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 wholeI’m a lumberjack but make it workthing 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,realwork 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.”
