Chapter 12
twelve
The forge fire had died to embers hours ago, but Anson couldn’t bring himself to bank it properly and turn in.
Sleep wasn’t coming tonight. Not with the memory of Maggie’s face—so close he could count her eyelashes, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat—burned into his brain.
He’d almost kissed her. And then he’d panicked and run like a goddamn coward.
He paced the length of his workshop, the floorboards creaking under his boots. Bramble watched from his bed by the dying coals, amber eyes tracking each agitated lap.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Anson muttered.
The wolfhound huffed, chin still resting on his paws.
Even the kittens seemed to judge him, three tiny heads poking from their box to observe his restless movement. Spark, bold as ever, mewed reproachfully.
The tension that had been building since that afternoon—since that moment when her hand was warm in his and her eyes had invited him closer—coiled tighter in his chest. Words choked him, words he couldn’t say to her face. Never could.
But he could write them.
He grabbed his notebook from the shelf and flipped to a clean page. The pen felt clumsy in his calloused fingers, but the words came easier on paper. They always did.
Maggie,
I’m not good at this. At any of it. Talking. Being around people. Being around you. Especially after today. I almost kissed you, and then I ran. I do that—run when things matter. When I might break something I can’t fix.
You’re right. I’ve been jealous of River. The way he talks to you. Makes you laugh. Touches your arm or shoulder like it’s easy. Nothing’s easy for me, except maybe working metal and fixing broken things.
You deserve someone who can give you more than silence and uncertainty. But I wanted to kiss you today. Have wanted to since you drove up that first day, even when I couldn’t look you in the eye.
I’m sorry I pulled away. Sorry I can’t be what you need. But I’m trying.
Yours always,
Anson
He read it over once, then again, his gaze snagging on two words.
Yours always.
He didn’t remember when he started signing his letters to her like that. But it was true. Somewhere between discussing his love of Lonesome Dove, her travel and projects, and Bramble’s impressive stick collection, he had become hers.
He’d never been anyone’s before. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Even his dad had let him go without much of a fight when the courts sent him to prison. Bramble was the closest thing to loyalty he’d known, and that was a dog.
He folded the letter carefully. Bramble’s ears perked up, recognizing the familiar sound of paper being prepared for delivery.
He held it out. “Letter for Maggie.”
Bramble pushed to his feet and padded over, accepting the folded paper gently between his teeth.
“Good boy.” Anson opened the door, and Bramble trotted out into the night, a silver ghost in the darkness.
Minutes stretched, each one pulling his nerves tighter.
What if she were asleep?
What if she read it and laughed?
What if—
Bramble’s scratch at the door interrupted his spiral of doubt. He yanked it open, and the wolfhound trotted in, another folded paper clutched carefully in his jaws.
Shit.
That was too fast.
Did she not accept the letter? Had she turned Bramble away? He didn’t see how anyone could with that shaggy face and soulful eyes, but maybe he’d pissed her off enough to shut the door on Bramble, too.
But no—this was a different paper. A reply, not his own letter, returned.
Bramble dropped the note into his outstretched palm and returned to his bed, curling up with a satisfied sigh. Anson stared at the folded paper, his name written in Maggie’s flowing script. With unsteady fingers, he opened it.
Anson,
Stop apologizing for who you are. I don’t want River.
I don’t want easy conversation or someone who says all the right things.
I want the man who built a two-story home for orphaned kittens.
Who makes tools sing against metal. Who writes me letters that make me feel seen in ways no one else ever has.
The man whose hands shake when he passes me tools but can forge metal into impossible beauty.
I want YOU.
The way your hands move when you’re working. The way your eyes catch the firelight. The quiet strength in everything you do. The man in the letters AND the man in the forge. They’re both you, and they’re both worth wanting.
I came here for you. I’m still here for you. And yes, I wanted you to kiss me today. If you come to my door tonight, I’ll be waiting.
Yours forever,
Maggie
P.S. In case my sign-off wasn’t clear enough, I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.
Heat rushed through him, pooling low in his belly. She wanted him. Not River with his easy charm. Not some better version of himself. Him—scarred, broken, awkward him.
He read it twice, then a third time, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. She wanted him to come to her. Now. Tonight.
