Chapter 9
nine
Between the kittens’ feeding schedule and Maggie’s scent all over his forge, filling his head, sleep had been an impossibility these last three days.
And Anson couldn’t go to the bunkhouse. He didn’t dare leave the kittens alone, and besides, the sounds were wrong there—Bear’s snoring, River’s restless midnight pacing, the constant shuffle and creak of men living too close together.
Not like the forge, where the only sounds were the ones he made himself, or Bramble’s soft breathing from his bed by the stove.
Anson pushed himself up from the cot he’d been half-dozing on for the past hour, his muscles protesting the awkward position.
The three kittens slept in a tangle of tiny limbs on their heating pad, Ember tucked between her brothers for extra warmth.
He checked them briefly—all breathing steadily, bellies round with formula—before heading out to his workbench.
He’d needed something to keep his hands busy after Maggie’s final feeding visit last night, so after she left, he’d sketched out plans for a better box for the kittens— a hinged lid for easy access, an upper level with a hole for them to climb through once they got bigger, and a wool lining he’d salvaged from his old blanket. Something that would last.
Not a box. A home.
He planed the cedar board with long, even strokes, each pass of the tool peeling away a paper-thin curl of wood that fell to the forge floor in a tight spiral.
He tested the edge with his thumb, feeling for any splinters that might catch on delicate kitten paws.
Too rough still. He switched to finer sandpaper, the rhythmic scrape echoing through his workshop as dawn light filtered through the high windows.
The rhythm of creation settled him the way it always did, slowing his racing thoughts until there was nothing but wood beneath his fingers and the steady rasp of his breathing.
The kittens would need stability. Structure. A place where they felt safe.
He understood that need better than most.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t turn, recognizing Walker’s tread. Bramble lifted his head from his bed, acknowledged the ranch owner with a single tail thump, then settled back down.
“Coffee,” Walker said, setting a thermos on the edge of the workbench. “Good stuff, not the sludge Jax makes.”
“Thanks.” He lined up the second panel, testing the joint before reaching for the small bottle of wood glue.
Walker circled around him, examining the work. “That for the kittens?”
He nodded, focusing on applying the thinnest possible line of glue along the joint. Too much and it would squeeze out, creating a mess. Too little and the bond wouldn’t hold.
“How are they doing?” Walker asked, moving toward the cot where they slept in their makeshift nest.
“Better.” He slid the pieces together, checking the alignment before reaching for a clamp. “Orange one’s eating good. Other two improving.” He tightened the clamp carefully, watching for any slippage. “Lila says they’ve got a chance now.”
Walker nodded and rested his hands on his belt. “Jo told me. Said you and Maggie have been trading off the night feedings.” A pause. “That working out okay?”
Anson concentrated on positioning the next panel, buying time.
The feedings required a schedule. Every three hours now, better than every two of that first night.
They’d settled into a rhythm—he took the midnight and 3 a.m. feedings, she came for the 6 a.m. and 9 a.m., working together for the rest. It meant seeing her multiple times a day. Sharing a purpose, if not always words.
“It’s fine,” he said finally, reaching for another clamp.
Walker let the silence stretch for several beats. “You know she’s not staying forever,” he said finally. “Once she figures out her next move.”
“I know.”
“What happens to the kittens then?”
He hadn’t allowed himself to think that far ahead.
Three days of focused care, of watching the tiny creatures fight their way back from the edge, of sitting across from Maggie in the dim light of the forge while they fed their charges together.
Three days of not talking about anything that mattered.
“I’ll keep them,” he said, the answer rising before he’d consciously decided. “They can stay here.”
Walker nodded, unsurprised. “Thought you might say that.” He moved closer, examining the nearly completed box—no, home. “This is good work. Too good for temporary.”
The observation hit too close to the thought Anson had been avoiding. Nothing about this visit felt temporary anymore. Not the kittens. Not Maggie. Not the slow thaw he felt each time she entered his space.
“What did she say?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. “About leaving.”
