I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my borrowed coat, letting warmth prick life back into them. He’s given me more praise in the hour I’ve known him than my father did my whole life. “She was the brave one.”
“You were steady, even though you were scared.”
I stiffen.
“It’s not a weakness,” he says gently.
The way he says it makes my throat tighten. I look out the window, watching snow blur the world into white noise. Being seen is terrifying. Being seen gently is... disturbing.
The shadows of my past stretch long behind me. And yet… sitting here in this truck, wrapped in Wyatt’s jacket, warmth sinking into my bones…
For the first time in months, survival doesn’t feel like the only goal.
For a heartbeat, I wonder what it would feel like to stay.
Chapter 6
Wyatt
The storm gets teeth as we pull away from the fence line. Big, lazy flakes sharpen into something meaner, and the wind cuts across the open pasture hard enough to make the truck rock.
Sadie’s hands are tucked into the sleeves of my borrowed coat, her shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to make herself smaller, yet the first thing she does is twist around to check on Maisie in the back seat.
“Breathing steadily,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Good girl.”
She’s shaking. She won’t admit it. I turn the heat up two clicks and keep the speed low. I’d know this stretch of road blindfolded, but I don’t take risks in this weather. Risks get people killed, and I’ve seen enough death.
“The bunkhouse is farther,” I say, eyes on the black ribbon of road and the snow that’s trying to erase it. “My cabin’s close. Generator is reliable. You’ll be warmer there.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, as if she’s deciding whether to trust me.
She’s been running those calculations since the stage, measuring every move I make against that one question: safe or not.
I make a quick stop at the ranch house to grab the meds for Maisie, and by the time we turn onto the narrower track that threads the pines, the world shrinksto a blanket of white. My cabin appears with its dark roof, low porch, and woodpile under a tarp snapping in the wind.
I cut the engine, and silence envelops us. “Stay,” I say gently, raising my palm in a wait motion.
Circling the hood, I open Sadie’s door. She climbs out, small inside my coat, while I circle back to lift Maisie from the backseat, settling her weight against my chest.
“Door’s unlocked,” I tell her.
Sadie skitters ahead. Her arms cartwheel as her boots slip on the icy snow before she steadies herself. Every instinct I have wants to catch her. But trust is fragile, and grabbing her without warning isn’t how we build it.
My cabin is spartan. The wooden floors have scuff marks, the shelves hold a few books, field guides, a flashlight that always works, and a small fern that refuses to die because it doesn’t know it lives with me. The cooktop is clean because I keep it that way. The blanket slung over the back of the couch is practical rather than decorative.
But with Sadie standing in the doorway—small, damp, determined—the place feels less like a bunker and more like… a home I haven’t earned yet.
I lower Maisie onto the couch just long enough to grab the pallet from the porch. I set it by the hearth, cover it with a blanket,and then move Maisie onto it. She huffs and rolls onto her side, giving me a trusting lick.
Wincing, I rub my side as I straighten, turning to see Sadie untying her boots by the door. Water ticks off the laces onto the mat. Her socks are damp, thin, and totally unsuitable for a Montana winter, so I quickly grab a pair of mine from the dresser in the bedroom. She accepts them with a grateful smile. It’s small, but it lands like someone lit a lamp inside my ribcage.
The generator is already humming outside like a low, dependable heartbeat. I feed the fire another split log, releasing a fresh blast of heat.
Sadie hovers as if she’s waiting to be told where to stand.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea,” she says, then adds, “With milk and two sugars, please.”
