Chapter 32
thirty-two
Maggie’s phone buzzed on the workbench again. She ignored it, focused instead on the chisel in her hand, the way the pine split along the grain as she tapped with the mallet.
Three weeks had passed since Landry had been spotted in Montana.
Three weeks of Ghost’s daily updates—still in Billings, no sign he knew exactly where she was.
Three weeks of breathing room that was starting to feel almost normal, except for the phone that wouldn’t stop buzzing with network demands.
“If you keep ignoring them, they’ll just call more.”
She jumped at Ghost’s voice and turned to glower at him.
She should be used to his soundless appearances, but the man moved like a shadow, even in the heavy snow outside.
He stood in the forge doorway, his lean frame backlit by the winter sunlight, a manila folder tucked under one arm.
He didn’t come in—never did unless invited—just stood there like some pale specter with his perpetually watchful eyes shaded by the brim of his dark gray Stetson.
“Don’t sneak up on people holding sharp objects,” she scolded, setting down her chisel. “And, yes, I know they’ll keep calling. Let them.”
Ghost’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Naomi said you’d say that.”
“Smart woman, your Naomi.” Maggie blew sawdust off the spice rack she was crafting for Nessie’s bakery. “Anything new on Landry?”
“No. Still in Billings, still calling your old number, usually drunk or high.” He offered this information in his typical flat tone. “Is he still emailing?”
“Not as often, but the ones that are making it through all my blocks are a lot less adoring and more threatening. I’m saving them all like you suggested.”
“Good. The restraining order came through this morning.” He held up the folder, then came far enough inside to set it on the closest flat surface before retreating to the doorway again. “Naomi made sure the state police and sheriff were aware, but I doubt the sheriff will do much.”
She should be relieved. Finally, Landry couldn’t come within five hundred yards without legal consequences. But the piece of paper felt like cold comfort against a man who’d broken into her house and taken pictures of her sleeping, just to prove he could always get to her.
“Thank you.” She meant it. Ghost had handled all the security aspects without once making her feel helpless or dramatic. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
Ghost remained in the doorway, his ice-gray eyes studying her with that unnerving intensity. “Have you told him?”
“Told who what?”
“Anson. About the emails. The threats. He needs to know they’re still happening.”
“I don’t want to worry him.”
“He worries anyway.” Ghost’s mouth twitched in what might have been a hint of a smile. “Man’s been patrolling every night after you go to sleep. Bramble’s exhausted.”
Her heart squeezed. She’d noticed the dark circles under Anson’s eyes, but he’d waved off her concerns, blaming it on a new order of custom bridles he was finishing. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t wanted to see that haunted look return to his eyes.
“I’ll tell him,” she promised. “Tonight.”
Ghost nodded once, apparently satisfied.
She picked up her chisel again, but the question that had been nagging at her for weeks pushed its way out. “That campsite Boone found—any luck figuring out who was there? Who hurt Princess?”
“Nothing concrete.” Ghost’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Couldn’t pull prints from what was left. The photos were too damaged to trace where they were developed.”
The memory of those surveillance shots—her and Anson by the creek, that heart carved into the tree—still made her skin crawl. “It had to be Landry, right?”
“Timeline doesn’t fit. He was in Nebraska when that campsite was active.” Ghost shifted his weight. “But the carving, the photos—maybe it’s someone who knows about you and him.”
“So he hired someone to scare me?”
“Possible.” But his tone said he didn’t think so.
And the more she thought about it, the less that made sense. Landry would have to know her location to hire someone to terrorize her, and by all accounts, he still didn’t know exactly where in Montana she was.
She sighed. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Ghost grumbled. “It doesn’t.”
She smiled at him. “It’s driving you nuts, isn’t it?”
“I will figure it out.” He turned to leave, but stopped short. “Hey, some woman from Haven House called, too. Sarah? Asked if you could bring more sandpaper tomorrow.”
She smiled at that. In the weeks since Sarah’s arrival at Haven House, the battered woman had transformed from a terrified shadow to an eager student with a surprising talent for detailed work. Her keepsake box project was coming along beautifully, and she grew more confident as her bruises faded.
“Make sure she has your new number,” Ghost said, then melted away from the doorway, leaving her to her work. She finished the spice rack, then glanced at her phone.
