Chapter 14
fourteen
The wine buzzed warm through Maggie’s veins as she picked her way along the path to her cabin, the women’s laughter still echoing in her ears.
For the first time in months, she felt something like safety—like belonging—wrapped around her shoulders tighter than River’s borrowed jacket.
These women carried wounds as deep as her own, yet they’d made room for her without question.
Maybe that’s what drew broken people to Valor Ridge.
The chance to be broken together, instead of alone.
A flash of movement caught her eye—a silver-gray shape loping along the creek bank, followed by a broader figure in a dark flannel. Anson and Bramble, silhouetted against the deepening purple of dusk. Her feet veered toward them before her brain fully registered the decision.
“Anson?” she called, then winced at how her voice carried across the quiet ranch. Too loud. Too eager. The wine made her braver than she should be.
He turned and stiffened when he spotted her. Even from this distance, she read the instant battle in his stance—stay or flee. But then Bramble bounded toward her, making the decision for him.
“Hey, sweet boy.” She ruffled the wolfhound’s fur as he pressed his massive head against her chest. “Aren’t you cold in that water?”
Anson approached more slowly, hands shoved in his pockets. “He doesn’t feel it. Too much fur.”
“Must be nice.” She stood, pulling her flannel tighter over River’s hoodie. November nights here bit deeper than any she’d known in Florida.
“You cold?” He frowned, looking her over. “Should be inside.”
“Just came from Nessie’s. Girls’ night.” She smiled, warmed by the memory as much as the lingering alcohol. “They’re wonderful. All of them.”
Anson nodded, gaze shifting to the creek. “They are.”
The silence stretched between them, not entirely uncomfortable. Or maybe that was just the alcohol numbing her senses, because Anson looked more than uncomfortable. He looked like he was trying to find an excuse to flee.
Bramble nudged at her hand, then trotted back toward the water, looking over his shoulder expectantly.
“I was...” Anson cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “Walking. To my spot. The one I wrote about. Creek bends through some rocks up ahead. Good place to... think.”
She waited, sensing there was more.
“Want to see it?” The words came out in a rush, like he needed to get them out before he changed his mind. “Before snow comes. Changes everything.”
Her heart sped up. An invitation into his private space—the first he’d extended beyond the forge, beyond the kittens. “Yes. I’d love to.”
They fell into step together, following the creek as it wound away from the ranch buildings. Bramble splashed ahead, pausing occasionally to look back, making sure they were still following. The water caught the moonlight, turning to silver where it rushed over stones.
“Been coming here since I arrived,” Anson said after several minutes of silence. “First week, when everything was...” He made a gesture near his head, like static. “Too much. Too loud. Found this place.”
“Is that why you stayed? At Valor Ridge?”
He nodded, picking his way carefully over the uneven ground. “Partly. Walker gave me space. Work that made sense. But this—” He gestured toward the bend in the creek ahead. “This gave me room to breathe.”
The path opened into a small clearing where the creek widened and spilled over a jumble of flat rocks.
The water pooled into a deep, clear basin before continuing its journey downstream.
In summer, it might have been a swimming hole.
Now, with November’s chill setting in, it offered a stark, peaceful kind of beauty.
Anson led her to a large flat stone overlooking the water. “Best seat.”
They sat side by side, not touching but close enough that she felt the heat of him against her side. The moon hung low and full just over the tops of the mountains.
Bramble splashed happily in the shallows, snapping at water droplets that caught the pale light.
“Beautiful,” she murmured.
“Yeah.” His voice was soft, barely audible over the water’s gentle rush. “Makes sense here. Everything... makes sense.”
She understood what he meant. The forge was his controlled space—where he worked with purpose, shaped things with his hands. But this was wild space—untamed, untouched, yet somehow equally calming. Both places where he could be fully himself.
“Can I ask you something?” She kept her eyes on the water, making it easier for him. “Why are the letters easier? Than talking, I mean.”
He was silent so long she thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was low and measured, as if he’d thought about this question many times.
“On paper, I can... think. Cross things out. Try again.” He traced patterns on the stone between them. “Be the person I want to be. Not the one who freezes. Panics. Can’t find words. Not the one with all of these…” He held up his hands, flexed his fingers. “Ugly scars on his body and soul.”
“But they’re both you. The man who writes those sweet, beautiful letters and the man sitting here now. They’re both real.”
“One’s more broken than the other.”
“You’re not broken, Anson.” She turned to face him fully.
“You take care of the kittens and Bramble. And Nessie told me you helped save Oliver’s feral cats, even though you don’t like to leave the ranch.
You share your sacred spaces.” She gestured around them.
“You take care of things that need protecting.”
Surprise crossed his expression. “Nessie… told you about that?”
“At girls’ night.” Maggie’s gaze drifted back to Bramble, who had abandoned the water to investigate something in the underbrush. “They all had things to say about you, actually.”
His shoulders tensed. “What things?”
The wine made her brave enough to meet his eyes directly. “Good things. Nessie loves you for saving the cats after the fire at her bakery. Naomi loves you for fixing Ghost’s mug.” She smiled. “And Greta thinks your beard is hot.”
He rubbed it self-consciously. “It’s just a beard.”
“It’s a very nice beard,” she said, then laughed at his obvious discomfort. “Sorry. The wine is making me say things I normally wouldn’t.”
