“Did you write it?”
Nellie chuckled and shook her head. “No. But I know who did, and I know why. That list wasn’t meant to hurt those boys. It was meant to wake them up.”
I sat with that for a long moment, something sharp and bright flickering to life inside me.
Maybe it had.
But the question now was… what was I going to do about it?
“Let me get you a refill on that coffee. I’ve got a box of cinnamon rolls with your name on it.” Nellie got up from the table, leaving me with a lot to think about.
Even though everything had gone to hell with Thatcher, even though he’d built walls around his heart as thick as the mountains surrounding his cabin, I wasn’t giving up just yet.
Back at the cabin, I lit a fire in the fireplace. It wasn’t that cold outside, but I craved the comfortable glow of the flames. I set my laptop on the table and opened a new document. My fingers hovered over the keys.
I could see the structure of the piece so clearly in my head… the hook, the witty tone. I’d normally shape the words into a sharp, sparkly read that people would click on and laugh about and share in group chats.
But every word felt like a betrayal.
Because I knew one of the men on that list now. Not as a rumor. Not as a nickname. Not as an anonymous ghost.
As Thatcher.
And he wasn’t a ghost at all. He was flesh and bone with visible scars and wounds deep down inside. He was calloused hands and hot coffee. He was hard muscle and soft kisses and whispered words against my skin in the dark.
He’d let me in, and then he’d shut me out. And I didn’t know how to write about that.
I rested my forehead on the edge of my laptop and groaned.
The cursor kept blinking, accusing me of not trying.
I opened a new document. Titled it The Truth About Ghosts and then stared at the screen again. What was I even trying to say?
That sometimes the people we label as distant are just the ones who’ve been burned the worst? That sometimes the ones who push you away are doing it because they’re terrified of what it means to let you stay?
I clicked into the document, my fingers flying over the keyboard before I could stop them.
Ghosts don’t always haunt places. Sometimes they haunt their own lives. Sometimes, they’re not even ghosts at all. They’re just men trying to keep their hearts safe. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get close enough to see what they’re really made of.
Tears blurred the words until I couldn’t read them anymore.
I didn’t want to write about Thatcher or any of the other Hard Timber mountain men on that damn list. I wanted to fight for him. Even if I didn’t know how. Even if he wasn’t ready. Even if I ended up walking away with nothing but the echo of his voice in my chest and the smell of wood smoke clinging to my clothes.
I closed the document. Saved it. Then shut my laptop with a soft click.
Tomorrow, I’d figure out what to tell my editor. Tonight, I just needed to sit in the silence and let myself feel all of it. The ache. The hope. The wild, ridiculous, painful, wonderful fact that I’d fallen for a man who’d already warned me he might disappear.
And somehow, I still wanted to believe he wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 9
THATCHER
The bell over the door gave its usual jingle as I stepped inside The Huckleberry Cafe. I’d intentionally picked the lull between lunch and dinner to stop by. There were just a few locals nursing their mugs and pretending not to notice me. I wasn’t exactly known for casual drop-ins.
Nellie glanced up from behind the counter, took one look at me, and reached for a clean mug. “Well, if it isn’t the Ghost himself.”
I sighed. “Please don’t start.”
