And I want to put my fist through something.
She shouldn’t carry this.
She shouldn’t know what it’s like to assume she’ll be blamed.
“Are you sure?”
“Look at me.”
She does. My heart squeezes.
“I’m sure.”
“Thatcher,” she whimpers.
I want to hug her to me. But I can’t.
There’s no fucking room.
I reach out instead and squeeze her thigh. Then I take her hand in mine.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, reaching across the console to take her hand. “And you’re safe now. You hear me? I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
She stares down at our joined hands like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the way I’m holding on.
But she doesn’t pull away.
And that?
That’s a start.
I ease the truck back into gear and keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh.
She doesn’t say anything.
But she leans into the touch.Into me.
And if it takes me the rest of who cares how long to make her believe she’s not a burden, not a problem, not alone—I’ll do it.
Because Willow isn’t just in my world now.
She is my world.
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.
