Chapter 28
twenty-eight
“Hey, I’m looking for the world’s most emotionally constipated farrier. See him around?”
At River’s voice, Anson nearly hit his own thumb with the hammer instead of the nail in Troubadour’s hoof. The stallion snorted, tossing his head in annoyance.
“Over here, working through his issues with horseshoes,” X called, then soothed a hand over his horse’s muzzle. “You’re okay, amigo. You need new shoes.”
Anson kept his eyes on the hoof in front of him, ignoring both men for the work.
“There he is.” River leaned against the stall door, arms crossed. “The man who sent me to freeze my ass off on a porch all night while he hid in his cave like a wounded bear.”
“Wasn’t hiding,” he muttered, driving the nail with more force than he should have. Troubadour shifted his weight, and X murmured something soothing in Spanish.
“Sure. And I’m not the best-looking guy on this ranch.” River’s tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it.
“Second best-looking,” X corrected.
“I wasn’t hiding. I was working.” He moved to the next nail, refusing to look up. If he met River’s eyes, he’d see the judgment there. The disappointment.
“At three in the morning?” River snorted. “That’s dedication, brother. Or complete bullshit. I’m leaning toward bullshit.”
X glanced between them. “Whoa, what’d I miss?”
“Nothing much. Just Anson being a complete ass to a sweet, brilliant, gorgeous woman who, for some godforsaken reason, is in love with him.”
Heat crawled up his neck, and the collar of his flannel suddenly felt too tight. “Shut up, River.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” River pushed away from the stall door and closed the distance between them, his face set in lines Anson had rarely seen outside of combat. “You know what I had to do last night? Hold her while she cried. Because of you.”
The hammer slipped in his grip. The image of Maggie crying—because of him—tore all of the oxygen from his lungs. And the image of Maggie in River’s arms gutted him.
But wasn’t that what he wanted? What he’d planned when he’d called River instead of anyone else? For her to find someone better, someone whole who made her laugh instead of cry?
“Don’t.” The word was like broken glass in his throat, scraping everything raw on its way out.
“Don’t what? Tell you the truth?” River stepped closer, invading his space. “She didn’t want me there, you dumb motherfucker. She wanted you.”
X let out a low whistle. “Joder. Cuidado, hermano. You’re walking out on thin ice.”
Anson set down the hammer with the same exaggerated care he used to handle bomb components. But right now it wasn’t the hammer about to detonate, and it took every ounce of control he possessed to keep his breathing even. “She’s better off—”
“If you say ‘without me,’ I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” River’s eyes flashed. “And we both know how that’ll end.”
X moved between them and held out his arms as if he intended to keep them apart if one of them lunged. “Okay, easy. Nobody’s throwing punches.”
River took a step back, hands raised. “Fine. No punches.” His voice dropped, the anger giving way to something rawer. “But damn it, Anson, you’re making a mistake. A big one. You’re about to throw away the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Anson straightened, finally meeting River’s gaze. The anger there wasn’t what he expected—it wasn’t jealousy or rivalry. It was the fierce protectiveness of someone defending family.
“I’m not—” Movement in the center aisle caught his attention, and he broke off his protest.
Jax moved into view, his expression grim. Behind him were Jonah and Ghost.
“You are,” Jax said quietly. “And we all know it.”
Great. The cavalry had arrived. “This isn’t your business.”
“Actually, it is,” Jonah said. “When one of our own is self-destructing, it becomes everyone’s business.”
“Intervention time.” River grinned without humor. “The ‘don’t be an idiot’ special.”
X dragged a hand down his face. “You assholes planned an intervention without telling me?”
Troubadour shifted nervously, sensing the rising tension.
Anson patted the horse’s neck, wanting nothing more than to mount up and ride until everyone at Valor Ridge forgot his name. But Troubadour only let X ride him, and his own horse, Hazel, was on the other side of the barn. He’d have to go through the gauntlet of his bunkmates to get to her.
“Actually, I didn’t plan anything,” River said, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “But I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who thinks our resident blacksmith needs to pull his head out of his ass.”
Ghost remained silent, leaning against a support beam with his arms crossed, but his icy gaze never left Anson’s face. Something about that unblinking stare made Anson’s skin crawl more than River’s outright confrontation.
“So what happened?” Jonah asked, his voice gentler than the others but no less firm. “Because Maggie was at breakfast this morning looking like she hadn’t slept. Wearing your shirt, by the way.”
