Chapter 4
four
“Temporary,” Maggie muttered, setting her socket wrench beside the row of screwdrivers she’d just lined up on the dresser. “Just until you figure out what’s next.”
She unzipped her duffel and pulled out a flannel shirt, folding it before tucking it into the top drawer.
The cabin—Jo’s old place—was small but sturdy.
Rustic. A single bed with a patchwork quilt.
The dresser with its mismatched knobs. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove and mini fridge humming in the corner.
A small table with two chairs by the window.
The rest of her clothes followed—worn jeans, faded t-shirts, sweatshirts. Work clothes. Practical clothes. The wardrobe of someone who spent more time under sinks than at restaurants.
Walker had helped her park the Airstream behind the pole barn, safely covered from the elements. She’d grab the rest of her stuff tomorrow. Tonight, she just needed the essentials. Toothbrush. Laptop. Her toolbox.
Anson’s letters.
The memory of him staring at the ground rather than her face stung fresh all over again.
She yanked open another drawer harder than necessary, the aged wood groaning in protest. She’d read those letters so many times the paper had softened, creases worn into permanent lines from being folded and unfolded.
In those pages, Anson had been thoughtful.
Funny, in a dry, understated way. A man who noticed things, who paid attention to the world around him and found beauty in unexpected places.
The man she’d met today had been... empty. A shell with nothing inside. As if someone had hollowed out everything that made him Anson, leaving only the husk.
It’s different for him, Johanna had said. Give him time.
Right. Time. Because six years wasn’t enough.
She snorted and tossed her toiletry bag onto the bed.
She didn’t have time. Not with Landry still out there, still searching.
Not with her career hanging by a thread while she hid from the man who’d turned her life into a waking nightmare.
She’d come to Montana because Anson had made her feel safe when nothing else did.
When her restraining order got stuck in a bureaucratic black hole.
When the police stopped returning her calls.
Anson had been her last, best hope. And he couldn’t even look her in the eye.
She unzipped the toiletry bag and arranged her meager makeup on the small bathroom counter—tinted moisturizer, mascara, lip balm.
She only bothered with makeup for filming now.
On the show, she was Magnolia Rowe, a DIY queen who could turn literal trash into treasure.
A woman whose hands were always steady, whose smile never faltered, whose life wasn’t falling apart at the seams.
Her real self—just Maggie—was someone who jumped at shadows and hadn’t slept through the night in months.
The pipes rattled when she turned on the tap, cold water sputtering before running clear.
She splashed her face, letting water drip down her neck, not bothering to reach for the towel hanging beside the sink.
The cold anchored her to the present, to this small cabin in the middle of Montana, thousands of miles from Landry and his obsession.
She pulled her laptop from her backpack and set it on the small table by the window.
The view wasn’t much—a patch of overgrown grass, the edge of the bunkhouse, the corner of the barn in the distance.
Somewhere out there, Anson was hiding from her.
Probably regretting the letter that invited her to come, to stay, to find refuge here.
Her phone buzzed and a text popped up from Taryn, checking in:
Did you make it? Is everything okay? Is he as dreamy as you imagined?
She snorted. Dreamy wasn’t the word. Shut down, maybe. Distant. Mute.
I’m here. It’s... not what I expected.
The response came immediately:
In a bad way? Do you need me to come get you?
Taryn would, too. Would drop everything and drive to Montana if Maggie asked. It was tempting. Almost as tempting as crawling back into her truck right now and driving until Valor Ridge was just a distant memory.
But where would she go?
I’m okay. Just tired from the drive. Talk tomorrow.
She powered up her laptop, connected to the spotty Wi-Fi, and checked her email. Nothing from Landry, thank God. Just a message from the network about the mid-season schedule change and some preliminary notes on the barn renovation episode she’d filmed last month. Before everything went to hell.
She closed the laptop and rubbed her eyes. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. In her head, she’d imagined... what? Running into Anson’s arms? No. But something.
She pulled her duffel closer and reached inside, fingers finding the zippered pocket where she kept the letters.
