Chapter 30
WILLOW
The sawmill’s buried under a foot and a half of snow, the world blanketed white like something out of a postcard.
But the crew’s already there, bundled up, boots crunching, shovels scraping.
They're carving paths through the snow, checking on equipment, righting what the storm knocked sideways.
And then I see my little cabin.
My heart lurches in my chest.
There’s a dark, ugly hole in the roof, and Mack’s on a ladder, already securing a tarp over the damage.
The smoke stack’s not puffing.
No light in the window.
It looks so small now. So broken.
I know it wasn’t supposed to be permanent.
Just a stopover.
Temporary housing at best.
But still, it felt like mine.
It was safe. Quiet.
It was the first place I’ve ever stayed on my own. The first place that felt safe in a real long while.
And now it’s just wounded.
Thatcher says it’s not my fault.
He told me that in the truck with that steel-threaded voice of his, like he’d fight the whole mountain for me if he had to. I believe him.
Mostly.
He parks me in the office, makes sure I’m warm, set up, have everything I need while he goes to oversee the installation of the new generator Tim hauled in from town.
Apparently, there are a couple that run the mill, and the one that blew last night was the only casualty.
The lunchroom and main office are running fine.
We stopped at the lunchroom first.
He helped me stir the thick, creamy tomato soup I prepped yesterday. I pretended not to notice how he lingered at my back, warm and solid and close.
I’ve got grilled cheddar and turkey bacon sandwiches ready to press for lunch, and a peach cobbler bubbling away in the new dessert crock pot Thatcher insisted we buy when we went on this week’s Walmart run.
He even pushed the cart.
Said it was “only right” that if I was feeding his whole damn crew, I should have the tools to do it right.
And I liked it.
God help me, I like this.
The cooking. The quiet. The rhythm of feeding people who work with their hands and don’t ask for much.
I’ve even been looking over the summer schedules. Once the snow melts, and the days get longer, the shifts start earlier.
Maybe I could prep some grab-and-go breakfast? Biscuit sandwiches, or breakfast burritos? Just something warm with their coffee before the day kicks off.
But then—I hear it. My inner voice speaks up loud and clear.
You won’t be here in the summer.
The thought punches the air right out of me.
This isn’t my life.
Kelly is coming back to work in just a handful of weeks.
This is all borrowed.
Temporary.
Just like the cabin.
Just like last night.
Shit. This is why I shouldn’t have slept with him.
Now I’m building castles out of clouds—barefoot and blushing—and I have no one to blame but myself.
Was it just a one-time thing for him?
A moment of weakness with the help?
God, that thought makes me want to curl into a ball.
I bite my lip, suddenly unsure of everything.
Do I ask him? What if it’s nothing?
What if I just made things awkward between us?
What if he regrets it and now I’ve ruined the best job I’ve ever had?
I press my hands to my cheeks and try to breathe.
The phone rings.
Thank God.
“Hello? McCrae Lumber & Sawmill,” I answer, remembering my line.
“Hey, it’s me,” Kelly’s voice comes through the receiver, a little raspy but warm. Familiar. Comforting. “Just checking in.”
“Hi! How are you feeling?”
“Good! I mean, sore. Tired. Surgery sucks,” she laughs softly. “But they said I can go home tomorrow.”
“That’s great!” I exhale.
“It is really great. Is Thatch there?”
“No, he’s out checking on the generator install.”
“Oh, that’s right, I heard about that. Are you okay, honey? Look, the office doesn’t have a bed, but if you want I can send Mike once the roads are clear to get you and—”
“Oh,” I reply, wondering what the heck to say to her, “That’s okay! I mean, I’m fine.”
I hesitate. The words form like knots in my throat.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. I’m totally fine,” I lie.
And it is a lie because Thatcher and I didn’t talk about last night.
So, I don’t really know if I’m fine.
But I can’t talk about it now.
Not with her.
Not when I don’t even know what last night meant yet.
I don’t want her asking questions I can’t answer.
I don’t want her thinking badly of Thatcher.
Or worse—pitying me.
So I cut the call short with a few promises to text updates and hang the phone up, like it might bite me.
I’m still sitting there, twisting my fingers, trying not to spiral, when the door opens.
I look up, startled.
A strange man with a skullcap and full beard steps inside. He shakes the snow off his boots onto the mat, and I have one moment to take him in.
