Chapter 46
forty-six
The sander whirred in Maggie’s hand, sending fine sawdust spiraling through shafts of spring sunlight.
She switched it off and ran her fingers over the maple shelf, checking for imperfections.
Perfect. Three down, two to go for Nessie’s new display wall.
Behind her, a ceramic mug teetered at the edge of her workbench, pushed by Spark’s orange paw.
She caught it just before it crashed to the concrete floor.
“You little menace.” She scooped up the kitten—not so little anymore at nearly nine months old—and nuzzled his warm fur. “That’s the third thing you’ve tried to destroy today.”
Spark squirmed in her grasp, twisted free, and leapt back to the workbench where his siblings were already wreaking havoc.
Ember batted furiously at a scrap of leather, while Smoke stalked Bramble’s tail with exaggerated stealth, haunches wiggling before each pounce.
The wolfhound didn’t even lift his head from his paws, just swished his tail lazily, as if deliberately taunting his tiny tormentor.
Princess Jellybean watched it all from her perch on the highest shelf, green eyes narrowed in what Maggie swore was amusement.
The calico had transformed over the months from a hissing, feral creature into the matriarch of the forge.
She still wore the scar along her flank where Sarah/Laura hurt her, but her coat gleamed with health, and she’d even begun allowing Anson to scratch under her chin when she was feeling particularly generous.
Maggie turned back to her shelves, pride warming her chest as she surveyed the expanded workshop.
What had once been Anson’s solitary sanctuary now housed both their crafts—his anvil and forge at one end, her woodworking tools at the other, with a shared central space where they often worked side by side.
Open rafters above stored lumber and metal stock, while windows they’d installed together flooded the space with Montana’s endless sky. It felt right. It felt like home.
Across the workshop, Anson hunched over his workbench, his focus absolute as he stamped a pattern into a leather dog collar.
The metal tool looked awkward in his grasp, his fingers not quite curling around it the way they once had.
The fire at Haven House had ravaged his hands, layering fresh burns over old scars, requiring skin grafts and endless physical therapy sessions.
She watched him work, his movements slower than before but no less precise.
He’d lost some dexterity, gained constant aches that worsened in cold weather, but the specialists said he’d recovered better than expected.
He never complained, even on mornings when his fingers were too stiff to button his shirt, and she had to help him dress.
“How’s it coming?” She crossed to him, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. He smelled like leather and sweat and the sandalwood soap she’d made him try.
He tilted the collar toward her. “Almost done. X says Kavik destroyed his last one chasing a squirrel. Let’s see him try to destroy this.”
The leather bore an intricate pattern of mountain silhouettes and stars—the view from their clearing at night, rendered in miniature.
“It’s gorgeous.” She trailed her fingers over the tooled leather. “You’re getting faster.”
“Doesn’t feel faster.” He flexed his left hand. Three fingers still wouldn’t straighten completely. “But better than last month.”
“Progress, not perfection.”
He snorted a half-laugh at Johanna’s mantra. “Yeah, yeah.”
Spark chose that moment to dive-bomb from a shelf, landing squarely on Anson’s shoulder with claws extended. He winced but didn’t flinch, just reached up to detach the kitten.
“No climbing the human tree.” He set Spark on the floor with gentle firmness. The kitten immediately began scaling his leg instead. “Stubborn, just like your mom.”
“Which mom? Me or Princess?”
“Both.” He smiled up at her, the small, genuine smile that still made her heart stutter. “Definitely both.”
She perched on the edge of his workbench.
In the early days after the fire, she’d worried he’d retreat again, build those walls she’d worked so hard to breach.
Instead, something had shifted. He spoke more freely now, not just to her but to others.
Wore short sleeves despite the fresh scars mapping his forearms.
The fire that had nearly destroyed him had somehow freed him instead.
“Claire called,” she said, picking up a leather scrap and rolling it between her fingers. “Haven House got approval for that expansion. They’re adding three more bedrooms and a bigger workshop.”
He nodded, stamping the final star into Kavik’s collar. “Good. They needed the space.”
