Chapter 8
eight
The walk to the forge was longer than Maggie expected.
From her cabin, it looked closer than it was, but they had to cross a small wooden bridge spanning a bubbling creek and follow a worn path that wound through scrub grass.
The forge itself was a converted pole barn, weathered to silver-gray, with high windows near the roofline.
A brick chimney rose from one corner, trailing thin smoke that smelled of coal and hot metal.
And over the door was Anson’s first horseshoe, rusted now. He’d written about nailing it up there after finishing it. He tapped it as they crossed the threshold, in the mindless way of long-standing habit.
But it was what sat beside the door that made Maggie’s breath catch.
Sticks. Hundreds of them, stacked in a haphazard heap against the exterior wall, some smooth and weathered, others still bearing bark, ranging from finger-thin twigs to branches as thick as her wrist. Beside them, a smaller mound of pinecones in varying stages of decay, the fresher ones still sticky with sap.
She’d know that collection anywhere. Bramble’s treasure pile. He’d written about it in his letters, describing how Bramble brought him gifts every day. It had started with sticks but had recently progressed to pinecones.
Five years of sticks, she thought, her throat tightening. Five years of a dog loving him, and him keeping every proof of it.
Inside, heat enveloped them immediately, radiating from a brick hearth in one corner where coals glowed orange-red.
The space was meticulously organized. Tools hung in neat rows, organized by type and size.
A heavy workbench ran along one wall, and an anvil stood on a massive stump in the center.
Everything had its place, nothing wasted or superfluous.
Anson crossed to a partially walled-off area at the back. “Through here.”
The space beyond was small but just as neat. A military cot with wool blankets, a milk crate nightstand, a shelf with a few books, and basic toiletries. No decorations except for a single photograph tacked to the wall—a group of young men in wetsuits, smiling at the camera.
She recognized Anson immediately. He was younger and clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked back by water, his smile wide and genuine. Unguarded. His hands, draped around his buddies’ shoulders, were unscarred.
“Need a box,” Anson muttered, and disappeared back into the main workspace. He returned moments later with a wooden crate lined with clean towels. “Put the heating pad in here for now. Can rig something better later.”
Maggie knelt and laid the heating pad down.
Anson grabbed the blanket off his cot and stuffed it into the bottom of the crate, over the pad, then helped her transfer the kittens from her sweatshirt to the makeshift bed. They huddled together, still mewling softly but less desperately now that they were warm.
“You’re giving up your bed for them.”
Anson shrugged, not looking up from his task. “They need it more.”
Bramble appeared in the doorway, padding silently into the small room. He circled once, then settled on the floor near the kittens’ box, his golden eyes fixed on the tiny bundles with fierce protectiveness.
“He’s appointing himself guardian,” Anson said, and for the first time since she’d arrived at Valor Ridge, a genuine smile broke across his face. Small, just a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, but real.
“He saved them,” Maggie said. “Kept them warm until we could get them out.”
“He’s good with small things.”
Silence settled between them, comfortable at first, then stretching too thin. She searched for something more to say, not wanting to lose this moment of connection. Her gaze drifted to the milk crate nightstand, where a worn paperback sat with a scrap of leather marking a page.
“Lonesome Dove.” She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Working on your eighth time through?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Helps me sleep.”
She picked it up, feeling the soft, worn edges of the pages beneath her fingers. The spine was cracked in multiple places, the cover faded from handling. “What is it about this one?”
“Just like it.” Another slight shrug. “It’s good. You read it. Your Vietnam beach read.” His eyes met hers briefly, then darted away. “You said you cried.”
“I did.” After his repeated mentions in his letters, she’d taken it on vacation with her earlier this year. “And I did like it, but not enough to read it eight times.”
A soft mew from the box pulled their attention back to the kittens. The orange one—Spark—was trying to climb over his siblings, tiny paws scrambling for purchase.
Anson’s eyes shifted from the kittens back to her face. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the show.”
The question caught her off guard. She’d been so focused on the kittens, on this small moment of connection, that she’d almost forgotten how he’d reacted to last night’s revelation.
“I just… never thought it was important.”
“Not important.” His jaw tightened. “Millions of people know your face.”
“And?” Heat crept up her neck. “Does that change who I am? The person who wrote those letters?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the floor, his shoulders rigid. Bramble sensed the tension and whined softly, ears flattening against his head.
“Look, I’m still me. The show is just my job. It’s not—”
“It changes things.” He cut her off, voice rough. “You’re... public. Recognizable.”
Understanding dawned. “You’re worried I’ll bring attention here. To you.”
His silence was answer enough.
“But that’s why I came here,” she said quietly. “To escape attention. Not to bring it.”
