Chapter 11
eleven
He didn’t know why he invited her because he couldn’t fucking concentrate with her here.
Anson had to measure the oak plank twice before marking the cut line with his pencil. Behind him, River’s laugh mingled with Maggie’s, the sound scraping against something raw inside his chest.
“You sure that’s long enough?” Jonah asked, leaning over his shoulder to examine the mark.
“It’s fine,” he bit out.
Jonah’s eyes widened slightly, and he backed up, raising his hands. “If you say so, master craftsman.”
Fuck. He should apologize. He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead and opened his mouth, but River’s singing drifted across the barn—some Top 40 hit butchered beyond recognition, with improvised lyrics about barn doors and horseshit—and he ground his teeth instead.
Maggie laughed again, the sound bright against the weathered wood and dust around them.
He should be grateful for the help, the extra hands on the project, but all he could focus on was the casual way River bumped her shoulder when she made a joke, how he’d leaned close to show her something on his phone.
Jonah followed his gaze and whistled softly. “Ah.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, it is, but you’re turning it into something. River’s just being River. He’s like that with everyone.”
Anson positioned the plank and reached for the circular saw, needing the whine of the blade to drown out the noise in his head.
The oak surrendered to the cut, releasing the sharp scent of fresh sawdust. This made sense.
Tools and wood and measured precision. Not whatever was happening ten feet away, where River helped Maggie sand down another piece of lumber, standing close enough that their arms brushed with each movement.
“Besides,” Jonah continued, “if you’d stop glaring at the floor for two seconds, you might notice she keeps looking over here.”
His hand faltered mid-cut, the saw jerking slightly. He corrected quickly, but not before Jonah noticed.
“Easy there. Wouldn’t want you losing any fingers.”
Anson shut off the saw and set it aside, wiping sawdust from his hands. “I’m not losing any damn fingers.”
He ignored that and picked up the cut plank, testing its weight. The wood was solid, with good grain—it would hold up to whatever the rehab horse could throw at it. Unlike his composure, which felt thinner by the minute.
“Hand me those hinges.” He gestured toward the metal pieces lined up on the workbench.
Jonah passed them over without comment, but the knowing look in his eyes made Anson want to punch something. Preferably River.
No. That wasn’t fair. River was just being River. Friendly. Open. Everything Anson wasn’t.
A burst of laughter erupted from the other side of the barn, and Anson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. Maggie was doubled over, one hand braced on River’s shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. River grinned, clearly delighted with himself for whatever joke had landed so perfectly.
“You two want to actually work, or should we just leave you to your comedy routine?” The words came out sharp, his voice rough with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.
River’s eyebrows shot up, but his smile never faltered. “Multitasking, Sut.”
Maggie straightened, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she composed herself. Her eyes met Anson’s for a brief moment before darting away. “Sorry. We’re on it.”
The apology made him feel like shit. He hadn’t meant to snap at her. At either of them, really.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the hinges. “Just need to get this done before dark.”
He felt more than saw Jonah’s sideways glance, the silent judgment radiating off him in waves. But Jonah, being Jonah, didn’t call him out, just picked up the drill and started pre-drilling holes for the screws.
Anson focused on the task at hand, measuring the spacing for the hinges with careful precision. The rehab horse—a big bay gelding with trauma issues that rivaled his own—had already kicked through one stall door. This one needed to be sturdy enough to withstand another panic attack.
“Hey, Anson?” Maggie’s voice came from directly behind him, making him tense. “Can I see those measurements?”
He turned, finding her closer than expected.
Close enough that he could see the flecks of amber in her green eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her nose that the TV cameras never seemed to capture.
Close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something clean and herbal that made his chest tighten.
“Here.” He handed over his notebook without meeting her eyes.
Her fingers brushed his as she took it, the brief contact sending a jolt through his system that had nothing to do with static electricity. She studied his neat, precise handwriting, nodding as she took in the dimensions.
“This is good,” she said, “but if we move the crossbeam up two inches, it’ll be more stable against lateral pressure.”
He’d considered that. Had actually calculated it both ways before settling on the current design. “Horse kicks straight, not lateral.”
“True, but the way the wood grain runs in these planks, you’ll get better tensile strength with a higher placement.”
