Chapter 7
Faith
Dinner is quiet in the best way, comfortable silences punctuated by easy conversation, the kind that doesn't need to fill every gap. The venison chili is rich and hearty, seasoned with herbs I can't quite identify but that taste like the forest smells.
"This is incredible," I say around a mouthful. "Seriously, you could open a restaurant."
He snorts. "Right. 'Grumpy Mountain Man's Eatery.' I'm sure that'd go over well."
"I'd eat there every day."
His eyes meet mine across the small table, something warm flickering there. "You say that now. Wait till you see my limited menu."
"Quality over quantity." I gesture with my spoon. "This is proof."
After dinner, I insist on doing dishes while he adds more wood to the fire. We move around each other with surprising ease, like we've done this dance a hundred times before.
When the kitchen is clean, I find him at his workbench, running his hand over an unfinished toy—a carousel horse, delicate and beautiful, frozen mid-gallop.
"That one's special," I observe, moving to stand beside him.
"It was going to be for..." He pauses, jaw working. "My dad and I started it together. Right before he got sick. Never finished it."
My heart squeezes. "May I?"
He nods, and I reach out to trace the carved mane, the powerful arch of the neck. Even unfinished, it's breathtaking. You can see two different hands in the work—one more practiced, one learning.
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"Couldn't." His voice is rough. "Every time I tried, I'd just... freeze up. See his hands instead of mine. Hear his voice telling me to watch the grain."
I turn to face him fully. "What would he want you to do with it?"
Beau is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the carousel horse. "He'd want me to finish it."
"Then maybe it's time."
He looks at me, something vulnerable in his eyes. "I don't know if I remember how he wanted it done."
"So do it your way." I pick up a piece of sandpaper from the bench, hold it out to him. "Finish what he started, but make it yours too. That's not betraying his memory—it's honoring it."
His hand closes over the sandpaper, his fingers brushing mine. "Will you help me?"
"I don't know anything about woodworking."
"I'll teach you." His lips quirk up slightly. "Fair warning, I'm not very patient."
"Liar. I've watched you work. You're incredibly patient."
"With wood, maybe. People are different."
"Lucky for you, I'm very patient with grumpy mountain men." I hip-check him gently. "So, what do I do first?"
What follows is an hour of the most intimate non-intimate activity I've ever experienced.
Beau stands behind me, his chest against my back, his arms bracketing mine as he guides my hands over the wood.
His breath is warm against my ear as he explains grain direction, pressure, the feel of wood getting smoother under your touch.
"Like this," he murmurs, his hand covering mine, moving in long, even strokes. "You have to feel it. The wood tells you when it's ready."
My pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with woodworking. "How do you know?"
"It stops fighting you. Becomes smooth. Soft." His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. "Like this."
I swallow hard. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."
"You're a natural." His voice is lower now, rougher. His other hand settles on my hip, steadying me. Or maybe steadying himself.
We work together in companionable silence, him pointing out details, me following his lead. The carousel horse slowly comes to life under our hands—wood warming, surface smoothing, details emerging from what was rough and unfinished.
"It's beautiful," I whisper, running my palm over the finished mane. "Your dad would love it."
"Thank you,” he says quietly. "I couldn’t have finished it without you."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "What will you do with it?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Give it to a kid who needs magic. That's what Dad would've wanted."
I turn in the circle of his arms, and suddenly we're face to face, barely inches apart. His eyes are so blue in the lamplight, full of things I'm not sure either of us is ready to name.
"You're a good man, Beau Lawson."
"You make me want to be." His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. "You make me want a lot of things I thought I'd given up on."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Like what?"
"Like this." He leans down slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
His lips are soft against mine. When his tongue traces the seam of my mouth, I open for him, and the kiss turns searching, hungry. Delicious.
His hands slide into my hair, angling my head, and I press closer, needing to feel all of him. He's so warm, so solid, and when he makes a low sound in his throat, heat pools low in my belly.
We break apart breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Faith," he says, my name rough and wanting. "I need you to know—this isn't just the storm. Or convenience. Or—"
I press my fingers to his lips. "I know."
"You do?"
"Yeah." I smile, feeling it all the way to my toes. "Because I feel it too."
His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation. Finding none.
"Stay with me tonight," he says quietly. "Not in the guest room. With me."
My answer is to kiss him again, pouring everything I feel into it—all the want and hope and terrifying possibility that's been building since I knocked on his door.
When we finally break apart, he takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom, and I follow without hesitation.
Because sometimes you have to trust the storm.
Sometimes you have to believe that getting snowed in wasn't an accident—it was exactly where you needed to be.