Chapter 44
forty-four
“Stop looking at them like that,” Anson murmured, his voice rough from smoke inhalation. “They’ll heal.”
Maggie forced herself to look away from the thick bandages wrapped around his hands that made them look twice their normal size.
His fingers peeked out from beneath the gauze, red and raw and trembling slightly despite the painkillers.
The doctors had been clear—he’d re-injured old wounds, and the damage might be permanent this time.
But he was alive.
They both were.
She meet his gaze. “The doctor said you might lose some mobility. That you might not be able to—”
“To what? Braid your hair?” The corner of his mouth lifted in that crooked almost-smile she’d come to love. “I’ll manage.”
But would he? His hands were everything. His work, his identity, his therapy. The thought of him not being able to shape leather or bend metal made her throat tighten. She’d rather lose her own hands than watch him lose his.
Behind her, the Valor Ridge family had claimed every available surface in the small hospital room.
River and X sprawled in the two visitor chairs, passing a thermos of coffee between them.
Jonah leaned against the wall, arms crossed, keeping a quiet vigil that the nurses didn’t seem to mind.
Walker stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, murmuring updates to Johanna.
Ghost had positioned himself by the door like a sentry, Naomi’s hand tucked into his.
Bear had disappeared to check on Hollis’s condition down the hall, where Knox hadn’t left her side since they arrived.
The gathered men maintained a low hum of conversation, their voices deliberately pitched not to carry. They’d come in shifts, leaving the ranch in pairs to make the drive to the hospital. Not once had Anson been alone. Not once had Maggie.
“I mean it,” Anson said, softer now, for her ears only. “Don’t worry about my hands.”
She touched his cheek, fingers tracing the line of his beard where tiny patches had been singed away. “I’m going to worry about every part of you. Get used to it.”
“Magnolia.”
The way he said her name—like it was precious, like it belonged in his mouth—made her chest ache. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his. “You scared me today.”
“Look who’s talking.” His bandaged hand lifted to cup the back of her neck. “I wasn’t the one trying to drag Landry’s sorry ass out of a burning building.”
“I couldn’t just leave him there.”
“I would have.”
She pulled back slightly. “No, you wouldn’t. That’s not who you are.”
Before he could argue, a sharp knock at the door made everyone turn. Ghost straightened from his casual slouch, shifting into a more alert stance as Marshal Corbin Brandt entered the room.
Brandt looked exactly as she remembered from their first meeting at the sheriff’s office—tall, immaculately dressed despite the late hour, with a face that revealed nothing and electric blue eyes that saw everything.
Tonight, those eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, and a faint dusting of ash darkened one sleeve of his otherwise pristine suit.
“Marshal,” Walker greeted, stepping forward to shake Brandt’s hand. “Any news?”
“Some.” Brandt’s gaze swept the room before landing on Maggie. “Miss Rowe. Mr. Sutter. Glad to see you both conscious.”
Anson just nodded, his expression instantly guarded in a way it hadn’t been moments before.
“How’s Landry?” Maggie asked. As much as she hated him, she didn’t want his death on her conscience—or Laura’s.
“Stable. Being transferred to a burn center in Denver tomorrow. He’s looking at substantial recovery time, but he’ll live.
” Brandt didn’t seem particularly thrilled about the prognosis.
“He’s also facing charges for escaping custody, though given the circumstances, a competent lawyer might argue coercion. ”
“And Laura?”
The marshal’s expression hardened. “Laura Kemp is under guard in the ICU. Third-degree burns over fifteen percent of her body, severe smoke inhalation. She’s sedated but expected to survive. Which is more than can be said for her previous victims.”
The room went silent.
“Victims, plural?” Maggie’s stomach dropped. “Not just Ryan Drummond?”
“Ryan and Sarah Drummond. Husband and wife.” Brandt pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Shot to death in their Tampa home five years ago. The case went cold until tonight, when Ms. Kemp’s fingerprints flagged in the system. She’s been a fugitive ever since.”
Maggie sank back into her chair, knees suddenly weak. “So she... she made up a whole identity based on the woman she killed?”
“It fits her pattern.” Brandt’s voice was coolly professional. “We’ve been coordinating with Tampa PD for the last few hours. They’ve had a task force on this case for years. Turns out Laura Kemp has a history of stalking and violence dating back to her teens.”
