Chapter 26
twenty-six
The door slammed shut like a period at the end of a goddamn sentence.
Maggie stared at it, half expecting it to open again, for Anson to come back with an apology, an explanation, anything.
But the cabin remained silent except for her ragged breathing.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing back the hot tears threatening to spill.
Every time she thought they were getting somewhere, he did this—retreated like she was fire and he was afraid of getting burned.
She replayed the last five minutes again and again, as if searching for an alternate ending.
Had she come on too strong?
Said the wrong thing?
Or was it always going to be this—her chasing, him running, a constant orbit of almost and never?
“Fuck!” She grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with an unsatisfying thump and slid to the floor. Not nearly dramatic enough for the storm churning inside her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, his flannel still hanging open over her bare skin. The cloth still smelled like him. She should tear it off and throw it after him. Instead, she pulled it tighter, as pathetic and contradictory as that felt.
This push-pull was killing her. For years, his letters had been her anchor.
The one constant in a life that had spiraled out of control.
When everything with Landry had gone to hell, when the tabloids had painted her as unstable, when her own show had started to feel like a prison, Anson’s letters had been there.
Steady. Real. Each envelope had been a lifeline pulling her back to solid ground.
But now that she finally had the real man, flesh and blood and scars, he couldn’t even look her in the eye when she told him she was falling in love with him.
She let out a laugh that was uncomfortably close to a sob.
First, Landry, with his obsessive need to possess her.
Now Anson, with his maddening self-loathing and inability to accept that she might actually want him, scars and all.
She really knew how to pick them, didn’t she?
A sound at the door had her heart leaping before her brain could catch up.
Anson!
He’d come back.
She jumped up and flung the door open without bothering to button the flannel.
Bramble stood on the porch alone with his mournful eyes, his shaggy head tilted to one side. Between his jaws, he held a folded piece of paper.
“Oh.” The disappointment was like a tidal wave. Dragging her under, drowning her. “Hey, boy.”
He padded past her into the cabin, moving to the center of the room before settling on his haunches. He set the paper down gently and nudged it toward her with his nose.
Another letter.
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream.
The letter was slightly damp, either from the snow and Bramble’s mouth, and she stared at it for a long time as a chill chased through her. If this was a flat-out rejection, she might never be warm again.
She took a fortifying breath and opened it.
Maggie,
I love you.
I’m in love with you.
Have been since your first letter.
I don’t know how to show you in person yet. But it’s true.
I love you.
Yours always,
Anson
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She read it again. And again.
I love you.
The tears she’d been fighting finally won the battle, spilling hot down her cheeks.
“Oh, Anson.” She sank to the floor beside Bramble, who immediately shifted closer, resting his huge head on her shoulder. She stroked his fur absently, staring at the letter through blurred vision. “Why is this so hard for him, Bramble?”
The dog whined softly and nudged her hand with his cold nose.
“I know. He’s stubborn.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and stood. “But you know what? So am I.”
Enough of this dance. Enough waiting for him to be ready, to find the words, to believe he was worthy.
If he couldn’t come to her, she’d go to him.
He loved her. That was all that mattered. Everything else—his scars, his past, his fear—they could work through together. But not if he kept running. Not if she kept letting him.
“Come on, Bramble.” She buttoned up the flannel and shoved her feet into her boots without bothering to lace them properly. “Take me to him.”
Bramble popped to his feet and wagged his tail hard enough to knock as if he’d been waiting for precisely this command. His tail swept once across the floor, then he all but galloped to the door, looking back at her expectantly.
Outside, the night air bit through the flannel and lashed against her bare legs, raising goosebumps all over.
She didn’t care. The cold cleared her head, sharpening her focus, her determination.
The moon hung low over the mountains, bright enough to light their path as Bramble led her toward the forge.
She could see it in the distance—windows glowing golden, smoke curling from the chimney into the star-studded sky. From inside came the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal, the sound of Anson working through his feelings the only way he knew how.
Bramble made it to the door first and scratched lightly.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and reached for the handle. Heat rushed to meet her as the door opened. Anson stood with his back to her, hammer raised mid-strike above a glowing piece of metal. His shoulders tensed at the sound of her entrance, but he didn’t turn.
“Go back to your cabin, Maggie. River’s going to stand guard tonight.”
“No.” She let the door fall closed behind her. Bramble plodded past her, circling into his bed by the far wall, but his amber eyes remained fixed on them both. “I’m not leaving.”
Anson shoved the molten metal into the quench bucket. It screamed as the heat ripped away in a blast of steam. “I need time.”
“I’ve given you six years.” She pulled the letter from her pocket and held it between them, even though he still wouldn’t face her. “You wrote this. You meant it. But you can’t say it to my face?”
His back expanded with a deep breath, muscles bunching beneath his thin shirt. He braced both hands on the anvil, head bowed. “I meant it. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything.” She crossed the distance between them and pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Maggie, please.” His voice cracked on her name. “Don’t.”
“I love you too, Anson.”
When he finally turned to face her, his eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, and full of longing.
She’d never seen him like this—raw, exposed in a way that his physical scars could never match.
The hammer dangled from his fingers, forgotten.
Before he could argue, before he could find more reasons to push her away, she rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his.
For one frozen heartbeat, he didn’t respond. Then something snapped. He ripped off his work gloves and wrapped his thick arms around her, crushing her against the solid wall of his chest. His mouth opened over hers, desperate, hungry, stealing her breath.
No hesitation now.
No careful control.
Just raw need pouring out of him, the dam having finally broken.
Finally.
She fisted his shirt, tugging him closer even as he walked her backward until her spine hit the wooden workbench. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of coffee and smoke. When she moaned into the kiss, his grip tightened, one hand sliding to cup her ass through her thin sleep shorts.
He broke the kiss only long enough to lift her onto the bench, stepping between her spread thighs. His flannel gaped open where she’d hastily buttoned it, and his gaze dropped to the exposed curve of her breast.
“Touch me,” she whispered, guiding his hand to her chest. “Please.”
His breath hitched as he cupped her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple. The calluses on his palm rasped against her sensitive skin, drawing another moan from her throat. He lowered his head, replacing his thumb with his mouth.
“Oh…” Her hips bucked against him, seeking pressure, friction, anything to ease the ache building between her legs. He groaned against her skin, then dropped to his knees in front of her. His large hands slid up her bare thighs, pushing under the hem of her shorts.
“Can I?” His voice was wrecked, barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears.
“Yes. God, yes.”
His fingers hooked into her shorts, dragging them down.
She was bare underneath. He looked up at her, hazel eyes dark with desire, seeking final confirmation.
She nodded, threaded her fingers into his hair, and tugged him forward.
His beard rasped against her inner thighs as he buried his face between her legs.
The first swipe of his tongue sent lightning up her spine, and had her arching off the bench, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
Her thighs quivered as he parted her with his tongue, and his strong hands gripped her harder, fingers digging into her thighs as he devoured her with the same single-minded focus he brought to his forge work.
When he captured her swollen clit between his lips, the wet heat of his mouth combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue made her vision blur at the edges.
“Anson,” she gasped. “Oh God...”
His answering growl vibrated through her, the sound almost smug as he circled her clit with his tongue, then sucked it between his lips.
Her thighs trembled, heels digging into his broad back.
She was unraveling, caught between disbelief that this was real and the overwhelming need for more.
Callused fingertips trailed fire up the tender skin of her inner thigh.
He paused at her entrance, his breath sawing out of him, hot against her, before he pushed a thick finger deep inside.
The sudden fullness made her cry out, her hips bucking, desperate and wild.
“Please.” Her voice broke as she rocked against him. “I need more.”