Chapter 9 #2
The door to Maggie’s cabin opened before they reached it.
She stepped out onto the small porch, wrapped in an oversized hoodie he recognized as one of River’s—too big for her frame, sleeves rolled up to free her hands.
His chest tightened at the sight of her, at the easy smile she gave Bramble as the dog bounded up the steps to greet her.
“Hey, boy,” she said, crouching to kiss the wolfhound’s forehead. “Is it that time already?”
A completely irrational spike of jealousy shot through Anson as he watched her touch Bramble so easily, so naturally.
As if the wolfhound had been hers all along.
Then she looked up, saw him standing awkwardly in the middle of the yard, and her smile faltered slightly before returning, more cautious now.
“Morning,” she called, straightening up. “I was just coming over.”
He nodded, unable to find words. The sunlight caught in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper at the edges. She’d pulled it back in a messy knot, wisps escaping around her face. Work hair. Not camera hair.
“They’re awake,” he managed finally. “Hungry.”
“I bet.” She came down the steps, Bramble at her heels like a silver shadow. “River loaned me this.” She plucked at the oversized sweatshirt. “Said I’d freeze to death otherwise.”
Another spike of that same irrational feeling. He pushed it down. “Montana’s colder than Florida.”
“So I’ve noticed.” She fell into step beside him, close but not touching, as they walked back toward the forge. “How was your night? Did they let you sleep at all?”
“Some.” Three hours, broken into fragments between feedings. He’d spent the rest of his time working on the kitten’s home. “Spark started climbing out of the box at 3 a.m. Found him halfway to my workbench.”
Maggie laughed, and the sound warmed something cold inside him. “Little escape artist. Better keep an eye on that one.”
He nodded, watching her from the corner of his eye as they walked. River’s sweatshirt swallowed her, making her look smaller than she was.
He should’ve been the one offering her his shirt, not River.
Instead, he’d stayed silent. Let another man take care of her while he hid in his workshop.
Three days of shared purpose had eased some of the tension between them, but he still felt like he was navigating that minefield.
Bramble trotted ahead, tail held high, pleased with himself for completing his self-assigned task. The wolfhound pushed the forge door open with his nose and disappeared inside.
“He takes his job seriously,” Maggie said, a smile in her voice.
“Born herder,” Anson agreed. “But his PTSD won’t let him herd sheep.”
“From the wolf attack?”
When Walker gave Bramble to him a few months into his stay at Valor Ridge, he’d written to her about the wolf attack and how Bramble was now terrified of the animals he was bred to protect.
Anson nodded, surprised she remembered those details from his letters. “Yeah.”
“Does he still struggle with loud noises and wolf howls?”
“Yeah. You should’ve seen him when Kavik joined us a few months ago.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Kavik?”
“X’s husky mix. Bramble was terrified of him.”
“Ah. Because he looks like a wolf?”
“Yeah.” This kind of conversation, he could handle.
The dogs were a safe topic. The kittens were safe.
“Kavik howls. A lot. Like, all the time. For no reason. Bramble was absolutely terrified, but he stood guard over the paddocks for a week, keeping watch over the horses, goats, and our alpaca. Trembling, but refusing to back down. Kavik just kept singing his lungs out, and Bramble just kept standing guard.”
Maggie smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Poor guy. But brave.”
“They’re friends now,” he added. “Sort of. Bramble still flinches when Kavik starts up, but he doesn’t run to guard the livestock.”
“Do you think he misses having a job?”
He paused, and Maggie also stopped moving, raising a brow in question as she glanced over her shoulder at him.
Was Bramble missing his job? Feeling useless without a clear purpose? He’d never considered it before, but now he did.
“Maybe,” he admitted after a drawn-out moment. But the thought of sending Bramble out into the night to guard livestock made a cold sweat break out along his spine, and he hurried to add, “But he’s getting too old to guard sheep.”
Wolfhounds had short lives compared to other dogs, and at six, Bramble was entering his senior years.
Thankfully, he showed no signs of slowing down, but Anson didn’t want to think about the day it happened.
Boone had lost his heart dog, Bishop, to old age last spring, and he still hadn’t recovered.
Losing Bramble? Without a doubt, that would destroy him.
If Maggie noticed his darkening mood, she didn’t mention it. “Well, now he has kittens to herd.” She laughed as Bramble glanced back at them and huffed, clearly telling them to hurry. “And, apparently, us.”
Us.
Such a simple word, packed with so much meaning.
They reached the forge door, and Anson held it open for her. The familiar scents of coal and metal and oil wrapped around him as they stepped inside. Home. The only place he truly felt at ease.
Bramble had already taken up his post beside the kitten box, his massive head resting on the edge, amber eyes watching the tiny creatures with fierce protectiveness.
“Oh,” Maggie breathed, stopping short just inside the door. “Anson.”
He watched as she scanned his space—the forge itself, banked but still radiating heat, the anvil, the racks of tools arranged in order by type and size. Then her gaze fell on the kitten house, where the morning sunlight from the high windows illuminated it.
He shifted his weight, suddenly conscious of the sawdust on his jeans, the wood shavings in his beard. “Made them something better than towels.”
She moved toward the workbench, reaching out to touch the polished wood. Her fingers trailed over the dovetail joints, the perfectly fitted lid, the tiny staircase leading to the upper level.
“Anson, this is...” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears. “This is beautiful. When did you—how did you have time?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with her focus, with the naked emotion on her face. “Started last night. Finished this morning.”
She opened the lid carefully, revealing the three kittens nestled in their woolen bed. The orange one—Spark—mewed at the disturbance, tiny paws kneading the air.
“You built them a two-story house,” she said, wonderment in her voice. “With actual stairs.”
“For when they’re bigger. Kittens like height. Safety.”
She closed the lid gently and turned to face him fully. “You’re good at taking care of things.”
The simple statement, delivered without expectation or demand, loosened something in his chest. “Things are easier,” he admitted. “They don’t expect...” He gestured vaguely, searching for the right word.
“The right words?” she finished.
Heat rushed into his face. Thank God for his beard. “Yeah.”
“I don’t need the right words, either, you know. I just want to spend time with you before I have to leave.”
He stared at her, at the woman who’d driven two thousand miles to meet a version of himself that only existed in carefully crafted letters. The woman who’d stayed anyway, even after seeing the truth. The woman who’d spent three days feeding abandoned kittens alongside him in comfortable silence.
The words he needed to say stuck in his throat. Three simple words: Please don’t leave.
But he couldn’t force them out, couldn’t make his mouth form the sounds. Instead, he nodded once, the barest dip of his chin.
She smiled and turned back to the kittens. “Let’s feed these little ones. Spark’s probably starving by now.”
“Always is,” he agreed, relieved at the return to safer conversational ground. “Greedy little thing.”
“Fighter,” she corrected and filled the tiny bottles with kitten formula. He watched her mix the formula. In three days, she’d learned the exact temperature, the perfect consistency. Those same hands rebuilt houses on TV, he reminded himself. Restored broken things, made them beautiful again.
Like the Airsteam.
Like the kittens.
Like him, maybe, if he let her try.