Chapter 7
seven
A thin, cut-off cry yanked Maggie from sleep.
She froze, breath trapped in her lungs, ears straining against the pre-dawn silence.
Nothing followed—no footsteps, no voices, no sound at all—but that single noise had been enough.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she lay perfectly still, the old habit of playing dead kicking in before conscious thought could catch up.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
She slid her hand beneath the pillow, fingers closing around the hammer she’d tucked there last night. The metal felt cold against her palm, solid and reassuring. Three months of waking to strange sounds outside her Tampa apartment had taught her never to sleep without a weapon within reach.
The silence stretched, unbroken except for the quiet hum of the cabin’s ancient heater. She forced herself to count breaths—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The exercise did nothing to slow her racing pulse.
What the hell was that noise?
Not a tree branch. Not the wind. Something alive. Something hurt, maybe. Or someone.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, hammer gripped tight, and pulled on the closest sweatshirt. The cabin floor felt ice-cold through her socks as she crept toward the door. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening.
Nothing.
She eased the door open just a crack, peering through the gap.
Gray light filtered across the yard—not quite dawn, that strange in-between hour when everything looked washed out and ghostly.
The ground outside glistened with early morning dew or maybe a light frost. Nothing moved. No shadows where shadows shouldn’t be.
She pushed the door wider, scanning the tree line, the path to the bunkhouse, the road leading back toward the main ranch. Empty. Still.
It’s okay. You’re safe. He doesn’t know you’re here.
Maggie stepped onto the porch, hammer still clutched in her right hand, and moved toward the steps. That was when she noticed the mud. Dark patches near the bottom step, disturbed earth that hadn’t been there last night when River left.
Footprints.
The air seized in her lungs. She crouched down to look closer.
The prints weren’t clear—just smudges in the soft earth, really—but they were definitely fresh. Someone had been here, right at the base of her porch steps. Recently. Last night, maybe. Or earlier this morning, before the dew settled.
But whose footprints? They could be Anson’s from when he’d delivered the note. Could be her own from when she’d rushed out to meet him. Could be anyone’s.
Or they could be Landry’s.
No. She shook her head, hard enough to make her neck hurt. Landry was in Florida. Two thousand miles away. He couldn’t have found her, not this quickly. Not unless...
Unless someone had told him. Unless Taryn had given him her general location. Unless someone from the café recognized her yesterday and posted about it online. Unless, unless, unless.
The paranoia was familiar now, a constant companion that whispered what-ifs and maybes into her ear at every turn.
She’d spent so many nights staring at shadows, convinced they were moving, that she no longer trusted her own perception.
Half the time, the “footprints” she’d reported in Tampa had turned out to be nothing—a stray cat, a neighbor’s kid cutting through the yard, her own imagination working overtime.
Was she doing that now? Creating danger where there was none?
A soft sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts—a weak, high-pitched mewling coming from beneath the porch. Maggie froze, listening. It came again, so faint she almost missed it.
She dropped to her knees and peered into the darkness under the cabin. The space beneath was shadowed, but as her eyes adjusted, she made out small, huddled shapes pressed against the foundation. Kittens. Tiny and shivering, their bodies bunched together for warmth.
“Hey there,” she whispered, reaching as far as she could. Her fingertips fell inches short. “Come here, little ones.”
The kittens mewed pitifully but didn’t move toward her. Too weak, maybe. Or too scared.
Something large moved in her peripheral vision, and she jerked back, hammer raised. But it was only Bramble, materializing silently at her side like some enormous, shaggy ghost. The wolfhound sniffed at the edge of the porch, then looked at her with solemn eyes.
“There are kittens under there,” she told him, feeling slightly ridiculous for explaining the situation to a dog. “They’re stuck.”
Bramble huffed softly. Without hesitation, he lowered himself onto his belly and crawled forward, his massive body barely fitting into the space beneath the porch.
He inched toward the kittens, not touching them but positioning his bulk to block the wind, creating a living barrier between them and the cold morning air.
Smart dog.
“Good boy,” she murmured. “Keep them warm.”
