Chapter 5
five
For the next twenty minutes, he peppered her with questions about specific builds, techniques she’d demonstrated on the show, even the origins of her salvaged materials.
Unlike the strained, awkward interaction with Anson, this conversation flowed easily.
River was open, warm, genuinely interested…
exactly what she’d expected from her pen pal.
“Wait, hold on.” River all but bounced over to the small TV in the living area. “I need visuals for this.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding your show. I want to ask about specific stuff.” He pulled up an episode on the network’s streaming service. He really must be a fan if he paid for that. “There we go.”
The familiar intro music filled the cabin. Maggie watched her own face appear on the small screen, demonstrating how to install reclaimed subway tile in a vintage camper.
“So the copper sink in your Airstream,” River said, his attention split between the screen and her face. “That was from the old church in Memphis?”
“Good memory. Found it in a salvage yard. The patina was incredible, and I couldn’t bear to polish it out completely.”
“I noticed it when you parked earlier.” His expression turned sheepish. “We all kind of peeked in your windows. Not in a creepy way! Just professional curiosity.”
“All of you?”
“Well, not Anson. He was too busy hiding in his forge pretending he wasn’t freaking out.” He fast-forwarded through the episode, pausing on a close-up of her hands working copper sheeting. “This joint here. You used what, a propane torch?”
“MAPP gas, actually. Hotter flame, cleaner seal.”
River’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, grinned, and typed something back before setting it down and returning his attention to the TV,
She busied herself with finding a bowl for the pasta, afraid her face would reveal too much. The show kept playing in the background, her recorded voice explaining proper ventilation techniques. “Anson seemed... uncomfortable with me being here.”
“Ah, don’t take it personally. Anson’s not great with people in general.”
“He wasn’t like that in his letters. In writing, he’s... different.”
River paused the video mid-sentence, her on-screen self frozen with a welding mask pushed up on her forehead.
“Yeah, that tracks. Words on paper don’t stare back at you.
Don’t judge. Most of the guys here have some version of that problem.
We’re all a little broken. It’s why we ended up at Valor Ridge in the first place. ”
His phone buzzed again. He checked it and shook his head with a laugh. While he fired off another quick response, Maggie spooned pasta into a bowl, considering his words. The Anson she’d met today barely resembled the one she’d grown to care for through his letters.
But they were the same person.
Somehow.
“You said you’re a permanent resident here,” she ventured. “If you don’t mind me asking...”
“Why am I here?” His smile turned rueful.
“Short version? Marine motor transport. Played a prank on my buddy’s Humvee.
Rewired some stuff, nothing dangerous… or so I thought.
I was just messing with it because he was being cocky about fixing it faster than me.
It wasn’t supposed to be cleared for duty, but they told him to take the damn thing to a hot zone, and it quit on him.
He died.” He looked down at his hands. “Manslaughter charge. Dishonorable discharge. Five years in Leavenworth.”
The raw honesty of it stole her breath. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, but she saw the flash of pain before his easy smile returned. “Ancient history. Been here seven years now.” He shoved up out of the chair and set his barely touched tea on the table. “Anyway, I should let you eat before it gets cold.”
Shit. She shouldn’t have asked. The change in him had been instant, like a window slamming shut. “No, stay. Please. It’s nice having company.”
He hesitated, then sank back into the chair. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a downer. Ask anyone. I’m the fun one around here.”
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have pried.” She took a bite of pasta, savoring the rich flavor. Real food after days of fast food and gas station snacks tasted like heaven. “This is amazing.”
“Jo’s cooking is legendary. One of many reasons the guys at the bunkhouse wish Walker would just propose already.” River’s smile returned, though not quite reaching his eyes.
His phone buzzed twice in quick succession. He glanced at it, rolled his eyes, and typed back, muttering, “Not a love triangle, idiots.”
“Popular tonight?”
“Just the guys giving me shit. Standard bunkhouse protocol.” He set the phone face down. “So... can I ask about you? Why Valor Ridge? I mean, besides the obvious appeal of our resident blacksmith’s sparkling personality.”
She hesitated, the bite of pasta halfway to her mouth. It was a reasonable question, but she’d been dodging it all day.