Four missed calls from the network. Not from Taryn, thankfully.
After discovering that Taryn had been scheming with Landry to relaunch Building Home all along, she refused to work with Taryn again, and they respected her wishes.
Last she heard, they’d placed Taryn on leave pending an investigation into her actions.
Maggie didn’t feel the least bit bad about that.
The days blurred together in the best possible way.
Mornings in the forge or barn, helping Anson with simple tasks, learning the rhythms of ranch life.
Three afternoons a week at Haven House, teaching women to build the things they needed—shelves, tables, beds free of memories.
Evenings around the dinner table with the hodgepodge family she’d somehow acquired—River’s wild stories, Boone’s quiet wisdom, Walker’s gruff affection, Johanna’s sharp insights.
And the nights.
God, the nights.
Nights were for Anson. For the careful, tender dance they’d been perfecting.
The first week, he walked her to her cabin each night after the forge cooled, kissed her at the door, and left to stand guard. The second week, he’d stayed for cocoa, then left. The third week, he’d stayed until she fell asleep, his body curved around hers on top of the covers.
Now he stayed. Every night. Stripped down to his long-sleeved undershirt and boxers, he slid under the covers with her.
But every time she turned in his arms, every time her hands drifted under his shirt, he tensed.
Pulled away. Made some excuse about an early morning or a project that needed attention.
Tonight followed the same pattern. They were curled together, her back against his chest, his arm heavy across her waist. His breath was warm and steady against her neck, his body solid and real behind hers.
She counted his breaths. Focused on the weight of his arm, the way his fingers splayed across her ribs. Tried not to think about how much she wanted to turn in his arms, to slide her hands under his shirt, to feel his skin against hers.
He shifted, pulling her closer, and her body ached with wanting him.
She woke to find Anson already gone, the depression in his pillow the only evidence he’d been there at all. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Another network message, more urgent than the last.
Production meeting scheduled for January 3rd. Your attendance is non-negotiable. Contract requires minimum 8 episodes before renewal option. Please confirm receipt.
She typed back a quick response: Need until after New Year’s. Will call then. Then flipped the phone face down on the nightstand.
Florida seemed like a dream now, distant and unreal compared to the cold clarity of Montana mornings.
The network, the show, and her condo in Tampa all belonged to a different Maggie.
A Maggie who didn’t know what it felt like to split wood for a fire that would keep her warm.
Who’d never bottle-fed kittens in a forge or watched a woman’s hands grow steady as she built something that was truly hers.
A Maggie who’d never fallen asleep in Anson Sutter’s arms.
She touched the phone one last time, thinking of all it represented—fame, security, the career she’d fought so hard to build. Then she turned it off completely and went to find Anson.
She didn’t need to make a decision today.
But before she knew it, it was Christmas Eve.
And she only had a week left to decide.
The main house pulsed with life and warmth.
Pine garlands draped across the windows, studded with cranberries that Mariah and her son had strung together yesterday.
The smells—cinnamon, sage, roasting meat, cider—twisted together into something that made Maggie’s chest ache with a peculiar kind of homesickness.
Not for any place she’d been before, but for this moment, knowing it was already slipping away.
Naomi diced onions without a single tear. Lila peeled potatoes beside her. Greta and Mariah hung the last of the garlands, arguing good-naturedly about whether to add more lights.
The rolling pin slipped in Maggie’s flour-dusted hands for the third time, and the pie crust split down the middle like a fault line.
“Dammit!” She slammed the pin down, sending a puff of flour into the air. Six women turned to look at her, wooden spoons and knives pausing mid-motion. “Sorry. I’m apparently at war with this pastry.”
Nessie laughed and hip-bumped her aside. “Move over, amateur. You can’t strong-arm pie dough.”
“I’ve built entire houses from the ground up, but pastry defeats me.” She stepped back and wiped her hands on the borrowed apron tied around her waist. It was one of Nessie’s and featured a cartoon cupcake with “Life is sweet, don’t be salty” written beneath it.
Johanna straightened from checking the temperature of the huge turkey in the oven. She closed the door and reset the timer before turning to Maggie. “Not everyone can be good at everything.”
“Says the woman who is good at everything,” Nessie teased.