Chapter 1
one
If Landry followed her here, she would know.
And Anson was here.
The thought made her belly jitter with nerves that weren’t entirely related to her safety. Six years of letters. Hundreds of pages of handwritten words between them. And now she was minutes away from seeing him in person for the first time.
Taryn, her producer, told her this was reckless. Stupid, even. Six years of letters didn’t make someone safe. People lied. People hid things.
“The network just gave you an eight-month hiatus to travel, and now you’re leaving again to go meet some…. stranger in the middle-of-nowhere Montana? You’re potentially throwing away your whole career for a pen pal!”
Dammit, Taryn was probably right.
She didn’t even know what the man looked like, for godssakes.
But she did know Anson hadn’t lied. Not about the important things. His letters had been brutally honest from the start—about his past, his mistakes, his time served. About the nightmares that still woke him and the guilt he carried.
She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, flexed her fingers against the worn leather, and turned down Main Street.
Solace was exactly what she’d expected from Anson’s brief descriptions—a postcard-perfect mountain town with charming brick storefronts lined along Main Street and snow-dusted peaks keeping vigil.
The air bit at her cheeks through the cracked window, but she kept it open anyway.
She appreciated the cold, the way it kept her alert when her body ached for sleep she couldn’t afford.
After years of checking rearview mirrors and sleeping with one eye open, she tensed at every car that lingered too long behind her.
Breathe.
She drew a deep breath, held it for three counts, and let it out for three. The car that had been following her since the highway turned down a side street.
Just a local heading home.
Her tension eased a fraction, but she still adjusted her ball cap, pulling it lower to shield her eyes. Paranoia was her constant companion these days, riding shotgun wherever she went. She’d grown accustomed to its weight.
The truck’s heater kicked in with a metallic rattle, fighting against the November chill.
Behind her, the Airstream she’d spent last summer refurbishing rattled against the cold wind.
She’d found the vintage camper in a junkyard outside Tampa, then gutted the interior until it was a blank slate she could rebuild with her own hands.
Now it was her home, her sanctuary, and her escape vehicle all in one.
The dashboard clock read 8:17 a.m. She’d driven through the night, stopping only for gas and to stretch her legs when the cramping got too bad. Her mouth tasted stale, coffee gone cold in the travel mug wedged between her thighs, and she desperately had to pee.
She needed a break.
And maybe directions.
Up ahead on the right, there was a cafe, Nessie’s Place. Wooden with hand-painted lettering, it featured a sea monster floating in a cup of coffee. The parking lot was gravel, patched with early winter frost that crunched under her tires as she pulled in.
Killing the engine, Maggie sat for a moment, listening to the tick of the cooling metal.
Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked wrong—hollowed out, dark circles under eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses.
She tugged the worn Buccaneers cap lower, making sure her dark hair stayed tucked beneath it.
The ball cap was a constant now, part of her unofficial uniform along with the sunglasses and the oversized Carhartt jacket that swallowed her frame.
“You’re fine,” she muttered to herself. “Just directions. In and out.”
She grabbed her phone from the passenger seat, checking for notifications—none, thank God—before shoving it deep into her jacket pocket. The handle of her truck door felt ice-cold against her palm as she pushed it open and stepped down onto the gravel.
The Airstream gleamed silver in the morning light, its refurbished exterior a point of pride and the focus of episode twelve of her show’s third season.
She’d gutted and rebuilt it with her own hands, documenting every step for her viewers.
Now it was her home, her escape vehicle, her only constant.
She patted its side once as she walked past.
A bell jingled overhead as she pushed open the café door.
Warmth rushed to meet her, along with the smell of fresh bread and coffee strong enough to cut through the lingering fatigue behind her eyes.
The café was small but cozy. Mismatched tables and chairs, a worn wooden counter running along the back wall, and booths upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
Vintage signs and black-and-white photos of the town covered the walls.
Maggie counted six people inside—a woman behind the counter, an older couple sharing a newspaper in a booth by the window, a man in a flannel shirt hunched over coffee at the counter, and two gray-haired women tucked into a corner booth who looked up as the bell announced her arrival.
Maggie kept her face angled down, a habit now so ingrained she barely noticed doing it.
The woman at the counter had dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid.
She wore jeans and a long-sleeve shirt under a bright blue apron that read “Bake it until you make it,” with a cartoon mixing bowl and whisk beneath it.
She looked up from the register with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
“Morning!” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just grab any seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Maggie approached the counter instead of taking a table. Less time spent loitering in one place, less chance of being recognized. “Actually, I just need some directions, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing.” The woman—Nessie, probably, given the café’s name—set the cloth aside. Up close, Maggie noticed the soft lines around her eyes, the capable, callused hands that spoke of hard work. “Where are you headed?”
“Valor Ridge Ranch.”
Something flickered across Nessie’s face. Suspicion or interest, Maggie couldn’t tell. The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes sharpened just slightly.
“Oh? Visiting someone out there?”