Panic and desire warred in his chest, each fighting for dominance. He glanced down at himself—worn flannel with the sleeves rolled up, jeans with a tear at the knee, boots still dusty from the barn. He hadn’t showered. Hadn’t even combed his beard after working all day.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Bramble whined softly, head tilting in that way that somehow managed to convey judgment.
“What, you think I should just go like this?”
The wolfhound’s tail thumped once against the floor.
“Easy for you to say. You’re covered in fur.”
Bramble huffed and went to his bed, digging at it and circling until he found the perfect spot. When he flopped down, the floor shook under Anson’s boots.
And still he stood there, rooted to the spot. He read the letter again, fingers tracing her words.
I want you.
Three simple words that burrowed under his skin, lighting fires along his nerves.
The image of her face that afternoon—lips parted, eyes dark with invitation—flooded back with visceral force. What if he hadn’t pulled away? What if he’d closed that final distance between them?
He couldn’t go to her. He wasn’t ready for that.
But his cock had other ideas.
It hardened against his jeans, the pressure uncomfortable and insistent. He hadn’t touched himself in... months, maybe. That part of him had felt disconnected, unimportant in the face of everything else he carried.
But now his body thrummed with a need so sharp it bordered on pain.
He sank onto his cot, still clutching her letter. Bramble was curled up in his bed, the kittens quiet in their box. The forge was silent except for the occasional pop of cooling embers.
With hesitant fingers, he unbuttoned his jeans, freeing himself from the constricting fabric. His cock strained upward, already fully hard.
This was wrong. Using her letter, her words, for this. But he couldn’t stop the images flooding his mind—Maggie’s smile, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, how her work pants hugged her ass when she bent to measure boards.
He wrapped his hand around his shaft, the contact sending a jolt through his system. Jesus, it had been too long. He stroked once, tentatively, then again with more purpose.
I want you.
His thumb circled the head, gathering the moisture beading there to ease his strokes. He imagined her hand instead of his—smaller, softer despite the calluses from her work. Imagined her breath against his neck as she touched him. Imagined her voice, low and husky, telling him what she’d written.
I wanted you to kiss me today.
What if he had? Would she have pressed against him, opened for him? Would she have made those little gasping sounds he sometimes heard when she stretched after sitting too long with the kittens?
His hand moved faster, grip tightening as he approached the edge. Heat built at the base of his spine, muscles tensing.
He thought of her lips, her neck, the curve of her breast beneath her work shirt. Thought of her straddling him on this very cot, her dark hair falling around them like a curtain as she took him inside her.
If you come to my door tonight, I’ll be waiting.
“Maggie,” he breathed, the name torn from him without conscious thought.
His hips bucked up into his fist. Once. Twice. His orgasm hit with unexpected force, pleasure spiking sharp and hot as he spilled over his fingers, his abdomen, soaking his shirt.
For one suspended moment, there was only the pulsing aftershocks and the ragged sound of his breathing in the quiet forge.
Then reality crashed back.
What the fuck had he done?
Shame flooded him, dousing the lingering pleasure like ice water. He’d used her letter—her honest, trusting words—to get off like some desperate teenager. Had fantasized about her while jerking off in his workshop with her kittens sleeping a few feet away.
Disgust rose in his throat. He grabbed a shop rag from beside the cot, wiping his hand, his stomach. He changed his shirt with jerky movements. The evidence was gone, but not the knowledge of what he’d done.
Her letter lay beside him, creased where he’d gripped it too hard. The paper that had touched her hands, carried her thoughts, her trust in him.
He couldn’t keep it. Not after this. Not with the stain of his weakness marking every word.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and tossed it into the metal trash bin beside his workbench. As soon as the paper hit the metal, his chest seized with regret.
He couldn’t do it.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered, fishing the letter out and carefully smoothing the crumpled page against his thigh. His fingers traced over the indentations her pen had made, feeling each curve and line like braille.
Anson moved to his workbench and pulled open the bottom drawer.
Inside lay a wooden box, hand-carved with simple geometric patterns—one of his first projects at Valor Ridge.
He lifted the lid, revealing dozens of carefully folded letters, each one preserved in chronological order.
Six years of Maggie’s thoughts, her life, pieces of herself she’d trusted him with when no one else would.
He added tonight’s letter to the collection, placing it gently atop the others before closing the lid.