Chapter Six
Plants didn't stop needing water just because someone was trying to kill you.
Meredith stood at the kitchen window in borrowed morning light, checking each cutting for signs of stress.
The trip had been rough on them—jostled in the truck bed, wrapped hastily in newspaper, roots exposed to air for too long.
A few showed wilting at the leaf edges. Most looked like they'd survive.
She changed their water, adding a pinch of sugar from the cabin's supplies to help them root. Her grandmother's trick, passed down through three generations of women who understood that growing things required patience and faith and a willingness to do the work even when the outcome was uncertain.
Outside, Quarry was reinforcing the cabin's defenses.
She watched him through the window as she worked.
He moved with deliberate economy, checking sight lines, positioning deadfall logs as barriers, testing the locks on every door and window.
Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. Every motion purposeful in a way that made her think of plate tectonics—slow forces that could reshape entire landscapes if given enough time.
He'd been awake when she emerged at dawn, sitting on the porch with coffee like he'd never slept at all. Maybe he hadn't. The shadows under his eyes suggested as much, but he'd waved off her concern with a grunt and a fresh cup poured from the cabin's battered percolator.
Now he was dragging a fallen log across the access road, positioning it where an approaching vehicle would have to slow down. His back moved under his shirt—muscle and controlled power—and Meredith made herself look away before he caught her staring.
She had bigger problems than the way Quarry filled out a t-shirt.
Although, objectively speaking, he filled it out very well.
Focus, Sloan.
She turned back to her cuttings and noticed a Japanese maple cutting showing new root nubs at the base.
Good sign. The plant was already responding to water and warmth, reaching for survival despite everything that had happened.
That was the thing about growing things—they wanted to live.
You just had to give them the conditions to do it.
The front door opened and Quarry's boots thudded across the floor. She felt him stop behind her, close enough that she could smell sweat and pine sap.
"How are they?"
"Stressed but stable." She turned to face him, which was a mistake because now he was close and looking at her with those dark eyes. "Most of them will make it if I can keep them watered. The Japanese maple's already showing root development."
Something flickered in his expression. "Show me."
She picked up the cutting in its mason jar and tilted it toward the light. "See those white nubs at the base? That's where the roots will form. In a week or two, they'll be long enough to transplant."
Quarry studied the cutting with unexpected attention, like it mattered to him. Like her excitement about plant biology wasn't boring or strange.
"You've been doing this since you were a kid?"
"Since I was six. My grandmother put a trowel in my hand and told me the dirt would teach me everything I needed to know about life." Meredith set the cutting back with the others. "She was right. Plants don't lie. They don't play games. They show you exactly what they need if you pay attention."
"Sounds simpler than people."
"Infinitely simpler." She wiped her hands on her jeans. "How's the perimeter?"
"Defensible." He moved past her to the sink, filling a glass with water and draining it in three swallows.
She watched his throat work and reminded herself—again—that she had bigger problems. "I've got Spillway and Limestone setting up on the access road where the grade narrows.
Heavy equipment won't be able to maneuver past that point. "
"You're expecting heavy equipment?"
"Taber used a skid steer last night. If Hardt sends him back, he'll bring bigger." Quarry set down the glass and turned to face her. "They won't find this cabin easy. But if they do, I want to be ready."
Meredith looked at this man who'd been awake all night watching the road, who was spending his day turning a fishing cabin into a fortress, who handled her plants like they mattered because they mattered to her.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Told you. Ridgerunners protect their territory."
"That's not what I mean." She stepped closer, narrowing the distance he always seemed to maintain.
"You could have passed this off to someone else.
Had one of your brothers babysit the stubborn nursery owner while you handled club business.
Instead you're here. Building barricades. Checking my cuttings."
Quarry's jaw tightened. "You want the honest answer?"
"I want the only answer."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You stood in front of a skid steer with nothing but your body. You packed plants before you packed clothes. You asked for my real name and then used my road name anyway because you understood which one mattered."
His voice dropped, rough and low.
"I'm here because I can't imagine being anywhere else."
Meredith's breath caught. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, the air thick with something she didn't have words for. Quarry was looking at her like she was the most important thing in the room—more important than the threats outside, more important than the war they were preparing to fight.
"That's a big statement," she managed.
"I don't make small ones."
She should step back. Should put professional distance between them, maintain the boundary that would keep things simple. Instead, she reached up and touched his jaw—rough with stubble, warm under her fingertips.
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm against his face. "I know you're brave enough to stand your ground when smart people would run. I know you love something enough to fight for it. And I know that when I look at you, I want things I haven't wanted in a long time."
"What kinds of things?"
His eyes darkened. "The kind that take time. That I'm not rushing."
Heat pooled low in her belly. The kitchen was definitely too small now, the air too charged. Quarry's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand and she felt each revolution like a brand.