Maggie shifted her weight. “Meeting...” What did she call a pen pal she knew better than anyone, but that she’d never actually met in person? “Uh, an old friend.”
The other woman brightened, all hints of suspicion gone. “Oh my God, are you Maggie? Anson’s pen pal?”
She shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Had Anson been going around town telling everyone about her? That didn’t seem like him. But then again, she only knew him through his letters.
Maybe coming here had been a mistake.
Nessie must have noticed her discomfort because she added quickly, “Oh! Sorry. That was probably weird. I live at the ranch with my boyfriend, Jax. Anson has talked about you. As much as he talks about anything.”
Jax. Nessie.
The names triggered a memory. Anson had written about them over the summer. Jax was a former Navy SEAL and had a dog named Echo. Nessie made the best muffins in the state and had a seven-year-old son named Oliver, who had recently started calling Jax “dad.”
It was surreal, having all these second-hand memories suddenly connect to real people. She even had a picture of Oliver and Echo that Anson had enclosed with one of the letters.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?” Nessie gestured toward the pastry case, where rows of muffins and scones sat on tiered plates. “Cinnamon roll? They’re still warm.”
“Just water, thanks.” Maggie’s stomach growled in protest, but she ignored it. She’d eat once she got to the ranch. Once she knew she was safe. “And directions to the ranch.”
“Sure thing.” Nessie filled a glass with ice water and slid it across the counter. “I’m so excited that you’re finally here. Anson’s been... well, not exactly pacing, but you know. For Anson, checking his watch twice in one hour is practically a nervous breakdown.”
A frown tugged at Maggie’s lips. That didn’t sound like the Anson she knew from his letters. When he wrote to her in a steady, unhurried hand, filling both sides for pages sometimes before he was done. It was hard to reconcile that with a man who barely spoke.
“You must be new in town.” The voice came from behind her, cheerful and curious.
Maggie startled, nearly spilling her water as she turned. A woman had just come through the front door, a sleek black Lab at her heels. She was lean and athletic, with strawberry-blonde hair escaping from a messy ponytail and fierce pale-green eyes that seemed to take in everything at once.
“I’m Greta Dougherty,” the woman said, extending a hand. “This is Atlas.” The Lab wagged his tail, nosing curiously at Maggie’s boot.
Maggie hesitated, then shook Greta’s hand briefly. “Just passing through.”
“She’s here to see Anson,” Nessie offered from behind the counter, already reaching for her phone. “This is Maggie. His pen pal.”
Greta’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, you’re Maggie? The one who writes those letters he never lets anyone see?” A grin spread across her face. “Damn. He’s been nervous all week. Good. Man needs someone to shake him up.”
“Greta,” Nessie said with fond exasperation. “Boundaries.”
“What? It’s true.” Greta shrugged unapologetically, then turned back to Maggie. “Don’t let him fool you with all that stoic silence. He’s been waiting for you to show up for days.”
From the corner table, Maggie felt rather than saw the two older women watching her. One leaned toward the other, whispering something in a stage whisper that carried just enough for Maggie to catch fragments.
“...looks like that girl from...”
Her pulse quickened. She tugged her cap lower.
Nessie was already reaching for her phone, her smile wide and excited. “Let me call Jax. He’ll want to know you’re here.”
“Oh, no. I’d rather you didn’t.” This wasn’t how she’d planned it. She’d wanted to arrive quietly, anonymously. Instead, she felt like she’d stepped into a spotlight. “If I could just have the directions, I’ll get out of your way.”
Nessie set her phone down and grabbed a napkin from the holder on the counter. “Let me draw you a map. It’s pretty straightforward, but there’s one turn that’s easy to miss.”
While Nessie sketched out directions, Greta leaned against the counter, studying Maggie with undisguised curiosity. “So, what do you do? Besides write letters that make our resident blacksmith actually smile once in a blue moon.”
The whispering from the corner table grew more insistent. Maggie felt sweat prickle along her spine despite the chill outside.
“I’m in construction,” she said vaguely. “Restoration work, mostly.”
“Head north out of town,” Nessie said, “and turn when you see a bar called The Rusted Spur. After about ten miles, you’ll see the turnoff for Ridge Road.
There’s a wooden sign that says ‘Valor Ridge Ranch,’ but it’s set back a bit from the road.
The driveway’s long—almost a mile—and it winds through some trees before opening up to the ranch.
” She slid the napkin across the counter. “You’re going to be good for him.”
Greta snorted. “If he doesn’t screw it up by being all closed-off and broody.” She grinned at Maggie. “Give him hell. He needs it.”
Maggie nodded, tucking the napkin into her pocket. “What do I owe you?”
Nessie waved her off. “Water’s free.”
“Thanks.” She headed for the door before the women in the corner could place her face. The bell chimed overhead as she stepped back into the cold morning air, relief washing over her as she escaped the scrutiny.
Her truck was where she’d left it, the Airstream still gleaming in the pale November sun. She climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot, heading north toward the ranch.
Toward Anson.
Ten miles.
That’s all that separated her from the man whose words had become her lifeline.