Not all of them—there were too many for that—but a selection.
The ones she returned to again and again when she needed to remember there were good people in the world.
People who understood her. Who saw past the TV persona to the real woman underneath.
The paper was soft beneath her fingertips as she pulled out the most recent letter, the one inviting her to Valor Ridge. His handwriting was tight, the letters neat and as upright as soldiers standing at attention. That should’ve been her first clue about his true personality.
Valor Ridge is still here. The offer still stands. Walker doesn’t ask questions, and we’ve got space. You could come for a visit, see if you like it. No pressure, no commitment. Just a break from whatever’s happening there.
She folded the letter and set it on the nightstand, wondering if the man who wrote those words and the one who’d turned his back on her today were even the same person.
Outside, the light faded, casting long shadows across the patchy grass between the cabin and the bunkhouse.
A figure moved near the barn—tall, broad-shouldered, a silver-gray shape at his heels.
Anson and Bramble, heading toward the workshop Walker had pointed out earlier.
Anson’s forge, his sanctuary, where he shaped metal and leather into useful, beautiful things.
She turned away from the window and crawled into bed fully clothed, suddenly bone-tired. She pulled the patchwork quilt over herself, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and pine, and closed her eyes.
A sharp rap at the cabin door startled her awake.
She bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs, the patchwork quilt tangled around her legs.
For one terrifying moment, she didn’t know where she was.
The unfamiliar shadows, the strange bed, the sound of wind whistling through cracks in the window frame.
Then it came back. Montana. Valor Ridge.
Anson’s cold shoulder. She dragged a hand through her tangled hair and squinted at her phone. Nearly seven.
The knock came again, three quick taps. Not Landry. He always knocked twice, hard, impatient. This was someone else.
“Just a sec,” she called, voice rough with sleep. She stumbled to her feet and tugged at her rumpled clothes, trying to look somewhat presentable. Not that it mattered. The one person she’d actually cared about impressing clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
She cracked open the door, then pulled it wider at the sight of the man on her doorstep. He wasn’t Anson—this guy was leaner, younger, with wild dark curls peeking out from under his cowboy hat and an easy smile. He balanced a covered dish in one hand and lifted the other in greeting.
“Hey there! I’m River. Jo sent me with dinner.” He thrust the dish forward. “Don’t worry, she made it, not me. Last time I tried to cook, I nearly burned down the bunkhouse.”
So this was River Beckett. Anson had written about him and the chaos he reveled in.
The former Marine could fix anything, and his impulsiveness drove Walker crazy.
But he could also make anyone laugh, even Anson.
She’d watched Anson’s letters grow more exasperated, then grudgingly fond as River proved himself a loyal friend.
“Thanks.” She took the dish, the ceramic warm against her palms. Something savory and rich-smelling wafted up from beneath the foil. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the gas station breakfast sandwich twelve hours ago. “That’s really nice of her.”
River rocked back on his heels, clearly in no hurry to leave. “Jo figured you might not want to brave the madhouse that is communal dinner on your first night.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “So she set the most handsome permanent resident here to welcome you.”
“You think you’re the most handsome resident here?” She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips.
“Well, I don’t like to brag, but...” He gestured to himself with a dramatic sweep of his hand, then laughed. “Actually, I’m probably third on the list, depending on how you feel about beards. But I am definitely the most charming.”
His easy manner was so different from Anson’s stiffness that it eased the knots in her shoulders. She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Do you want to come in? I was about to make some tea.”
“Tea would be amazing.” River took off his hat and bounded in with the energy of someone who rarely stood still.
The cabin suddenly felt too small for all that enthusiasm, but the company was welcome after hours of solitude with her disappointment.
His gaze caught on her tools lined up on the dresser. “Nice set. Craftsman?”
“Mix of brands. I use whatever works best for each job.” She filled the electric kettle and set it on its base. “You’re the mechanic, right? Anson mentioned you can fix anything with an engine.”
He dropped into one of the chairs by the window, all loose limbs and restless energy. “That’s me. Resident grease monkey and chaos agent.” He drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm. “So, how was your first day at the ranch? Besides the whole awkward reunion with our resident blacksmith?”