How much should she tell him?
“I needed a change,” she said finally, setting down her fork. “My life in Tampa got... complicated.”
“Complicated like ex-boyfriend complicated? Or complicated like witness protection complicated?”
“Somewhere in between. And Anson offered a place to stay while I figure things out.”
He studied her face, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he was seeing more than she wanted to reveal. But he just nodded.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here. Whatever the reason.”
Another buzz. He checked his phone and laughed. “Jesus, these guys.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just X being X. And apparently everyone’s got opinions about...” He gestured vaguely between the cabin and the forge. “Well, everything.”
She smiled despite herself. “Are they all watching this like it’s reality TV?”
“Pretty much. We don’t get a lot of excitement out here.” He drained the last of his tea. “I should get back to the bunkhouse before they get any more boneheaded ideas.”
“About love triangles?”
“Among other things.” River grinned and picked up the phone, then his hat. “These guys have active imaginations and way too much time on their hands.”
Maggie walked him to the door, oddly reluctant to see him go. “Thanks for bringing dinner, and for the conversation.”
“Anytime. Seriously. We don’t get many visitors out here, especially not TV stars.”
“Just Maggie,” she reminded.
“Right.” He winked. “Just Maggie.”
The night air blasted her face as she pulled open the door, crisp and cold in a way Tampa’s never was.
She remembered Anson’s first winter in Montana, and how cold he’d said it was.
She’d sent him that red scarf to help keep him warm, but she hadn’t brought anything like that with her. She shivered against the chill.
“You should invest in a proper coat,” River advised, nodding toward her thin sweater. “This isn’t Florida weather. It gets serious up here.”
“I’ll go shopping tomorrow,” she promised.
His phone buzzed one more time as he stepped onto the porch.
He checked it and grinned. “They’re relentless.
” He typed back quickly, then pocketed it and put his hat back on, tipping the brim toward her dramatically like an Old West cowboy.
“Good night, Just Maggie. I’ll see you tomorrow for that bathroom consultation. ”
“Night, River.”
She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. The pasta sat half-eaten on the table, but she didn’t have the energy to finish it. She shuffled to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and changed into sweatpants and an old t-shirt.
The bed looked impossibly inviting. She crawled under the patchwork quilt, pulling it up to her chin. Through the window, she could see the edge of the pole barn, the glow from Anson’s forge casting long shadows across the gravel. He was still out there, working. Or hiding. Or both.
She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come.
A sharp sound jolted her awake. Not quite a knock, more like something scraping against wood. She bolted upright, heart hammering, disoriented in the darkness. For one panicked moment, she thought Landry had found her. Then she remembered. Montana. Valor Ridge. Safe.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Nearly midnight. She’d been asleep for hours.
The sound came again. Scratching at the door, followed by a low whine.
She threw back the quilt and padded to the door in her sock feet, pulse still racing. Through the window, she could make out a massive shape on her porch.
Bramble.
She opened the door, and the wolfhound stepped back, tail swishing once. Something white lay on the weathered boards at his feet.
A folded piece of paper.
“Did you bring me something?” She crouched down, and Bramble pushed his grizzled muzzle into her palm, breath warm against her skin. She picked up the note with her free hand, recognizing Anson’s handwriting on the outside immediately. Her name, written in those precise, military-straight letters.
She took a deep breath and unfolded the letter.
Maggie,
I’m sorry. I know I was awful today. I practiced what I’d say for a week, and when you were standing right there, every word disappeared.
You’re real, and I don’t know how to be real with someone.
The man in the letters is easier. I can think about what I want to say, how I want to say it.
I can be who I wish I was instead of who I am—someone scarred and broken and tongue-tied.
Someone who panics when a beautiful woman drives two thousand miles to meet him.
I’m glad you came. Even if I couldn’t say it to your face.
Even if I stood there like an idiot and made you regret the drive.
I’m glad you’re here. I just don’t know how to show you.
Yours,
Anson
This was the Anson she knew.
“Thank you,” she told Bramble and closed the door.
She sank to the couch and read the note again, then again, then grabbed her backpack and searched for her project notebook.