“It’s... okay.” His hand moved across the stone, brushing against hers. Once. Twice. The third time, he let his fingers close around hers, holding for three heartbeats.
He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away. “What else did they say?”
She hesitated, suddenly aware of how much she might reveal. “That I’m lucky. To have someone who looks at me the way you do.”
The air between them thickened. Anson went completely still, his profile sharp against the moonlight. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“Do you?” she asked softly. “Look at me a certain way?”
He stared at the water, the muscles in his jaw working. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re leaving.” The words came out rough, almost angry. “Because you have a life somewhere else. TV show. Career. Future.” He gestured vaguely toward the ranch. “This is temporary for you. Hiding place. Until it’s safe.”
“Is that what you think? That I’m just passing through? Even after my letter last night?”
He opened his mouth to retort, but a low, distressed whine shattered the moment, and he shot to his feet. “Bram?”
The dog wasn’t in the water.
“Bramble?” His voice took on an edge of panic.
“Hey.” She set a hand on his arm and waited until he looked at her. “It’s okay. We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”
He swallowed hard, then nodded.
They did find him a few minutes later, downstream, lying on his belly near a thick cluster of bushes, making soft, anxious sounds.
As they approached, Maggie heard a weak, desperate mewing coming from beneath the branches. A sound she recognized. “Oh my God. More kittens?”
Anson dropped to his knees beside Bramble and gently pushed aside the foliage. “No, it’s an adult cat. Hurt.”
Maggie crouched next to him, peering into the shadows. A small calico huddled against the base of the bush, sides heaving with shallow breaths. Dried blood matted the fur along her flank, and she looked way too skinny.
“Is this Princess Jellybean?” she whispered. “We were just talking about her at Nessie’s. We thought she could be the kittens’ mother.”
“Yeah, it’s her.” He reached in carefully, his hands gentle as he examined the cat. She hissed, but it was half-hearted at best. “Jesus. This is a knife wound.”
“A knife wound?” Her blood ran cold as the memory washed over her—that first morning at the ranch, the sound that had torn her from sleep.
“The scream I heard,” she whispered, her fingers digging into Anson’s arm.
“That first morning. I woke up to a noise—a struggle and then this... this cut-off cry.” Her stomach twisted with horror.
“Oh God, Anson. Someone was outside my cabin that morning and did this to her. Someone hurt her on purpose. And she’s been out here bleeding for days. ”
The thought of Princess Jellybean dragging herself along the creek, wounded and weak, while her babies waited…
Tears burned her eyes. “I should have investigated more. If I’d looked harder, maybe we could have helped her sooner.”
Anson’s jaw tightened. “Not your fault. I told you it was probably a coyote.”
“But she’s been suffering all this time. All alone, while we’ve been taking care of her babies. Oh God, it was Landry, wasn’t it?” Fear wrapped cold fingers around her throat and tightened into a fist.
It was an irrational fear.
She knew it was.
He wasn’t here, lurking in the woods, hurting cats.
He couldn’t be.
But her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the creek’s gentle song. She’d been found. He’d followed her all the way to Montana. To this hidden corner of the world where she’d started to feel safe.
“Maggie.” Anson’s voice cut through the panic, his hands suddenly on her shoulders, steadying her. “Look at me.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. Gone was the hesitation, the careful distance he’d maintained since their near-kiss yesterday.
“We don’t know it’s him. Could be anyone. Hiker. Hunter. Teenager. Someone from town, trying to fuck with the Ridge. But doesn’t matter right now. Cat needs help. You with me?”
The directness of his gaze, the steadiness of his voice, pulled her back from the edge.
She nodded and sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m with you.”
Princess Jellybean mewed again, the sound weak and plaintive. Her eyes, clouded with pain, fixed on Maggie’s face.
“We need to get her to Lila,” Anson said, already shrugging out of his flannel. He reached under the bush again and wrapped it carefully around the trembling calico, creating a makeshift nest. “Now.”
Bramble led the way with anxious backward glances. Night had fallen fully, but Anson moved with certainty through the darkness, one hand holding the bundled cat, the other finding Maggie’s elbow when the path grew uneven.
Lila was in the barn, checking on her patients one last time before bed, when they burst in. She took one look at the bundle in Anson’s arms and motioned them to her exam table.
“What happened?” She was already pulling on gloves, reaching for her medical kit.
“Found her by the creek,” Anson explained, setting Princess gently on the table. “Someone hurt her. Deliberately.”
“We think she’s been there for days,” Maggie added and explained about the sounds she’d heard the morning after her arrival.
Lila’s expression darkened as she examined the cat. “Broken ribs. Severe dehydration. Plus the stab wound and possible internal bleeding.” She looked up at them. “She’s lucky to be alive, but she needs intensive care.”
Maggie must have swayed slightly, because suddenly Anson’s arm was around her waist, holding her upright.
“Sit.” He guided her to a nearby stool. “Breathe.”
He crouched in front of her, hands on her knees, eyes level with hers. The walls he’d built between them had vanished completely, burned away by crisis and concern. This was Anson fully present—the man from the letters and the man from the forge merged into one, focused entirely on her.
“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “You’re safe here. Whoever did this to Princess won’t hurt you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
In that moment, with his hands steady on her knees and his eyes never leaving hers, she believed him completely.