Maggie winced as she set two mugs on the counter. So everyone knew. Great.
He must have seen her expression despite her attempt to school it back into a pleasant smile, because he added, “Sorry about that. Anson’s not exactly skilled at expressing his feelings.
Or acknowledging they exist.” His smile turned sympathetic.
“If it makes you feel better, he’s been weird all week, knowing you were coming. Well, weirder than usual.”
Something warm unfurled in her chest. He had been thinking about her arrival, then. “He mentioned me?”
“Not exactly mentioned. More like checked the mail obsessively and disappeared into his workshop for hours.” He glanced around the cabin.
“So, how’s the place? We call it Jo’s cabin, but she hasn’t actually lived here since she and Walker finally stopped dancing around each other seven or so years ago, but—”
He froze mid-sentence, eyes going wide as his gaze snapped back to her. “Whoa. Wait. Holy shit.” He pointed at her, mouth hanging open. “You’re Magnolia Rowe. From Magnolia Builds!”
She hated the chill of fear that chased down her spine at his recognition. Hated that Landry’s obsession had made her fear meeting fans. She squashed down the involuntary reaction and managed a tight smile. “I am. You watch my show?”
“Watch it? I’m obsessed!” He popped to his feet, energy crackling off him like a live wire.
“That tiny house episode last season? The fold-down table design was genius. And the barn restoration with the reclaimed materials?” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
“Does Anson know? Wait, of course he knows. That’s so cool! ”
Despite everything, she laughed. River’s enthusiasm was contagious.
“I’m surprised anyone out here watches DIY shows.”
“Are you kidding? We’re renovating constantly. Last spring, we converted the east stables into recovery rooms for the rescue horses. Your tip about using sealed pine instead of drywall for humidity control? Lifesaver.”
“You actually tried that?”
“Tried it? I won fifty bucks betting Ghost it would work.” He grinned. “The guy still owes me, come to think of it.”
Ghost. Anson had talked about him, too. The ex-CIA operative who carried around a blue mug as if it were precious. When it broke recently, Anson had repaired it with kintsugi and sent her a picture.
More beautiful for having been broken, he’d written.
That letter had been the one to seal her decision to come to Valor Ridge. She needed to feel safe, and Anson was the only place she’d felt safe in years.
“So,” River said, rubbing his hands together eagerly, “any chance I could get your expert opinion on the bunkhouse bathroom renovation? The tile work is giving me nightmares.”
She found herself smiling genuinely for the first time since she’d arrived. “Sure. I’d be happy to take a look.”
“Awesome!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Wait till I tell the guys I got renovation advice from the actual Magnolia Rowe. X is going to lose his mind.”
The kettle clicked off, and Maggie busied herself with the tea, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Is X another resident?”
She felt like she already knew all of these men—from Walker to Boone, Ghost and Jax, River and even Creed Calder, the troublemaker who caused the ranch all kinds of headaches before taking off into the night without a word.
But Anson hadn’t mentioned X in his letters.
Were there others? She didn’t know why, but the thought that he hadn’t shared his whole family with her made her feel strangely hollow.
Was there a whole world at Valor Ridge he’d kept from her?
“Yeah, Xavier Vega. I’d call him my best friend, but he’d hate that.
‘What are we, pre-teen girls?’” He dropped his voice in what she assumed was an approximation of X’s voice.
Then he waved a hand. “But, fuck it, I call it like it is, and he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
You’ll meet him and the others tomorrow.
You’ll like them all, and they’ll love you. ”
“I’m looking forward to it.” And she meant it. The prospect of meeting more people at the ranch was overwhelming, but if Anson wasn’t going to be the refuge she’d hoped for, maybe she could find other connections here. “Though I’m just Maggie, not Magnolia. That’s for the show.”
“Just Maggie,” River repeated with a grin as he accepted the steaming mug she handed him and sank back into his chair. “So, what’s it like being a TV personality? Is it weird seeing yourself on screen?”