Chapter 6
six
He shouldn’t have written it. Should’ve just left her alone after the disaster of their meeting. Let her figure out that the man in the letters was a lie. Or at least, a version of himself that only existed on paper, in the safety of distance and the forgiveness of time to choose his words.
Night air cut through Anson’s flannel, but he didn’t move. Just watched. Waited. Held his breath like a man stepping onto thin ice, not sure if it would hold.
Bramble reached her door, dropped the note, and scratched once at the wood with his massive paw before stepping back.
Good dog. Smart dog. The paw signal meant message, not just another stick or pinecone offering.
Anson taught him that two years ago, after Bramble started carrying notes between him and Walker when they were at opposite ends of the property.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Then again. And again, with the rapid-fire insistence of the group chat. He ignored it, eyes fixed on Maggie’s door, willing it to open, dreading the moment it did.
The phone buzzed again, and he yanked it from his pocket, thumbing the screen to see what the hell everyone wanted.
X: HOLY SHIT River just spent 20 minutes making your girl laugh while you hid in your workshop
River: She liked me better. Can’t blame her. I have actual social skills.
X: We’re witnessing the lamest love triangle ever
He scrolled up to the five messages he missed.
X: River just went to the cabin with dinner from Jo
Ghost: Bold move
X: 10 bucks says he steals her right out from under Sutter
River: I do have that effect on women
Boone: Leave the man alone. All of you.
Anson’s jaw tightened. Of course River went over there.
Of course he charmed her. River could charm a rattlesnake into tap dancing if he put his mind to it.
And Anson had left her alone—vulnerable, disappointed, probably regretting the trip here in the first place—the perfect setup for River to swoop in and be everything Anson wasn’t.
Funny. Talkative. Whole.
New messages cascaded across his screen.
X: Sut, you seeing this?
Ghost: He’s watching from the forge. I can see him brooding from here.
River: It isn’t like that. Just brought her Jo’s lasagna. But she is pretty great.
X: Did you tell her about Anson’s bedwetting problem?
River: He doesn’t have a bedwetting problem
X: I KNOW but you could have told her he did
Bear: Both of you shut up
Jax: X, I swear to god if you fuck with him like that, I’ll tell Nessie to tell Mariah about that tattoo on your ass that you’re ashamed of.
X: LOW BLOW
River: Wait, what tattoo??? And why has Jax seen it?
X: There is no tattoo. That’s the point. But she’d believe it because she’s looking for any excuse not to fall in love with me.
Bear: This is why I mute notifications
Anson’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
What could he say? That he was pathetic enough to send notes via his dog because he couldn’t manage basic human conversation?
That seeing River walk out of Maggie’s cabin laughing made something ugly twist in his chest?
That for six years he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t—someone capable of connection?
He shoved the phone back in his pocket without responding and scrubbed a hand down his beard.
The damn group chat would keep going all night if he let it, an endless stream of jokes and jabs at his expense. Normally, he didn’t mind—it was how they showed affection—but he wasn’t in the mood tonight.
The porch light cast Maggie’s cabin in a warm glow.
Had River sat in there with her, making her laugh?
Had he managed to wash away the memory of Anson standing tongue-tied in the yard?
Had he told her about Anson’s panic when they learned she was coming—how he’d nearly backed his truck into a fence post trying to escape to town?
His phone buzzed again. Walker this time, a direct message separate from the group chat.
Don’t let them get to you. Some women worth having are worth the wait. And the work.
He didn’t respond to that either. Walker and his cryptic cowboy wisdom. As if patience was the issue here, and not Anson’s fundamental brokenness.
Movement caught his eye. Maggie’s door opened, spilling light across the small porch. Anson stepped deeper into the shadows of the forge, but didn’t retreat completely. Couldn’t, even though every instinct screamed at him to hide.
She stood in her doorway, silhouetted against the light. Looked down at the note, then out into the darkness. Searching for him? Or just checking that no one else was watching?
Bramble materialized from the shadows beside her porch.
Maggie startled, then crouched down. Even from here, Anson read her body language—the gentle slope of her shoulders, the careful way she extended her hand.
