Chapter 17 #2
Claire’s grip was strong, her fingernails short and clean. “About time. I’ve been asking Hollis for a workshop for months.” She turned to Hollis. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Hollis smiled. “Claire used to help her father with home repairs before she got married. She’s been our unofficial maintenance person since she arrived.”
“Until that jackass Knox showed up and took over.” Claire’s tone was gruff but lacked real heat.
“Knox is a jackass,” Hollis agreed. “But his family also pays our bills, so if he wants to moonlight as our resident handyman, I can’t exactly stop him. He’s a wildland firefighter in real life,” she added for Maggie, Nessie, and Naomi’s benefit.
Claire snorted. “Yeah, better at tearing stuff up than fixing it.” She turned to Maggie with newfound interest. “You really know what you’re doing?”
“I do. I’ve been building and renovating professionally for over a decade.”
“She has her own TV show,” Angel piped up, clearly impressed. “Naomi said so.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “TV, huh? You one of those decorators who just points and tells men where to put things?”
The challenge was clear, and Maggie had faced enough of them on job sites to recognize it. She held Claire’s gaze steadily. “No. I’m the one who tears down load-bearing walls, rebuilds foundations, and does my own tile work.”
“Good.” Claire crossed her arms. “So, what’s the plan? When do we start?”
Here was a woman who’d been through hell but still wanted to build, to create, to fix broken things.
“As soon as possible,” Maggie answered. “I’m thinking we start with the basics—measuring, cutting, joining. Then move on to simple projects. Birdhouses are good for learning joinery.”
“I want to build a bed frame,” a voice called from the hallway. A younger woman with a cascade of black curls and a toddler balanced on her hip appeared. “The one in my room creaks, and Jamie keeps waking up when I move.”
“Beds are a bit advanced for beginners,” Maggie cautioned. “But definitely something we can work toward.”
Within minutes, five more women had drifted into the sunroom, all curious about the carpentry and baking classes.
Even Tariah looked up occasionally, though she remained silent.
They peppered Maggie and Nessie with questions—how often would classes be, what tools would they need, could they make things to sell?
This was what she missed most about her show—not the cameras or the fame, but the act of teaching, of passing on skills that could change someone’s life.
“I think we should set up the workshop in the garage,” Hollis suggested after the initial flurry of questions died down. “It’s insulated, and there’s enough space for workbenches along the walls.”
“I thought the same as we drove up. Mind if I take a look?”
Hollis led her through a side door to a detached two-car garage. The space was tidy but utilitarian, currently serving as storage for donations and seasonal items. She circled the perimeter, assessing the electrical outlets, the lighting, the ventilation.
“We’d need to build some workbenches. Maybe three or four to start? And tool storage—a pegboard wall would be ideal.”
“Budget’s tight,” Hollis warned. “We can probably swing basic hand tools, but power tools might be a stretch.”
“I’ll talk to Anson,” Maggie said without thinking.
“He’s got extras of almost everything in his forge.
And I’m sure Valor Ridge would donate something.
” She paused, picturing Anson’s face when she told him about borrowing his tools.
The man who meticulously arranged his hammers by size and type.
“Well, maybe not Anson specifically. But the ranch would help.”
Nessie laughed. “Oh, Anson will give you anything you ask for. He just might die inside a little while doing it.”
Heat crept up Maggie’s neck. Yes, he’d give her anything she wanted. Anything except for him. He’d made that perfectly clear last night.
Hollis, mercifully, steered the conversation back to logistics. “I can probably get Knox to help build the workbenches. He owes me a favor.”
“I’d like to help with that part, actually,” Maggie said. “Let the women see the process from the beginning. First lesson could be workbench construction.”
Hollis nodded, a genuine smile lighting her face. “That’s perfect. When can you start?”
“Wednesday? That gives me time to gather materials and plan the lessons.”
“Perfect.” Hollis looked at Nessie. “What about you?”
“I can start next Sunday, when the bakery is closed again.”
“Thank you both for doing this.” Hollis extended her hand again, shaking each of their hands. “It means more than you know.”
As they said their goodbyes, Angel appeared at Maggie’s elbow. “Can I build a nightstand? For my room? I’ve never had furniture that was just mine before.”
Something tightened in Maggie’s chest. She recognized that hunger for ownership, for something permanent, when your whole life had been temporary. “Absolutely. We’ll build you the best nightstand in Montana.”
Angel’s smile was small but genuine. “Cool. See you next week, then.”
The sun was sinking toward the snow-dusted mountaintops as Maggie walked back to Boone’s truck, casting long shadows across the neat lawn of Haven House.
It was getting dark earlier and earlier every day/ When would that snow make it down the slopes to the valley?
Soon, she hoped. As a born and raised Florida girl, she’d only seen it during brief business trips north, and it was never very pretty.
But she really needed to go shopping for winter clothes before it hit.
Boone opened the passenger door as she approached. “Good meeting?”
“Better than good.” She buckled herself in, energy still humming through her veins. “These women are amazing. Survivors, all of them. And they want to learn.”
He nodded and slid behind the wheel, shifting the truck into gear. They drove in comfortable silence for several minutes, the last light of day painting the mountains gold against the darkening sky.
“My mom would’ve benefited from a place like that,” he said suddenly, his voice so quiet she almost missed it. “If she’d had somewhere to go after my dad died, maybe things would’ve been different.”
She glanced over at him, sensing there was more to his story than he’d ever shared with most people. “What happened to your mom?”
“She broke.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Just... shattered after he died. Started seeing things that weren’t there.
Talking to him like he was still around.
At first, people thought it was grief, you know?
Normal. But it got worse. She’d forget to feed me sometimes.
Leave the stove on. One night I woke up and she was standing over my bed with scissors, saying she needed to cut the demons out of my hair. ”
“Jesus,” Maggie breathed. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen. I spent a lot of time avoiding home after that. More time getting into trouble.”
“Sounds like neither of you had a place to go.”
“Yeah, suppose not. So what Haven House is doing is a good thing. And you teaching those women usable skills is even better.”
They lapsed back into silence for the remainder of the drive. When they pulled up to her cabin, Boone killed the engine but didn’t immediately get out.
“Anson’s waiting for you,” he said, nodding toward the forge where a light glowed in the window. “Been pacing since we left.”
Maggie’s heart did something complicated in her chest. “How do you know?”
“Texted me three times asking if you were okay.” The corner of Boone’s mouth twitched. “And the man hates to text.”
“Then I’d better go. Thank you for today,” she said, sliding out of the truck. “For the ride, and...everything else.”
Boone tipped his hat. “Anytime.” He hesitated, then called, “Hey, Maggie?”
She turned back. “Yeah?”
“He don’t do casual, so try not to hurt him, okay?”
No, Anson didn’t do casual. He did deep, abiding, built-to-last. Like the things he forged. Like the home he’d made for orphaned kittens. Like the letters he’d written for years.
“I’m not going to hurt him.”
“I know, but it had to be said.” Then Boone smiled. A real smile that crinkled his eyes, and, wow, he was handsome when he did that. She suddenly understood Lila’s crush much better. He touched the brim of his hat, then started his truck and turned it back toward the barn.
As she walked toward the forge, she felt lighter than she had in months. In front of her, Anson waited, his silhouette moving behind the forge window as he worked. And all around her, Montana spread out wild and vast, offering possibilities she’d never dared to imagine.
For the first time since Landry had begun stalking her, she wasn’t running away from something.
She was running toward something.
Toward purpose.
Toward community.
Toward a man who was starting to feel like home…
…but then her phone rang.