I park and kill the engine. Jessie has been quiet the whole journey, and I’m not one for small talk. I glance at her as she takes a deep breath. Steeling herself.
She’s scared, I realize.Not of me. Of needing help.
The recognition hits somewhere beneath my ribs. I’ve been there. When you’re so accustomed to going it alone that letting someone help feels like giving up.
I climb out and round the truck to open her door for her. The mountain air hits my lungs—that crispness that only exists above five thousand feet. Home. I’ve never wanted to share this with anyone.
Until tonight.
Don’t think about that. Just get her inside, get her settled, and keep your hands to yourself.
Jessie unfolds herself from the passenger seat, and I have to look away because watching her stretch makes my mouth go dry. When I glance back, she’s staring up at the cabin with an expression I can’t quite read.
The cabin is me. Every rough edge, every practical choice, every deliberate absence of softness. Designed for solitude. Built for one.
“This is yours?” Her voice carries across the clearing. “It looks like it grew out of the mountain.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at that.
“Built it myself five years ago.” I grab the heavy duffel bag from the trunk. “With a bit of help from the two guys I was with at the auction tonight. We nearly killed each other three times gettingthe roof timbers in.” My mouth twitches with a fond smile at the memory.
“I saw the women they went home with backstage. Jane and…” Jessie’s brow furrows as she tries to remember.
“Sadie,” I say. “She went home with Wyatt. And Jackson won the bid for Jane. Sadie’s situation is a little more… complicated.”
Her frown deepens with concern. “But Jane and Sadie are both safe, right? With Jackson and Wyatt?”
I nod. “No two men they’d be safer with.”
Jackson “Tex” Briggs and Wyatt “Saint” Callahan are my brothers, not by blood, but because we’ve been through things together that most people can’t imagine. Deployment. Trauma. The type of trust that only forms when someone’s literally had your back in a firefight. They helped me build my cabin when we got out, then watched me retreat into it like a wounded animal, convincing myself that isolation was the same as peace.
“They live close by at Havenridge Ranch. The Sutton family runs a veterans program there. A safe place for former military men struggling with PTSD, injuries, survivor’s guilt.”
The wind picks up, sending a flurry of snow dancing around Jessie’s face.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” I head for the porch, hyper-aware of her footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. “Fair warning—it’s not fancy. But it’s warm and the locks work.”
“That’s more than I can say for the Roadside.”
The reminder of where she’d planned to stay makes my shoulders tense. I shove open the front door harder than necessary.
Inside, the fire I banked is still glowing.
Jessie steps inside, and the room immediately feels smaller. Her presence takes up more space than her body should—all that energy, that barely contained brightness, filling corners I didn't know were empty. For once, I don’t feel like the loudest thing in the room.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. A king bed against the far wall. Kitchen built for efficiency, not company. A leather couch I’ve fallen asleep on more nights than I’d admit. Books stacked on every surface because I never got around to building enough shelves.
The exposed beams, worn wool blankets, and complete lack of anything decorative except a single photograph of me and my unit on the mantel. It was the last picture we took together before everything changed.
Her gaze snags on it for a second before moving on.
I move automatically to add a log, buying myself time before I have to face her reaction.
“One room,” she says slowly.
“Told you it wasn’t fancy.”
“You told me it had abed,” she says, staring at the bed I sleep in alone.