She was talking to the dog, her words lost to the distance, but he knew the cadence of her voice from the videos he’d watched.
His phone buzzed. Another text. He ignored it. Couldn’t look away from the tableau across the yard.
Bramble pushed his grizzled muzzle into her hand.
Something in Anson’s chest ached at the sight.
Bramble, who took three months to let Walker close enough to touch him.
Bramble, who was afraid of his own shadow and thought snow was suspicious.
Bramble, who trusted almost no one, pressing into Maggie’s palm like she was safe. Like she belonged.
Maggie straightened and pulled something from her pocket. A piece of paper. No—his note. She read it again under the porch light, then reached back into her cabin and returned with what looked like a notebook. She wrote something, folded the paper, and offered it to Bramble.
The wolfhound took it carefully between his teeth, and Anson’s breath caught. She was writing back. After everything—after his cowardice, his rudeness, his complete failure as a human being—she was writing back.
Maggie stood, the light catching gold in her hair as she looked across the yard toward the forge. Her eyes couldn’t possibly find his, not with him half-hidden in shadow and the distance between them, but she raised her hand in a wave anyway.
His heart stuttered. Stopped. Restarted with a painful thud.
After a long moment, he raised his own hand. A simple gesture. The barest acknowledgment. But somehow it felt like the bravest thing he’d done all day.
She watched until Bramble was halfway to the forge, then retreated into her cabin, the door closing quietly behind her.
Anson stepped fully out of the forge, dropping into a crouch as Bramble approached.
“Good boy,” he murmured, scratching behind the wolfhound’s ears. “You did good.”
Bramble whined, pressing his head into Anson’s palm, the note still clutched gently in his teeth. He didn’t release it until Anson held out his hand. The exchange happened with practiced care—Bramble never punctured the paper, never drooled on the message. Anson had trained him too well for that.
The forge’s warmth wrapped around him as he stepped back inside, Bramble trotting at his heels.
The fire was nearly out, just embers now, but heat lingered.
He added another log, watched the flame catch, then settled on his stool, turning the folded paper over in his hands.
His name on the outside, written in a flowing script so different from his own tight, controlled lettering.
His fingers shook as he unfolded it. He smoothed it flat against his thigh, the paper catching on his calluses.
Anson,
Don’t apologize. I get it. I’m nervous too. But here’s the thing—I didn’t drive two thousand miles for smooth conversation or perfect meet-cutes. I drove here for you. The real you. Scars and awkwardness and all.
The man in the letters is wonderful. But I want to know the man who writes them. Even if he can’t find words when I’m standing in front of him. Especially then.
Maybe we do this your way for a while. Letters. Until you’re ready for more. I’m not going anywhere.
- Maggie
He read it again. Then a third time. His throat tightened, and he blinked hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
She got it. She wasn’t running. Not yet.
Bramble settled at his feet, chin resting on Anson’s boot, golden eyes watching with quiet understanding. The wolfhound’s warmth anchored him, familiar and solid when everything else felt like it was shifting.
His phone buzzed again, and this time he pulled it out, intending to silence it completely. But the message caught his eye.
River: For real though, Anson, she’s great. Funny, smart as hell, patient. Asked about you. I think she’s actually into you, man, god knows why. Don’t blow this.
He stared at the screen, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in his chest. Jealousy, still. But gratitude, too. For all his manic energy and endless teasing, River was a good friend. Better than Anson deserved most days. They all were.
He typed back, the first time he’d responded to any of them all night:
Thanks.
He set the phone aside and pulled his notebook from the shelf above his workbench.
The leather cover was worn smooth from years of handling, the pages filled with sketches of designs, notes on techniques, lists of materials.
And, in the back, drafts of letters to Maggie.
Letters he’d rewritten three, four, five times before sending, searching for the right words, the perfect phrasing.
Anson flipped to a clean page and stared at it. What did he say now? How did he bridge the gap between the man who wrote those letters and the man who stood before her today, mute and terrified?
Bramble huffed softly, shifting to press more firmly against Anson’s legs. The wolfhound’s steady presence loosened something in his chest.
Maybe she was right. Maybe they started with letters, built from there. Maybe Maggie seeing him at his worst was the beginning of something real, not the end.