Walker leaned against the workbench, careful not to disturb the orderly arrangement of tools. “Nothing specific. But that Airstream’s meant for traveling. And from what Johanna’s gathered, she’s got a job to get back to. TV people usually do.”
TV people. The reminder of who she was—Magnolia Rowe, with her millions of viewers and camera-ready smile—threatened to rebuild the wall he’d spent three days carefully dismantling.
“Has she—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Has she said anything. About. Me.”
The question sounded pathetic to his own ears. Like a teenage boy asking if the pretty girl mentioned him. But Walker didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile.
“Not to me, but Jo says she asks about you. Wants to understand.”
Anson nodded once, focusing on the next piece of wood, the next joint, the next task that made sense when nothing else did.
“You know, there’s an easier way to find out what she’s thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“Talk to her.”
His shoulders tightened. “I talk to her.” About the kittens. About feeding schedules. About the temperature in the forge and whether the makeshift bed was warm enough. Safe topics.
“You know what I mean,” Walker said. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just matter-of-fact. “Instead of building elaborate homes for kittens, you could tell her how you feel. Give her a reason to stay.”
Anson set down the clamp harder than necessary. “This is easier.”
“Is it?”
No. Yes. He didn’t know anymore. “Wood, metal, leather make sense,” he said, gesturing to the half-assembled structure. “You shape them, they stay shaped. People...” He trailed off, unable to explain how every conversation with Maggie felt like navigating a minefield he’d laid himself.
Walker was quiet for a long moment. “I get it. Words were never my strong suit either. Lost my daughter because of it. Nearly lost Jo, too.” He picked up the thermos, twisted the cap off, and poured coffee into it.
Steam curled up, carrying the rich scent through the workshop.
“Talking about the hard stuff scared the hell out of me, but I’ve also learned the things worth having are the things that scare the hell out of us. ”
Anson accepted the offered cup and stared down at the dark liquid. “What if I can’t? Be what she needs.”
“Son, you’re the only one who thinks she needs anything more than what you are.
” Walker set the thermos down and headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the latch.
“Those kittens didn’t need a perfect home.
They just needed someone to care enough to try.
” He nodded toward the structure taking shape on the workbench. “Maggie’s the same.”
The door closed behind him, leaving Anson alone with the quiet scratch of sandpaper and the soft breathing of the kittens.
He worked steadily through the morning, fitting the last pieces together, sanding the edges smooth, rubbing the beeswax mixture into the wood until it glowed with a soft luster.
The wool lining fit perfectly, creating a nest that retained the heating pad’s warmth without overheating.
He carefully transferred the kittens, one by one, into their new home.
Spark blinked up at him with blue-gray eyes that would eventually change color, tiny paws kneading the air.
Ember and Smoke curled together, still spending more time sleeping than awake, but looking stronger than they had yesterday.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Safe now.”
Bramble rose from his bed, stretching his massive frame before padding to the door. The wolfhound scratched once, looking back at Anson expectantly.
“Need to go out?”
Another scratch, more insistent this time.
He wiped his hands on a rag and crossed to the door, pulling it open. Instead of rushing outside to pee, Bramble simply sat, tail thumping against the threshold.
“What?”
The morning had warmed, fall sunshine spilling across the yard in a stream of gold between the forge and the cabin where Maggie stayed. No sign of her, though.
“What are you waiting for?”
Bramble gave him a look that could only be described as impatient, then stood, trotted out about ten feet, and looked back.
“You want me to follow you?”
The dog huffed and continued walking.
Anson stepped back, intending to close the door and return to his work. The kittens needed feeding soon. He should heat the formula, get the bottles ready.
Bramble barked once. A rare sound from the normally silent dog.
“Fine,” he muttered and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. “But make it quick.”
He followed Bramble across the yard, squinting against the sunlight.
Halfway to Maggie’s cabin, he realized what his wolfhound was doing.
The pattern was familiar by now—Bramble would fetch Maggie for the next feeding, lead her to the forge as if it were his job to make sure the kittens were tended to on schedule.
Only this time, he’d wanted Anson to join him.