His shoulders tensed further, his jaw working as though chewing on words he couldn’t quite bring himself to say.
She was suddenly cold despite the heat in the air. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold herself together.
“Anson?” Lila’s voice echoed through the forge as the door creaked open.
Maggie jumped, startled by the interruption, and quickly wiped at her eyes. She hadn’t even realized they were damp.
Lila appeared in the doorway of Anson’s living space. Her practical work clothes were rumpled, and she carried her medical kit. She knelt beside the box of kittens. “How are our babies doing?”
“Settling,” Anson answered.
She set the bag down and peered into the box. “Looking better already. Now let me show you how these feedings will work.”
Lila showed them how to prepare the formula, mixing the powder with warm water from a thermos she’d brought along. “Test it on your wrist,” she demonstrated, letting a drop fall onto her skin. “Should feel warm, not hot.”
Maggie watched closely, trying to memorize each step. Anson stood beside her, his presence solid and warm despite the emotional distance between them. She was acutely aware of how his shoulder nearly brushed hers when he leaned forward to see better.
“Who wants to try first?” Lila asked, holding up a tiny syringe filled with formula.
Before Maggie could volunteer, Anson reached out. “I’ll do it.”
His hands, those scarred, powerful hands that shaped metal, took the syringe with surprising gentleness. Lila showed him how to hold the gray kitten—Smoke—cradled in his palm, head slightly elevated.
“That’s it,” Lila encouraged as Anson carefully placed the tip of the syringe against the kitten’s mouth. “Just a drop at first, let him taste it.”
Maggie held her breath as the kitten’s tiny pink tongue darted out to investigate. After a moment of confusion, Smoke began to suckle eagerly.
“You’ve got a natural touch with them,” Lila said, smiling at Anson. “Not that I’m surprised. You’ve always had a way with the vulnerable creatures that find their way here.”
Anson’s cheeks flushed slightly at Lila’s praise, though he kept his focus on the tiny creature in his palm. Maggie watched his scarred fingers cradling the kitten with such tenderness that something in her chest tightened.
“I’m so glad to meet you finally,” Lila said, her attention shifting to Maggie as she prepared another syringe for Spark. “Anson’s talked about you. Quite a bit, actually. For him.”
Anson’s ears reddened visibly above his beard. He suddenly seemed very focused on making sure Smoke got every last drop of formula, pointedly not looking at either woman.
“Oh?” Maggie tried to keep her voice neutral, though her heart gave a curious little jump. “Good things, I hope.”
Lila laughed. “Very good things. Though he left out that you’re famous.”
“Not famous. Just... on TV sometimes.”
“Often enough that my mom watches your show religiously,” Lila said. “She redid her entire kitchen based on your reclaimed wood episode.”
Anson remained focused on Smoke, but his shoulders had tensed again at the mention of her show. Lila must have noticed too, because she smoothly changed the subject.
“Your turn,” she said, nodding toward Spark. “This little firecracker is ready.”
She walked Maggie through the feeding, then, once Spark was suckling happily away, she picked up Ember.
“She’ll be the one to watch. You’ll need to carefully record all of their intake.
She’ll need extra attention, especially the next forty-eight hours.
” She placed Ember back into the makeshift nest after feeding her.
“If you’re both committed to this, I think they have a fighting chance. ”
Maggie nodded and snuggled Spark close for a moment before setting him down beside his sister. “We’ll make it work.”
Lila glanced between them, a small smile playing at her lips.
“Welcome to Valor Ridge, Maggie. It’s not how any of us expected you’d spend your first full day here, but sometimes the universe has its own plans.
” She closed her kit and stood. “I’ll be back this evening to check on them, but call if anything changes. ”
After Lila left, a charged silence filled the small space. Maggie watched Anson adjust the blankets around the kittens, his movements gentle despite his large, scarred hands.
“I should get back to the cabin,” she said finally. “Get cleaned up.”
Anson nodded without looking up. “I’ll stay with them.”
She hesitated, wanting to say more, to bridge whatever distance had opened between them when he’d discovered who she was. But the words wouldn’t come.
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“Maggie.”
She looked back.
He stood there, not quite meeting her eyes, hands fidgeting slightly at his sides. “Thank you for calling me over. For trusting me to help.”
“I knew you would,” she said simply. “Never doubted it. Not for a second.”
His eyes finally met hers, just a quick flash of contact before skittering away again, but in that brief moment, she saw something that made her breath catch. Vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
“I’ll come back early,” she promised. “You need to get cleaned up, too.”
He looked down at his muddy clothes as if just realizing how dirty he was.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, sending dust motes dancing in the light from the high windows. “Should probably do that.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said. “Less.”