“Why didn’t anyone catch her before now?”
“She’s good at reinvention. Changes her appearance, her name, her background story. Becomes someone new in each city.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “She worked as a production assistant on your first show, ‘Building Home,’ but was fired after complaints from other staff members.”
“I don’t remember her.” Maggie racked her brain, trying to recall anyone who might have been Laura. There had been dozens of PAs over the years, faces that blended together in the background of busy production days.
“You wouldn’t. She was let go within the first month, before you became a regular host. But that brief connection was enough.
She fixated on you, started following your career online.
” Brandt’s expression softened fractionally.
“According to the Tampa detectives, she develops these obsessions. Convinces herself there’s a special relationship.
When reality doesn’t match her fantasy, she becomes dangerous. ”
“She killed Ryan and Sarah Drummond because...?”
“Ryan was her previous obsession. A high school teacher she’d stalked for months. When he rejected her advances and filed a restraining order, she killed him and his wife. Then she disappeared, only to resurface in your orbit.”
The weight of it settled on Maggie’s chest like stone. “All this time, I thought it was Landry. All the gifts, the break-ins... I blamed him.”
“Landry’s guilty of plenty,” Anson growled. “Just not that.”
“Correct.” Brandt nodded. “Mr. Whitaker did violate his restraining order multiple times, make threatening calls, and ultimately assault you. But the more invasive stalking behaviors—the photos of you sleeping, the gifts left at your home—those were Laura Kemp.”
Bile rose in Maggie’s throat. Laura had been in her apartment. Had stood over her bed while she slept. Had touched her things, her life, while she blamed Landry and lived in fear of the wrong person.
“Hey.” Anson’s bandaged hand found hers, squeezing as best he could through the gauze. “You okay?”
She shook her head. “I feel like an idiot.”
“You shouldn’t.” Brandt tucked his notebook away. “Stalking cases like this are complicated. Most victims are dealing with multiple types of harassment from multiple sources. The fact that both Landry and Laura targeted you simultaneously is unusual but not unheard of.”
“What happens to Laura now?” Walker asked.
“Once she’s stable enough for transport, she’ll be moved to a secure medical facility, then face charges here and in Florida. Given her history and the premeditated nature of these crimes, she’s looking at life without parole, minimum.”
The clinical assessment should have been reassuring. Instead, it left Maggie feeling hollowed out. A woman she’d taught, encouraged, praised—a woman whose hands she’d guided on a saw, whose work she’d admired—had been planning to kill for her all along.
“She wanted to kill him because of me,” she whispered. “She thought she was protecting me.”
“That’s not on you,” Jonah said quietly. It was the first time he’d spoken since Brandt entered. “She’s sick, Maggie. Nothing you said or did caused this.”
“But if I hadn’t—”
“Don’t.” Anson’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. “We’re not playing that game. What happened today is on Laura, not you.”
“Anson’s right,” River chimed in. “You’re not responsible for her actions.”
“She set a man on fire,” Maggie pressed. “She killed two people in Tampa. She hurt Princess Jellybean. And I invited her into our lives.”
A heavy silence followed her words. She remembered all the times she’d praised Sarah’s—Laura’s—work. All the extra time she’d spent helping her perfect her joinery. The pride she’d felt watching a woman she thought was healing from abuse find strength in creation.
It had all been a lie. Every moment of connection, every shared smile, every gentle correction—all part of Laura’s sick fantasy.
“Ms Rowe.” Brandt’s voice pulled her back to the present. “This is a common reaction among stalking victims. You’re not responsible for Laura Kemp’s actions. The only person to blame is Laura herself.”
“Brandt’s right,” X added. “You couldn’t have known.”
Anson tugged gently on her hand until she looked at him. His eyes were steady, certain in a way that anchored her. “The only reason I’m alive is because you taught me that some broken things can be mended. That’s who you are. Not whatever twisted version Laura created in her head.”
She took a shuddering breath, trying to believe him.
Outside the window, night had fallen fully, turning the glass into a mirror that reflected the room behind her—Valor Ridge gathered close, a protective circle around them both.
Not one of them looked at her with blame or doubt. Only concern. Only certainty.
They believed in her innocence. In her goodness. Even knowing what had happened—what could have happened—they remained unmoved in their support.
They were still her family.
Anson squeezed her hand again, and this time, she squeezed back.