"What if I don't want to take time?"
"Then I'd say you're running on adrenaline and fear, and I'm not taking advantage of that." He turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm—a brief, burning contact. "When we get there—and we will—it's going to be because you want me. Not because you're scared and I'm the closest warm body."
When, not if. The certainty in his voice made her knees weak.
"You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of this." He released her hand and stepped back, putting distance between them. "And I'm sure that right now, I need to finish fortifying the perimeter before dark."
She watched him walk out, her palm still tingling where his lips had touched. The man was infuriating. Patient and certain and absolutely maddening in his refusal to take what she was clearly offering.
But underneath the frustration, something else stirred. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. He wasn't treating her like a conquest or a convenience. He was treating her like someone worth waiting for.
She didn't quite know what to do with that.
The afternoon passed in strange domesticity.
Meredith tended her plants while Quarry worked outside.
He appeared at intervals—checking on her, bringing her coffee, once carrying a sandwich he'd assembled from the cabin's canned goods with surprising competence.
Each time, his eyes swept the room like he was cataloging every detail.
Making sure she was safe. Making sure she was still there.
She should have felt smothered. Instead, she felt seen.
Around four o'clock, two bikes rolled up the access road. Meredith's heart lurched before she recognized the rumble of Harley engines, the glint of chrome in afternoon sun. Quarry met the riders at the tree line and spent twenty minutes in conversation she couldn't hear.
When he came back inside, his face was grim.
"That was Spillway and Limestone. They're set up on the access road, but they saw movement on the ridge to the south. Could be hikers. Could be scouts."
"Scouts for Hardt?"
"Maybe." He moved to the window and studied the tree line. "Taber knows we have property up here. He doesn't know which cabin, but he's got men and time and a boss who doesn't like hearing no."
The familiar knot of fear tightened in Meredith's stomach. She'd been almost comfortable here, surrounded by plants and protected by a man who looked at her like she mattered. But the threat hadn't gone away just because she'd stopped thinking about it.
"What do we do?"
"We wait. If they come, we're ready."
She nodded and returned to her cuttings, but her hands weren't steady anymore.
The sun dropped behind the western ridge at 7:14 PM.
Meredith was refreshing water in the mason jars when she heard it—diesel engines, multiple, grinding up the ridge road from the south.
Quarry was at the window before she could move.
"Trucks. Three of them. Coming fast."
"Hardt's men?"
"Construction vehicles running heavy." His jaw tightened. "They found us."
The knot in her stomach became a fist. She thought about Taber's smile, the way he'd called her sweetheart, the skid steer aimed at her greenhouse like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.
"What do I do?"
Quarry turned from the window and crossed to her in three strides. His hands closed on her shoulders—warm, solid, steadying.
"Back room. No windows, single entry point. I'll hold the front."
"By yourself?"
"Spillway and Limestone are on the access road. They'll hit the convoy before it reaches the cabin." His grip tightened. "But if anyone gets through, I need to know you're somewhere defensible."
She looked up at him—at the tension in his jaw, the controlled fear in his eyes, the absolute certainty that he would put himself between her and danger without hesitation.
"I'm not hiding in a back room."
"Meredith—"
"This is my fight too." She pulled away from his grip and moved toward the corner where she'd leaned her shovel—the one from the nursery, the one she'd grabbed when Taber came the first time. "You said it yourself. When you brought me here, this became my ground too."
"That's not what I meant."
"It's what you said." She hefted the shovel. Solid weight. Familiar grip. "I'm not a damsel, Quarry. I've been fighting Hardt for eight months. I'm not stopping now just because the fight got real."
The diesel engines were louder now. Headlights flickered through the trees—three sets, bouncing on rough terrain. She heard men's voices, shouted commands. The convoy was maybe two minutes out.
Quarry looked at her. She watched him calculate—her safety versus her autonomy, his need to protect against her right to fight. His jaw worked.
"Side window," he said finally. "Clear sight line to the eastern approach. Anything comes through there, you take it down."
"And if something comes through the front?"
His smile was sharp and dangerous. "Then I take it down."
He moved to the front door, positioning himself where he'd have cover and a clear field of fire. Meredith took her position at the side window, shovel gripped tight.
Through the glass, she could see headlights cresting the ridge. Engines roaring, men shouting. The convoy was almost here.
She thought about her grandmother, who'd held this family's land through drought and tornado and forty years of doing everything alone. Ruth had never run from a fight. Never hidden when the world came for what was hers.
Neither would Meredith.
The first truck broke through the tree line, highbeams flooding the clearing with light. Behind it, more engines. More men. The full weight of Hardt's operation bearing down on a fishing cabin on a wooded ridge.
Meredith tightened her grip on the shovel and waited.