Chapter 2
two
The rasp scraped metal against keratin, rhythm smooth and even. Anson checked the angle, adjusted, scraped again. Red’s tail swished once, but he held still. The gelding was wary, always watching, but he’d learned to tolerate the work.
Bramble dozed in the corner, sprawled in a patch of sunlight cutting through the gap between the barn doors. The wolfhound’s chest rose and fell slow and steady, ears twitching at the scrape of the rasp but not enough to wake him.
“You still planning on that commission?” Jax leaned against the stall door, thumbing through something on his phone. Echo sat at his feet, her mismatched eyes fixed on Jax like he might disappear if she looked away. “The Helena ranch?”
“Yep. Gate hinges. Pine cone details.” He set Red’s hoof down and straightened, rolling his shoulders. The burn scars on his forearms pulled tight when he moved too fast, puckered skin catching on the fabric of his flannel. He barely noticed anymore. “Should have the sketches done tonight.”
“Maggie gonna get a copy?”
His hands stilled on the rasp. “Probably.”
Jax’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “You hear back from her yet? About coming out here?”
“No.” He moved to Red’s other side, ran his hand down the gelding’s leg, waited for him to shift before lifting the hoof. Red obliged, ears still tracking every movement. “Mail’s slow. Might be another week before I get a response.”
He’d sent his reply two weeks ago. Told her she was welcome at Valor Ridge whenever she was ready. Told her there was space for her Airstream, that Walker wouldn’t mind, that she’d be safe here. But he hadn’t heard back, and the waiting was eating at him.
“Six years is a long time to write someone without meeting them,” Jax said.
Anson positioned the hoof and started rasping again, keeping his strokes even. “She was writing me when I was still inside. Not exactly date material.”
“You’re out now.”
“Still not date material.”
Jax didn’t argue. He knew better.
Besides, he didn’t know what Maggie looked like or how old she was. Maybe she wasn’t date material, either. That had never mattered to him, but since receiving that last letter telling him she was coming to Montana, it was all he could think about.
The barn settled into quiet again, just the scrape of metal and the occasional shuffle from the horses.
Anson liked it this way. Liked the simplicity of working with his hands, the straightforward logic of a horse’s hoof, the way the animal communicated through muscle and breath instead of words. Horses didn’t lie. Didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer.
Maggie’s last letter sat in his workshop, folded into thirds and tucked between the pages of his favorite book.
He’d read it a dozen times, memorizing the way her handwriting slanted left when she was tired, the way she’d crossed out “breaking” and replaced it with “cracking” when she wrote about her life falling apart.
Something in her life had broken. Something bad enough that she needed to start over. And she’d thought of him. Of Valor Ridge.
I’m coming to Montana. Please don’t tell me not to.
So he hadn’t. He’d written back, telling her to come. But he had no idea when that would be. Could be next month. Could be next year.
He was halfway through Red’s back hoof when Jax’s phone buzzed.
Jax dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.
“It’s Nessie.” He answered: “Hey, sweetness. What’s up?
” Then he glanced at Anson. “Uh-huh. He’s right here working on Red’s hooves.
I’ll put you on speaker.” He pulled the phone from his ear and tapped the speaker icon. “Okay, he can hear you.”
“I saw her!” Nessie all but screeched. “Maggie. She was just here. She came into the bakery asking for directions to the ranch.”
The rasp slipped from Anson’s grip and clattered to the ground. His heart stopped, then kicked hard against his ribs like Red did when he was feeling feisty. The gelding’s ears swiveled, reading the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his system. He released Red’s leg and stepped back.
Bramble lifted his head, concern in his golden eyes.
“She’s here?” The words came out rough, barely recognizable as his own voice. “In Solace?”
River popped up over the divider separating the stalls, eyes bright with mischief. “Is she eighty with a snaggletooth?”
Nessie laughed. “No, I’d guess she’s about my age, and she’s... well, she’s beautiful.”
Beautiful. The word hit him like a punch. He couldn’t breathe. The barn felt too small, the air too thin.
Maggie.
Here.
Not next month or next year.
Today.
Right now.
“How long ago did she leave?” Jax asked.
“Five minutes. Maybe less. She should be there in about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes.