She tried again to reach the kittens, stretching until her shoulder ached, but they remained just beyond her grasp. Their cries grew more frantic, high-pitched squeals of distress that made her chest tighten with urgency.
“Shit,” she muttered, pushing herself up. “I need help.”
She rushed back inside and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with notifications—all from Taryn. Her stomach dropped as she read the first few previews.
[Taryn] 6:42 PM: Police called. Break-in paperwork was “misplaced” again. They’re “looking into it.”
[Taryn] 7:15 PM: Your restraining order application got bounced back. Missing signature or something. Need to refile.
[Taryn] 10:27 PM: Three more “concerned fan” emails today. Same writing style as before. Definitely him.
[Taryn] 11:38 PM: Network called. Again. They’re getting antsy about your “extended hiatus.” I stalled them, but they want filming dates.
[Taryn] 5:18 AM: Call me when you wake up. Important.
The messages sucked the air from her lungs. Her fingers trembled as she swiped to unlock the phone, but she stopped herself from reading the full texts. Not now. The kittens needed help first. She could deal with Landry and the network later.
She scrolled through her contacts, then swore under her breath. She didn’t have anyone’s number at the ranch. Not Anson’s, not Walker’s, not even River’s—though he’d offered to exchange numbers last night and she’d forgotten in her exhaustion.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She shoved the phone into the pocket of her sweatpants and ran back outside. The kittens were still crying, their voices weaker now. Bramble remained beneath the porch, his large body curled protectively near them, but he couldn’t reach them either.
She scanned the ranch desperately, looking for any sign of life in the pre-dawn gloom. The main house windows were dark. The barn was too far to shout to. But there—a figure walking from the bunkhouse toward the pole barn, a steaming mug in his hand.
Anson.
He moved with the easy confidence of a man on familiar ground, his stride long and unhurried.
He hadn’t seen her yet. As she watched, he slowed, then stopped completely, his body language shifting into something more hesitant as he glanced toward her cabin.
He seemed to be debating with himself, one foot already turning back toward the bunkhouse.
“Anson!” she called, waving frantically. “Over here!”
He froze at the sound of his name, shoulders tensing visibly even at this distance. For a horrible moment, she thought he might pretend not to hear her and keep walking. Then his gaze landed on her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the way she gestured urgently toward the porch.
Everything shifted.
He changed course immediately, heading straight for her. As he drew closer, she could see the wariness in his face, the careful distance he maintained—fallout from last night’s revelation about her identity—but he came anyway.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough with early morning.
“Kittens.” She pointed beneath the porch where Bramble’s tail was just visible. “Trapped under there. I can’t reach them.”
Anson assessed the situation in a single glance.
Without a word, he set his coffee mug on the porch steps, dropped to his knees, and yanked off his bulky coat.
His flannel shirt stretched across his back as he leaned down, and her breath caught in her throat.
His shoulders strained against the fabric, the muscles beneath shifting with controlled power as he reached under the porch.
She’d known he had to be strong—blacksmithing was a physically demanding career—but seeing that strength was something else entirely.
The sleeves of his shirt rode up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with those burn scars she’d glimpsed last night.
Heat crept into her cheeks. This was not the time to notice such things. Not with freezing kittens under the porch. Not when he’d practically run away from her last night after discovering who she really was.
But she couldn’t look away.
“Bram, back up,” he commanded in that low gravel voice.
The wolfhound obeyed immediately, inching backward while keeping his body between the kittens and the cold.
Anson flattened himself against the cold, muddy ground and stretched further under the porch, his jaw clenched with effort as his fingers brushed against the tiny bodies.
“Easy now. Easy. Let’s get you out of here.”
Maggie knelt at the edge of the porch, waiting. Seconds stretched into minutes. She heard soft rustling, murmured words she couldn’t quite catch, then—
“Got one.” He withdrew his arm, a tiny ball of fur clutched in his palm. The kitten was so small it fit entirely in his hand, gray with blue eyes and ears still folded. It mewled pathetically, its tiny body shivering violently.