as heat stings behind my eyes.
He leans in until I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Besides,” he adds, his mouth edging toward a smile. “Dove makes a better callsign than Homing Pigeon. Tank would never let you live that down.”
A startled laugh breaks out of me—bright, shaky, and real.
Wyatt’s answering smile is slow and proud, like he’s been waiting to earn it.
His thumb traces my lower lip, undoing me. “Brave looks like you, my little dove.”
Oh.
Oh, God.
Something in my chest drops, rearranges itself, and settles with frightening clarity.
This man is going to matter.
That night, wrapped in the quilt on the couch, I listen to the fire crackling. Maisie’s soft breathing comes from the blanket next to me, and the faint hum of the refrigerator fills the quiet.
Normal sounds. Safe ones.
But sleep won’t come.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I’m afraid not to be.
Safety is a sensation I don’t recognize yet.
Kindness even more so.
And this quiet? This steady presence of a man who kisses like a promise and holds me like I matter? It’s almost unbearable.
I shift onto my side and let my hand brush the edge of the couch where he sat earlier, warm and solid next to me. His presence still lingers there, like warmth that hasn’t cooled yet.
And I wonder… if I got up, padded down that hallway, would he still be awake?
Would he pull me into bed and wrap himself around me?
Would he kiss me? Make love to me?
The wanting hits me hard enough that I have to squeeze my eyes shut.
I close my eyes. Exhale. Not yet. I’m not ready.
But the ache he’s put inside me isn’t going anywhere. It’s curling deeper with every minute. It’s not just lust. I know that. Lust is wild and frantic. Lust is what I’ve seen in the eyes of men who stared too long, spoke too close, and touched without asking.
This is different. This is wanting threaded with wonder.
And it terrifies and excites me in equal measure.
A flicker of panic rises when I wake the next morning. My eyes fly open, heart racing, breath tight, before the room snaps back into focus.
The fireplace. The heavy timber beams overhead. The braided rug. Maisie stretched across my feet like a living heater.
I’m safe. I’m in Wyatt’s cabin.
I sit up slowly. My hair is a tangle. My cheeks are warm. My body aches in that gentle way that comes from real rest.
Getting up quietly, I head to the bathroom to freshen up and dress, then follow the scent of bacon and toast back to the living room.
“I hope you like your eggs scrambled,” Wyatt says as I enter the kitchen, turning toward me with a spatula in one hand.
I nod. “I like anything I don’t have to cook myself.”
That earns me a half-smile. Rare. Lethal. And God, he’s handsome, with those little crinkles beside his storm-gray eyes.
“Then you’re in luck.” He slides eggs and bacon onto a plate and sets it on the counter for me. Reaching into the cupboard, he grabs a mug and fills it with strong tea, adds milk and two sugars, just the way I like it, and hands it to me.
We eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s easy. A silence that grows between people who are learning each other by feel instead of talk.
When he reaches for the pepper, his hand brushes mine.
We both pause.
His gaze lifts, meets mine.
My breath stops.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The next week passes in a rhythm that feels suspiciously like a life forming around me.
We fall into a routine. Not planned. Just… natural.
I wake before him for the first time on Monday. I make the coffee—strong, the way he likes it—and tea for me.
On Tuesday, he fixes the creaking hinge on the front door. I fold laundry by the stove, humming under my breath. He pauses in the doorway, watching me as if the sound surprises him in a good way.
Wyatt cooks the eggs while I take Maisie on a gentle walk to the edge of the pasture on Wednesday. The snow crunches softly beneath my boots, the sky just beginning to blush with light.
On Thursday, Wyatt tunes the old radio, and we listen to the wind and old country songs while I patch the worn blanket that Maisie has grown attached to at the kitchen table.
When Shay texts to ask if I can help with an irritated eye on a barn cat on Friday, something inside me loosens, a part I didn’t know had gone numb.
Wyatt drives me over. Stays nearby. Watches with that look again—quiet awe.
“You’re really good at that,” he says.
I shrug, though my chest warms.
It feels like coming home. Like my hands remember the girl I was before fear rewrote me.
Wyatt must sense it because he threads his fingers through mine on the way back to the truck.
And there are other touches.
Light. Subtle. But building.
The brush of his hand on my back when he reaches for a dish.
The way he tugs my hair gently when I tease him about his neatly folded flannels.
The moment he catches me watching him chop wood and grins—quiet, private, devastating.
Those grins are happening more often. And every time, they loosen something knotted inside me.
Our days keep stacking like that.
Small tasks. Shared space. Quiet trust.
A life, brick by brick.
But still, under the warmth, the calm, the growing trust, is a pulse of tension I can’t shake. A voice in the back of my head whispering what if?
What if they come back?
What if next time, Wyatt’s not with me?
So on Saturday morning, over breakfast, I ask, “Will you teach me how to use a gun?”
“Why?” he asks after a long pause. “And just to be clear, I’m not saying no. I just want to make sure you’re asking for the right reasons.”
“I’m asking because I don’t want to feel helpless again. Because I want to know how to protect myself. You’ve given me safety. I want to know how to hold on to it.”
His shoulders relax slightly, and something flickers in his eyes. Respect. Pride.
“Then yeah,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”
We head behind the cabin, the mountains rising like silent guards around us, the air sharp enough to bite.
“This isn’t about being ready for a fight,” Wyatt says. “This is about knowing how to protect yourself if one ever finds you.”
He opens a weathered metal case and pulls out a small pistol. It’s matte black and compact. Simple and clean, no frills.
He doesn’t hand it to me. Instead, he holds it carefully, angled away, and explains.
“This is a Glock 43. Nine-millimeter. Good for beginners because it’s lightweight and has less recoil, but still enough stopping power to matter.”
“This is the chamber.” He slides it open so I can see it’s empty. “Safety’s here. Always check it first. Always treat it like it’s loaded.”
I nod.
He shows me how to release the magazine, reload, and check the chamber again. Every move is deliberate. Controlled.
“The kick will surprise you,” he adds. “Use both hands. Thumbs parallel. Arms firm but not stiff.”
He shifts into a firing stance and takes one clean shot at the old tree stump they use for target practice.
“Now you.”
I take the pistol in both hands. It’s heavier than I expected. I glance at him. He doesn’t crowd me as he adjusts my elbows gently.
“Lean in a little. Your body absorbs the force better that way.”
He moves behind me for guidance and rests one palm lightly on the center of my back.
I aim.
Breathe.
Pull the trigger.
The kick jolts me.
He steadies me before I can stumble. “That’s why two hands,” he murmurs. “You’re doing fine.”
I try again. And again. Each shot is steadier than the last.
By the fourth, I’m not flinching.
By the sixth, I’m breathing easier.
“You’re a natural,” he says softly.
I glance at him, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re just saying that because I’m the one holding the gun.”
He chuckles, raising his hands. “Self-preservation, sweetheart. It’s a skill.”
The endearment warms my chest.
He winks, and I laugh for the first time in longer than I want to admit. The sound is foreign and familiar all at once, like muscle memory waking up after too much silence.
I look down at the pistol in my hands, then at my feet, steady beneath me.
It’s not the weapon that makes me feel stronger. It’s being trusted with it. Knowing that he didn’t question whether I could handle it. And that I don’t have to question that either.
Something settles in my chest. Something stronger than peace, lighter than fear.
It takes me a minute to figure out what it is: a growing certainty in who I am and what I’m learning I can be.