Anson stared at the phone in Jax’s hand, trying to make his brain work. Twenty minutes and Maggie would be at Valor Ridge. The woman who’d written him letters when he had nobody. The woman who knew everything about his past.
And he had no idea what he was going to say to her.
“Thanks for the heads up, Ness,” Jax said into the phone. “We’ll be ready when she gets here.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Jax ended the call and looked at Anson. “You good?”
“No.” He bent and picked up the rasp, gripping it too hard.
His hands were shaking. He stared at the scars crisscrossing his knuckles, the twisted skin on his forearms where the fire had eaten through his jacket and kept burning.
He’d written to Maggie about these scars.
About setting the fire to that warehouse.
About dragging Eddie Kowalski through the flames and finding out the man had died three days later when the police charged him with arson and manslaughter.
But he hadn’t told her the whole sordid story.
And writing about his scars and having her see them were two different things.
River clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Sut, looks like you’re finally gonna meet your girl.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Sure she’s not.” River grinned. “That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”
He turned back to Red, tried to focus on the gelding’s hoof. But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Red shifted, getting antsy.
“Come on,” Jax said, pushing off the stall door. “Let’s get you cleaned up before she gets here.”
He shook his head. “Need to finish Red.”
“Red’s done enough for today. And you need to wash. Maybe change your shirt.” Jax’s tone left no room for argument. “You want to meet her smelling like a barn?”
He didn’t want to meet her at all.
Anson pushed through the bunkhouse door with Bramble at his heels, his chest tight and hands still trembling.
Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes to erase the smell of horse and sweat, to find clothes that didn’t look like he’d slept in them for a week, to figure out what the hell he was going to say to a woman who’d read six years of his thoughts but had never seen his face.
He headed for his room, but he’d barely made it three steps before X’s voice stopped him cold.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” X lounged against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand. A shit-eating grin spread across his face, and he set the mug down with a thunk. “Wait, is it happening?”
The back door slammed, and River’s boots clomped across the wooden floor as he trailed Anson in, bringing the smell of the barn with him. “It’s happening,” he confirmed. “Nessie called Jax after Maggie stopped at the cafe. She’s really coming.”
X whooped, and his dog, Kavik, joined in with a howl. The husky never needed an excuse to “sing,” and Bramble gave him a disgruntled look as he loped by.
“Holy shit, man,” X said. “Your pen pal’s actually real.”
Anson kept walking.
“What, you thought we wouldn’t find out?” X followed him down the hall, Kavik trailing behind them. “The mysterious letter-writing woman is on her way to our humble abode, and you weren’t gonna tell us?”
Jonah stepped out of his room, blocking X’s path. “Back off, X. Let him breathe.”
“I’m helping!” X protested. “This is a big moment. Man needs moral support.”
Anson ignored them. He grabbed a clean towel from the stack in the hallway closet and tried to step around River, who leaned against the wall, blocking his path.
“You gonna wear your nice flannel?” River asked. “Or stick with the torn, faded one that should be in a landfill somewhere?”
“Move.”
“He needs something better than flannel,” X said, peering over Jonah’s shoulder. “Something that says, ‘I’m a rugged mountain man, but I also know what soap is.’”
River snorted. “Do you even own anything that isn’t flannel or Henley shirts?”
Anson closed his eyes and counted to five. Ten minutes gone already. Ten minutes he could’ve spent in the shower. “I need to get cleaned up.”
“You should use some cologne,” X offered, as if Anson hadn’t spoken. “Nothing too strong. Just enough to cover up the eau de barn.”
“That’s overkill,” Jonah said. “She knows he’s a farrier. She’s not expecting him to smell like a department store.”
River’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, does Anson even own cologne?”
“No way,” X shook his head. “But he can use some of mine—”
“I’m not using your cologne.” Anson shouldered past them all and stalked toward the bathroom. Bramble followed, slipping through the door before Anson shut it firmly behind them both.
The bathroom lock clicked into place, and he leaned against the door, exhaling slow and steady.
The mirror reflected a man with worry lines etched between his brows, dark hair curling against his neck from too many weeks without a cut, and barn dust streaking his worn flannel shirt.
He looked exactly like what he was—a working man who spent more time with horses than people.