He is tall, dark-haired. He might be handsome under all that facial hair with that whole I’m a lumberjack but make it work thing going on.
But he’s not Thatcher handsome. And I don’t recognize him.
Then he looks at me and he grins, boyish and smug.
“So you’re the little spitfire Thatcher chewed Lawrence’s ass out over?”
I blink, thrown. My brain scrambles to keep up with the words.
“I’m sorry—what?”
The man in the doorway grins like we’re old friends. He’s tall, built like a mountain man off a flannel calendar, his shoulders broad beneath a worn Carhartt jacket dusted with snow.
“Name’s Grayson Cole,” he says, striding into the office with an easy confidence that makes me feel even smaller in my creaky chair. “Live on the other side of the mountain.”
I’m still trying to figure out what he means when he sets a large box on my desk with zero ceremony.
Then he nods at it.
“Well, go on. Open it.”
His voice brooks no argument.
Like it’s already decided.
My hands move before I fully process what’s happening.
The cardboard flaps fold back, and inside—tucked beneath thick ivory tissue paper that crinkles like snow underfoot—is a pair of boots.
Not just any boots.
My heart skips a beat.
They’re big, sturdy, real work boots—tan leather with deep treaded soles, thick laces, and reinforced toes.
“Should be your size. Thatch said so. But if they’re not, let me know.”
Size nine.
My size.
I don’t even remember telling Thatcher what it was.
But he knew.
My fingers tremble as I push the tissue aside completely—and that’s when I see it.
The detail.
The soft breath I take gets stuck in my throat.
The leather’s tooled, the burnished design etched into the sides in precise, swirling patterns that curl and dip along the seams like living things.
But they’re not just decorative swirls. I blink, leaning closer.
It’s a willow tree.
My namesake.
Its long, elegant branches etched with the gentlest curve—as if caught in the wind—and at the end of each one are dozens of tiny, delicate blossoms.
Soft pinks and muted greens and warm browns.
Painted, or dyed, or inked—I don’t even know.
It’s beautiful.
It’s me.
I suck in a breath, eyes stinging.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
This isn’t something you pick up at Walmart or even a department store.
This is custom.
Hand-done. Crafted.
They’re not just boots.
They’re art.
“You made these?” I ask, my voice barely there.
Grayson nods, casual as anything.
“Usually takes about a week to finish a pair like that. Waitlist’s long, but I owed Thatcher a favor.”
My throat tightens. I glance from the boots to him, trying to make sense of it.
“You made them for me because he asked you to? But the willow tree?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious.
“Thatcher’s idea. Called in the favor last week. Told me you were new. Said your sneakers were garbage, and you deserved something better.” He grins. “Said make ’em perfect.”
My battered shoes are still on my feet.
The ones I wore out in the storm.
The ones Thatcher lifted me in without a second thought.
My heart pounds. Tears threaten again.
He did this before last night.
Before anything happened between us.
Why?
Why would he do something so kind? So personal?
I reach into the box with shaking hands and lift one of the boots, holding it like it might break.
It’s warm inside, lined with plush wool.
The leather is buttery soft but firm.
Protective.
Just like him.
“Toe’s reinforced with steel,” Grayson adds, tone lighter now. “They’re waterproof. Tough as hell. You treat ’em right, they’ll treat you right.”
My fingers linger on the carved trunk of the tree, tracing its center.
I want to cry.
No one has ever bought me something so thoughtful in my life.
Dan gave me a sweater for the one Christmas we spent at my mother’s house.
It was two sizes too small. On purpose.
These?
These are perfect.
“I… thank you,” I say, my voice hoarse.
But Grayson just tips his chin, like his part’s done.
Then, just like that, he turns and walks out—back into the snow.
And I’m left here, heart galloping, hands trembling, tears in my eyes, holding a gift I didn’t expect, and maybe don’t deserve.
He saw me.
Thatcher saw me.
And now I don’t know what to do with everything I’m feeling.
Now, I’m frozen.
Heart pounding.
Boots in my lap.
I know I’m in trouble.
Because this man?
He’s dangerous.
Not in the way Dan was. Not with cruelty or temper.
Thatcher’s dangerous because he makes me feel safe.
Because I’m starting to hope.
And because, God help me, because he makes me want to stay.