“It’s just too bad Hollis isn’t there to see it.” She shook off the sadness that settled over her every time she thought of her friend. “She also said Laura’s court date is set.”
His hands stilled momentarily. “You still planning to testify?”
“Yes.” She’d wrestled with the decision for months. Laura had tried to kill her—had tried to kill dozens of women in that fire. But she was also deeply ill, her obsession with Maggie distorting her reality until violence seemed reasonable. “She needs help, not just punishment.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I know.”
He set down his tools and stood, pulling her against his chest. His arms encircled her, strong and sure despite his damaged hands. “How about a break? I want to show you something.”
“Keep your eyes closed.”
“Anson—”
“We’re almost there.”
He guided her forward. “Just over this rise.”
He led her up a gentle slope, then—
“Okay, open.”
She opened her eyes. There, nestled in a small clearing among towering pines, stood a cabin—or what remained of one.
Single-story with log walls darkened by decades of weather, a stone chimney rising from a roof that, surprisingly, looked mostly intact.
Windows still held most of their glass, reflecting the late afternoon sun.
The porch sagged dangerously, and the front door hung from one hinge, but beneath the neglect lay the bones of something solid.
“Anson.” She stepped forward, already assessing, calculating, seeing past the decay to what could be. “What is this place?”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking younger, almost shy.
“It was here when Walker bought the property. Foreclosure sale twelve years ago. Nobody’s touched it since.
” He shifted from one foot to the other.
“I found it last fall, walking the boundary line. Been coming out here, thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” But she knew, even as she asked. Could see it in the careful way he watched her face, gauging her reaction.
“Walker says if I want to fix it up, it’s mine.” He took her hand again, leading her toward the cabin. “Ours, if you want it to be.”
The porch steps protested under their weight, and she tested each board before committing.
Professional habit. The door screeched when Anson pushed it open, revealing a single large room layered in dust and animal droppings.
A stone fireplace dominated one wall, mirroring the external chimney.
Wide plank floors spread beneath the debris, and a rough ladder led to a loft space overhead.
“Mice in the corners,” she noted, already moving through the space. “Raccoons have been using the chimney. Probably need to completely replace the porch. But the roof looks sound from inside too. That’s something.”
She crossed to a window, wiping away years of grime with her sleeve. The view stopped her cold—a perfect frame of valley and mountains beyond, bathed in golden afternoon light. With the right restoration, this place would be stunning.
“It needs work,” Anson said behind her, his voice low. “A lot of work. But I thought maybe...”
She turned to find him kneeling in the middle of the dusty floor, a small wooden box in his scarred hands.
“I thought maybe we could make it ours,” he continued, his voice steady despite the nervousness in his eyes. “Somewhere that’s just for us, not the bunkhouse or your cabin. Something we build together.”
He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple but beautiful, a band of silver inlaid with threads of gold that formed an intricate pattern. Gold in the cracks. Beauty born from brokenness.
“Magnolia Rowe,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Will you marry me? Help me turn this wreck into something worth keeping?”
The tears came before she could stop them, blurring her vision of this man who’d walked through fire for her, quite literally. Who’d faced his worst fears and come out stronger. Who’d taken all his broken pieces and learned to see the gold in them, just as she’d tried to show him.
“Yes.” She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. “Absolutely yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger with hands that still trembled slightly, whether from emotion or lingering nerve damage, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The ring caught the light streaming through the dirty windows, gold flashing like signals in the dust-filled air.
Relief washed over his face, smoothing the worry lines between his brows.
He tugged her closer, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that warmed her from head to toe despite the cabin’s chill.
When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—leather and woodsmoke and steel.
“I brought a picnic,” he said after a moment, his voice rough. “If you want to stay a while. Talk about what we could do with the place.”
“You planned this whole thing.” She smiled against his coat. “Mr. I-Don’t-Talk-Much had a whole speech ready.”
“Had to get it right.” He kissed the top of her head. “This is important.”
“It is,” she agreed, pulling back to look at him. “So let’s see this picnic.”