Chapter 20
twenty
Maggie woke with a start, disoriented by unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling. Then everything rushed back.
Landry’s voicemails.
Ghost and Naomi’s promises to help.
Asking Anson to stay.
She turned her head toward the chair by the window. He was still there, twisted into the too-small seat, head tipped back at an angle that would leave his neck screaming. One arm dangled toward the floor while the other lay across his chest, rising and falling with each deep breath.
He’d stayed.
All night.
She studied him in the weak morning light filtering through the thin curtains.
Asleep, the hard lines of his face softened, though a furrow remained between his brows, as if he couldn’t quite let go of his worries even in sleep.
His beard had grown slightly wild, dark against his skin, and his scarred hands twitched occasionally as he dreamed.
Her throat tightened. Men had made her promises before. Landry had promised to protect her, to champion her, to respect her boundaries. All lies. But Anson—a man who barely spoke, who struggled to meet her eyes—had simply shown up. Stayed. Without fanfare or expectation.
As if sensing her attention, his eyes snapped open. Dark hazel locked onto her face, disoriented for only a heartbeat before awareness flooded back.
“Morning,” she whispered. “I can’t believe you actually stayed all night. In that chair.”
He sat up with a wince, rolling one shoulder. “Said I would.”
“You must be miserable.” She pushed herself upright, the blanket pooling around her waist. She’d slept in her clothes, and they twisted uncomfortably around her torso. “Why didn’t you at least stretch out on the couch?”
“Needed to see the door.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “And the window.”
Her heart squeezed. “What about the kittens? And Princess?”
“Went back every few hours. To feed them.”
“You walked to the forge every three hours in the freezing cold?” She couldn’t process it. “And came back here? While I slept through the whole thing?”
He shrugged as if it was nothing. As if hiking back and forth across the ranch in the dead of night was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. “You needed sleep. They needed food.”
Overwhelmed, she pressed a hand to her mouth. This quiet, scarred man had split himself in two last night—one part guardian at her door, one part caretaker for the tiny lives depending on him. Both roles executed without complaint.
“What’s wrong?” Concern tightened his features.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, blinking back the sudden burn behind her eyes. “Just...thank you.”
A movement beyond the window caught her eye, and she gasped. White flakes drifted past the glass, fat and lazy. “Is that...?”
“First snow,” Anson confirmed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Started around four this morning.”
“I’ve never seen snow this deep before.” She scrambled out of bed and searched for her boots. “Well, once in New York City, but I was stuck in meetings all day, and it was mostly brown slush by the time I got outside.”
She grabbed River’s hoodie from the back of a chair, and Anson’s expression darkened.
“No.”
She stopped short, one arm stuffed into he sweatshirt. “What?”
He pushed out of the chair and reached into the duffel bag he must have brought back with him during one of his late-night treks to the forge.
The flannel shirt he pulled out was navy and rust plaid with a cream sherpa lining that looked impossibly soft.
He extended it toward her. “If you’re going to wear a man’s clothes, they’ll be mine. ”
She grinned at him, but didn’t move to accept the shirt. “Why, Anson Sutter, are you jealous?”
His jaw worked beneath his beard, but he didn’t deny it. “Shouldn’t be wearing his clothes.”
“Because?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved closer and gently tugged River’s hoodie off her arm.
The air raised goosebumps on her arms for only a second before he wrapped his flannel around her shoulders, engulfing her in warmth and his scent.
Metal and woodsmoke and cold winter pine.
The shirt was too big on her, built for a man who worked with his hands, who needed room to move.
The hem hit mid-thigh. The sleeves hung past her hands.
But somehow it felt exactly right. Like armor, like safety, like belonging.
She couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t think past the warm brush of his rough fingers against her stomach as he buttoned it. He finished the last snap, and his hands settled at her waist, keeping her from stepping back.
“Because when you’re cold, I want you reaching for me.” His hands flexed at her waist as if he was fighting the urge to drag her closer. “Not him.”
Her heart was a wild bird trying to escape her chest. “I told you River’s just a friend, remember? There’s nothing between us.”
“Still don’t like seeing you in his clothes.”
She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. His jaw tensed beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away. The stubble felt rough against her fingertips, a delicious contrast to the softness in his eyes.
“Let’s go outside,” she said. “I want to feel the snow.”
He nodded and released his hold on her waist with obvious reluctance. “Need better boots. And gloves. And a hat.”
“I’ll be fine for a few minutes.” She tugged on her boots without bothering to lace them fully, too eager to get outside. His flannel wrapped around her like the protective embrace of his arms, warmer than anything she owned.
When she opened the door, her breath caught.
