“Damn right I am.”
She laughs—watery, overwhelmed—and rises on her toes to kiss me. I pull her close, tasting salt and morning and the future I'm finally letting myself want.
Chapter 10
Jessie
On Saturday morning, Tank asks if I want to go to the lumberyard.
“I need to check on a few things,” he says over coffee. “Won’t take long. But if you want to bring your sketchbook?—”
“Yes! I want to sketch the equipment, the log stacks, the way the mountains frame everything.” I've been dying to see where he works, and he knows it. “I mean, if that’s okay. I don’t want to be in the way.”
His mouth twitches. “You won’t be in the way, Smudge.”
The nickname still affects me. Whenever he uses it, he gives me this look, as if he’s enjoying a secret and I’m in on it.
“But you stay where I put you. Those machines don’t care how talented you are.”
I grin. “Noted.”
“And you wear the boots I bought you,” he adds. “Not the cute ones.”
“Tank,” I say solemnly, “I would never risk my life for aesthetics.”
A snort escapes him before he can stop it. “Smart woman.”
I grab my bag, toss in my sketchbook and a handful of pencils, and we head out the door.
The lumberyard sits on the edge of Havenridge Ranch property, about ten minutes from Tank’s cabin. It’s smaller than I expected—a handful of buildings, a massive equipment shed, and what looks like miles of stacked timber in various stages of processing. The smell hits me first: fresh-cut pine, sawdust, and something earthier underneath.
It smells like Tank.
“Welcome to my other office.” He parks the truck near a weathered wooden building with “HAVENRIDGE LUMBER” painted across the front.
“It’s quieter than I expected.”
“Saturday. Skeleton crew.” He circles the truck to open my door before I can reach the handle. He always does that now, and I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like it because I really do. I love it. “Sullivan's here. Maybe one or two others.”
I spot him before Tank points him out—a lean man in a faded denim jacket, leading a bay mare toward the paddock near the timber stacks. He moves carefully, deliberately, like someone who’s learned to measure every step. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
I’ve met a few veterans who work on the ranch over the past couple of weeks. They’ve welcomed me into their circle as if I’ve always belonged. No questions, no judgment, just easy acceptance.
It’s disorienting, but in the best way.
“Sullivan’s a good guy,” Tank says as we walk toward the main building, his eyes tracking the other man’s progress across the yard. “Quiet. Keeps to himself.”
Something in his tone makes me look up. It contains a protectiveness, the same careful watchfulness I’ve noticed when Tank thinks I’m not paying attention. How he checks the locks twice before bed, the way he always positions himself between me and the door.
“Like you?” I ask.
His mouth twitches. “I’m not quiet.”
“Fair point.” I bump my shoulder against his arm. “You’re very loud in your silence.”
That earns me a small but genuine smile. “Worse than me,” he says after a moment. “He’s newer. Still figuring out how to be... here.”
I don’t ask what that means. I’ve learned that people open up when they're ready, or not at all. Either way, you don’t push. Tank’s careful phrasing tells me everything I need to know: Sullivan is one of his, and Tank looks out for his people.
