Chapter 6 #2
He picked up his pen and began to write, the words coming easier now, flowing onto the page without the usual stops and starts, the endless crossing out and rewriting.
Maggie,
Thank you for understanding. For seeing me—the real me—and not running. That’s rare. Bramble approves of you, which says more than any words I could write. He’s a better judge of character than I am.
I want to show you the forge tomorrow. If you’d like. It’s the one place I feel whole, where the broken pieces make sense. Where I can create something useful from nothing.
The man in the letters is still me. Just... a better version. The version that has time to think, to choose his words. To be brave. I’m working on bringing him into the real world. It’s harder than I thought it would be.
Would you meet me for coffee tomorrow morning? 7 am, by the forge. I’ll bring the coffee. You bring yourself. I’ll try to bring actual words this time.
Yours always,
Anson
He read it over, changed nothing, folded it carefully, and took it to the door.
But then he hesitated
The ranch was quiet.
Normal night. Except nothing felt normal anymore.
Across the yard, in Jo’s old cabin, Maggie was... what? Regretting her decision to come? Planning her escape?
No. Her letter said she wasn’t going anywhere. He had to believe that.
He pulled the door shut, closing out the cold, and set the note on his workbench.
Tomorrow morning, he’d give her the letter in person. He’d bring the coffee, try for actual conversation. He’d probably fail. But she’d given him permission to fail, to be awkward and scarred and imperfect. To be himself.
It was more than he deserved. More than he’d dared to hope for.
Bramble knocked against the backs of his legs hard enough to nearly send him face-planting into the forge, but he caught himself on the hot brick.
Just what he needed, more burn scars.
He straightened and glared over at his dog. “What?”
Bramble stared back, unrepentant, then he trotted over to the forge door and scratched at it once, turning to look at Anson expectantly.
“You want to go out again? You just came in.”
The wolfhound scratched more insistently.
“Fine,” he sighed and pulled open the door. Cold air rushed in, and Bramble stepped halfway out before pausing and looking back at him with an expression that clearly said, “Well? Are you coming?”
“I’m not going back out there. It’s freezing, and I’m done making a fool of myself for one night.”
Bramble huffed, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air. He stepped back inside, circled back toward the workbench where the note sat, and whined once, low in his throat.
“Jesus Christ,” Anson muttered. “You want me to deliver it now? It’s almost midnight.”
Another nudge, more insistent this time.
Anson sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re pushy for a dog who spent his first month here hiding under my bed.”
Bramble gave him a look that was somehow both patient and exasperated.
“Fine. But if her light’s out, we’re coming back. I’m not waking her up.”
Bramble galloped ahead. He followed more slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs so loud he was certain she’d hear it before he even reached her door. The folded paper felt impossibly heavy in his hand.
He paused at the base of her porch steps. A sliver of light still shone beneath her door. Not too late, then. He climbed the three wooden steps, each creak announcing his approach, and raised his hand to knock.
His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. What if she’d changed her mind? What if the letter was just a polite way to let him down easy?
Before he could retreat, Bramble scratched at the wood, then sent him a side-eye that clearly said, “Coward.”
Fuck. There’s no way she hadn’t heard that when Bramble was the size of a pony, and his paws were like sledgehammers.
He should drop the note and run. Disappear back into the darkness before she could open the door and see him—
The door swung open.
Maggie stood there in socked feet, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked softer somehow, without the wariness that had shadowed her face earlier.
“I saw you coming,” she said, nodding toward the window. “Thought I’d save you from having to knock.”
“Thanks.” The word came out rough, but at least it came out.
They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them.
“I, uh, brought this.” He held out the note, feeling ridiculous. “I was going to deliver it in the morning, but Bramble had other ideas.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she reached down to scratch Bramble’s neck. “Smart dog.”
“Too smart sometimes.”
She took the note, her fingers brushing his. The brief contact sent a spark of warmth zinging up his arm despite the cold night air.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked, stepping back from the doorway. “It’s freezing out there.”
He hesitated and looked behind her at the cabin. It looked small. Intimate. Claustrophobic.
“I—” His words died in his throat as his gaze caught on something behind her. The TV was frozen on an image, paused mid-frame on a woman in work clothes standing in front of an exposed wall stud. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing safety glasses and holding a hammer.
Maggie.
No. Not just Maggie.
Magnolia Rowe.
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. The DIY expert from that home improvement show that River was always watching.
The one X and River argued about, with River insisting her restoration techniques were revolutionary and X claiming she was “just another pretty face selling power tools to housewives.”
His lungs seized. He took an involuntary step backward, nearly tripping over Bramble.
“Anson?” Maggie—no, Magnolia—frowned. “Are you okay?”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The woman he’d been writing to for six years, pouring his soul out to, confessing his darkest thoughts and deepest fears.
.. was famous. A television personality with millions of viewers.
A woman whose face was recognized in cafés and grocery stores, whose life existed in high definition, beamed into living rooms across the country.
And he was... this. Scarred. Broken. A convicted felon who could barely string two sentences together in front of the checkout girl at the hardware store.
“You’re her.” The words scraped his throat raw. “Magnolia Rowe.”
Her expression shifted, wariness replacing the open warmth from moments before. “Yes. That’s... my show name. For work.” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly defensive. “I thought you knew.”
“No.” He took another step back, his boot catching on the edge of the porch step. “I didn’t.”
She frowned. “But I mentioned it in my letters. The renovation projects.”
Had she? He scrambled to remember. She’d written about work—restoration projects, salvage finds. But he’d pictured her working for a small contractor, maybe a local renovation company. Not... this.
“I thought you were just a builder.” His voice sounded distant, even to his own ears.
“I am a builder.” Something flashed in her eyes. Hurt? Frustration? A mix of both? “The show came later.”
Bramble pressed against his legs, sensing his distress. The pressure grounded him, but not enough. His mind raced through every letter they’d exchanged, every confession, every vulnerability he’d laid bare.
To a stranger. No, worse. To a public figure.
“I should go,” he said, the words coming out clipped and flat. He stepped back, nearly stumbling off the small porch. “It’s late.”
“Anson, wait—”
But he was already moving, turning away, his shoulders hunched against the sudden weight pressing down on his chest. The distance between them—between who she was and who he was—yawned like a canyon too wide to cross.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he managed, the lie bitter on his tongue.
He wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Not now that he knew the reality of who she was.