“Yeah, okay, I did notice that,” X chimed in. “But it wasn’t the good kind of been-up-all-night look. When she left with Bear—”
“She left?” Everything in him went cold. He’d done it, managed to scare her away. He should be relieved. He should be…
So why the fuck couldn’t he breathe?
“Yo, he’s gonna pass out,” Jonah said.
Several hands reached for him at the same time, but he shoved them away. “I’m not going to—” He bent double. “—collapse.” But the word came out like a wheeze, and he had to brace his hands against his thighs as black spots danced in his vision.
“Sure looks like it,” Jax muttered. “For Christ’s sake, breathe, Sutter.”
He forced air into his lungs, fighting the rising panic. “Where’d she go?”
“Haven House,” Ghost answered, voice flat as ever. “With Bear. Teaching that carpentry class like she planned.”
Relief crashed through him so hard his knees nearly buckled. Haven House. Right. He’d forgotten.
She hadn’t left for good. Just for the afternoon.
“She’s not running away from you,” River said, his voice gentler now that he’d seen Anson’s panic. “Not yet.”
“Though she might, if you keep this up,” Jonah added, moving closer. “What happened between you two?”
Anson straightened, still fighting to get his breathing under control.
How could he explain what had happened? That he’d finally let himself have what he wanted most, only to run when it got too real?
That he’d panicked when she’d seen his scars, touched them, and still looked at him with desire instead of disgust?
“I fucked up,” he managed finally.
“Well, that’s a start,” River said. “Admitting you have a problem.”
“Not helping,” Jonah muttered.
“She deserves better than—” He gestured at himself, at the scars hidden beneath his shirt.
“Than what? A good man who’d do anything to protect her?” Jax asked.
“A man who can’t even look at himself in the mirror?” he shot back. “A man who killed four people?”
“We comparing body counts now? Because I win.” Ghost pushed off from the beam, his movement drawing everyone’s attention. “We’ve all got blood on our hands. She knows what you are, what you’ve done. She’s always known, even if she didn’t have all the facts. And she’s still here.”
“Maggie chose you, hermano,” X said. “Not some fantasy version. You. The scarred, silent, pain-in-the-ass real you.”
“And you’re throwing it away,” Jonah added, “because you’re scared. We get being scared. What we don’t get is being a coward.”
Coward. He’d have been less surprised if easy-going Jonah had hauled off and punched him.
But he was one, wasn’t he?
A fucking coward.
Too afraid to let himself have what he wanted, what he needed. Too afraid to let himself be seen. Not just his scars, but everything beneath them. The guilt. The shame. The desperate, hungry need for her that terrified him more than anything.
Jesus, he couldn’t do this. He was too raw, like an exposed nerve. He tried to shoulder past them all, but they weren’t moving. “Back the fuck off.”
River snorted. “Or what, you’ll avoid us, too? Add us to the list of people you hide from when shit gets uncomfortable?”
“Listen.” Jax planted a hand on his shoulder and waited until he turned. “I’ve been there. Feeling like you don’t deserve a second chance. Like you’re too damaged, too dangerous, too fucked up for something good.”
“But that’s not your call to make for her. Just like it wasn’t Jax’s call to make for Nessie or mine for Naomi,” Ghost said, and for once, something dangerously close to emotion colored his quiet words. “She knows exactly who you are. Let her decide if you’re worth loving.”
Anson swallowed hard, the rage that had been building collapsing under the truth. These men knew him. Had seen him at rock bottom. Had pulled him back a dozen times when the shadows got too dark. And not one of them was letting him off the hook.
“She does deserve better,” he managed finally, the words scraping his throat.
“Probably,” X agreed. “But she wants you. And man, there are worse things in life than being loved by a woman like Maggie Rowe.”
The barn door slammed open, and Boone stood there, glowering and unimpressed.
“Jesus fucking Christ. This isn’t a beauty salon, fellas. Get back to work.” His voice carried the snap of command, sending them all scattering with minimal grumbling.
Thank God.
Anson turned back to Troubadour, intending to finish his hoof, but his hands were shaking. He cursed and shook them out, stretching his fingers, feeling the pull of his scars across his knuckles.
Boone’s boots scraped against concrete as he closed the distance between them. For a long moment, he just watched Anson work, the silence more grating than any lecture.
“They’re nosy, meddling bastards, but they’re right,” he finally said, voice pitched low so only Anson could hear. “You fuck this up with Maggie, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. So don’t fuck it up, Sutter.”