She was right. Of course she was right. She’d been rebuilding bigger structures than stable doors for years.
“Okay.” He took back the notebook, trying to ignore how his fingers tingled where hers had touched them. “Higher crossbeam. Got it.”
“I can help with that,” she offered, already reaching for a pencil to mark the new measurements.
He nodded, stepping back to give her space. She bent over the workbench, focused now, all business as she made precise adjustments to his design. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a practiced motion that Anson had seen dozens of times on her show.
Yeah, he’d been watching it every night. He’d checked out an episode after finding out who she really was. He’d meant to only watch the one. Now he was on season three and couldn’t stop. But he wanted to know her. All of her.
Now the familiarity of the gesture twisted something in his gut. How many other people had watched her tuck that wayward strand behind her ear? How many strangers felt they knew her through a screen?
How many of them might want to find her?
He still hadn’t asked why she’d come to Valor Ridge, but he knew she was scared. Had suspected for a while now from her letters that she was being stalked.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment too long, and when he glanced up, he caught River watching him with a knowing smirk. He turned back to his work instead, focusing on making the cuts to fit Maggie’s new design.
River switched songs, launching into an off-key rendition of “Sweet Caroline” that echoed through the barn rafters. To Anson’s dismay, Jonah joined in for the chorus, both men pointing at Maggie expectantly until she laughed and added her voice to the “bum bum bum” part.
“Come on, Sutter,” River called, gesturing expansively. “This is a full-participation singalong!”
He turned back to his saw. “Need to finish these cuts.”
“Party pooper.” River slung an arm around Maggie’s shoulders, pulling her into a side hug. “Don’t worry, we’ve got enough enthusiasm to cover his share.”
He pushed aside the uncomfortable heat spreading through his chest.
It wasn’t jealousy.
Couldn’t be.
Maggie wasn’t his to be jealous over.
The barn door swung open, and Lila walked in with her medical bag.
Her gaze immediately went to the horse, a bay gelding with wary eyes and a pronounced limp.
Walker had brought him in three days ago, rescued from a foreclosed farm where he’d been abandoned in a stall with a broken door.
The splintered wood had cut his shoulder when he tried to escape.
Now he paced the temporary pen, head low, ears flicking nervously at each loud noise.
“How’s the patient’s new accommodations coming along?” she asked, setting her bag down on a hay bale.
“Almost ready for assembly,” Jonah answered.
Lila nodded appreciatively and moved to examine the pieces. “Will it hold if he panics again?”
“That’s the idea,” Anson said, bringing over the last cut piece. “Solid oak. Cross-braced. No sharp edges or splinters.”
Maggie stepped closer, running her hand along the edge of one plank. “We’re using a marine-grade finish that’s safe for animals but tough enough to handle cleaning chemicals. Should last for years.”
“I’m impressed,” Lila said, smiling at Maggie. “You really know your stuff.”
“She rebuilt an entire barn for rescued animals on last season’s finale,” River chimed in. “Used reclaimed timber from a demolished factory. The beams were like a hundred years old.”
“I remember that episode,” Lila said. “My mom made me watch it with her. The section on proper drainage for animal stalls was brilliant.”
Maggie laughed, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “That was actually my favorite part to film. The network wanted more focus on the decorative elements, but I insisted on showing the practical infrastructure. Animals need function over form.”
“Exactly!” Lila’s face lit up. “I can’t tell you how many beautiful barns I’ve been in that are complete hazards for the animals.”
Anson watched them fall into easy conversation about building techniques and animal care.
Maggie’s hands moved animatedly as she described moisture barriers and ventilation systems. This was a different Maggie than the one who sat quietly beside him feeding kittens—confident, authoritative, fully in her element.
A TV star talking shop with Valor Ridge’s vet.
“Sounds like I need to hire you as a consultant for my clinic renovation,” Lila said.
“Happy to help,” Maggie replied. “Just let me know when you’re ready to start planning.”
“Absolutely. Oh, and before I forget—Nessie’s organizing a ladies’ night tomorrow at her cabin. Nothing fancy, just dinner and drinks. She wanted me to make sure you knew you’re invited.”
Maggie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Ladies’ night?”