Overnight, the world had transformed. A pristine blanket of white covered everything, transforming the ranch into something magical.
The trees wore white coats, their branches drooping under the weight.
The path to the forge had vanished beneath several inches of snow, and more flakes drifted down, landing on her outstretched hand before melting.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, stepping off the porch.
Her boots sank with a satisfying crunch that sent a childlike thrill through her.
She took another step, and another, leaving a trail of footprints behind her.
She tilted her face up. Cold kisses landed on her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids.
“Like the whole world’s been wiped clean. ”
Anson watched her from the porch, a faintly amused expression on his face. “Won’t last long. Just the first dusting.”
“This is a dusting?” The idea that ankle-deep snow was considered minimal made her laugh. “What happens when it really snows?”
“Ten feet. Drifts higher than the porch. Sometimes the road to town gets blocked for days.” Anson stepped off the porch, boots leaving deep imprints next to hers in the fresh powder. “You sure you want to stay for that?”
Whether he meant it or not, the question carried weight beyond the weather. Was she planning to stay through winter? Through whatever came next with Landry? Through whatever was happening between them?
She took one look at him and knew the answer to those questions was a resounding yes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He closed the distance between them and, for a moment, she thought he might pull her close again, might kiss her the way he had last night.
And she wanted it.
God, she wanted it.
Instead, he stopped short of touching her. “I should go feed the kittens breakfast.”
Retreating as usual.
Honestly, she wasn’t even surprised. Retreat seemed to be his default setting.
“Okay. Go. I’ll be there in a minute.” She lifted her arms and spun in a slow circle, taking it all in. “Guess since I’m staying, I’ll have to go into town and buy some actual winter clothes.”
He’d started to turn away, but at her words, he stopped, and his shoulders went rigid beneath his jacket. He turned back to her. “Not a good time to go into town.”
And just like that, reality intruded on the perfect moment. Landry. The voicemails. The threat hanging over her.
“I can’t hide forever, Anson.” She dropped her arms, squared her shoulders. “I panicked yesterday, but I meant what I said about being done with running. I need clothes, and I need to keep my commitment to those women at Haven House.”
“Then take Boone with you. Or Ghost.”
“And look like I need bodyguards?” She shook her head.
“That would just confirm to Landry that I’m scared, that he still has power over me.
Besides, Ghost is terrifying to normal people, and Boone.
..” She trailed off, remembering his kindness yesterday, his quiet support.
“Boone’s wonderful, but the point is I need to do this on my own. ”
Anson’s jaw clenched tight enough that she could see the muscle jump beneath his beard. “Not safe.”
“How about a compromise?” She stepped back onto the porch, close enough to catch the heat radiating from him. “I’ll ask Johanna to come with me. She looks like she can handle herself just as well as any of the men, but it will be girl time, not a security detail. Would that make you feel better?”
He studied her face, conflict evident in his eyes. Finally, he gave a short nod. “A little.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. And when I get back, I’ll make us hot chocolate.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “With little marshmallows.”
For a moment, Anson went completely still. Then his hand came up to touch the spot she’d kissed, wonder spreading across his face like the sunrise over the distant mountains.
“Why marshmallows?”
“Because that’s what you do on a snowday. Duh.”
He made a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. “This isn’t a snowday.”
“It’s daytime, and there’s snow on the ground. Snowday.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, extracted a credit card, and held it out to her. “Use this.”
She stared at the card. “Anson, I can’t—”
“Safer.” His tone left no room for argument. “If Landry tracks your cards, he’ll know where you are as soon as you make a purchase. Mine, he can’t.”
The logic was sound, but accepting felt wrong. She’d worked hard to stand on her own feet, to never be dependent on a man again. “I have money.”
“Know you do.” He pressed the card into her palm, closing her fingers around it. “This isn’t about money. It’s about keeping you safe.”
When he put it that way, refusal seemed ridiculous. She slipped the card into her back pocket. “Thank you. I’ll keep the receipts.”
“Don’t care about receipts. I have more money than I’ll ever spend from my leatherwork commissions. Get what you need.” He turned toward the forge, then paused. “Don’t forget a hat. Don’t want you freezing off those cute pixie ears.”
Her heart did a tiny hop-skip as she watched his retreating back. The way he’d said “cute pixie ears” with that gruff voice—like the compliment had been dragged out of him against his will—made her cheeks warm despite the cold.
“I don’t have pixie ears,” she called after him.
“Yes, you do.”
“Well, you have a cute cowboy butt.”
He stumbled slightly, caught himself, but didn’t turn around. She grinned at his back, pretty sure she’d just made him blush.