She nodded, grateful for the clear direction, and turned toward Anson, determined to salvage something from this first meeting. “Maybe later you could show me the forge? I’d love to see?—”
But he was already moving away, his long strides carrying him toward an outbuilding behind the barn. His shoulders were rigid beneath the dark green shirt, his head ducked low, making himself as small as a man his size could manage.
“Anson?” she called after him, hating the plaintive note in her voice.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. Didn’t acknowledge her at all.
Beside her, Bramble whined, ears flattening. The wolfhound took a few steps after Anson, then stopped and looked back at her with confused golden eyes. The dog clearly felt torn between following his person and staying with the newcomer.
“It’s okay,” she told Bramble softly. “Go on.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then loped after Anson, closing the distance between them in a few bounds. Together, man and dog disappeared around the corner of the barn.
“He gets like this,” Johanna said quietly. “It takes time for him to find his footing with new people.”
“But I’m not new people. I’ve known him for six years.”
The older woman’s eyes softened with sympathy. “On paper. This—” she gestured around them, “—is different for him. Give him time.”
Time. As if she hadn’t already given him six years of her life, poured out her soul in blue ink, trusted him with secrets she’d never told another living soul. As if she hadn’t driven thousands of miles to find sanctuary with the one person who’d made her feel safe when her entire world was falling apart.
“He’ll come around,” Walker said. The certainty in his voice suggested he knew Anson well enough to make such promises, but she didn’t have such high hopes. “Man spent most of his adult life in war zones and then behind bars, which is its own kind of war zone. Social graces aren’t his strong suit.”
She nodded mechanically, not trusting herself to speak. She’d known Anson was reserved. Known he struggled with people. Known he carried trauma that made normal interactions difficult.
But she’d thought she was different. Special. That what they’d shared in letters would translate to something real when they finally met.
She’d been wrong.
“Come on,” Walker said, nodding toward her truck. “I’ll help you stow that camper.”
Maggie followed him, grateful for the opportunity to hide her face. She climbed into her truck and blinked back the hot tears threatening to spill over.
She’d driven halfway across the country for this. For a man who couldn’t even look at her. For a man who’d rather hide in his workshop than spend five minutes in her company.
She started the engine and followed Walker toward the garage, fighting the urge to keep driving straight past ValorRidge, past Solace, past all of Montana, until she found somewhere new to hide.
Somewhere that didn’t hurt quite so much.
four
“Temporary,” Maggie muttered, setting her socket wrench beside the row of screwdrivers she’d just lined up on the dresser. “Just until you figure out what’s next.”
She unzipped her duffel and pulled out a flannel shirt, folding it before tucking it into the top drawer. The cabin—Jo’s old place—was small but sturdy. Rustic. A single bed with a patchwork quilt. The dresser with its mismatched knobs. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove and mini fridge humming in the corner. A small table with two chairs by the window.
The rest of her clothes followed—worn jeans, faded t-shirts, sweatshirts. Work clothes. Practical clothes. The wardrobe of someone who spent more time under sinks than at restaurants.
Walker had helped her park the Airstream behind the pole barn, safely covered from the elements. She’d grab the rest of her stuff tomorrow. Tonight, she just needed the essentials. Toothbrush. Laptop. Her toolbox.
Anson’s letters.
The memory of him staring at the ground rather than her face stung fresh all over again.
She yanked open another drawer harder than necessary, the aged wood groaning in protest. She’d read those letters so manytimes the paper had softened, creases worn into permanent lines from being folded and unfolded. In those pages, Anson had been thoughtful. Funny, in a dry, understated way. A man who noticed things, who paid attention to the world around him and found beauty in unexpected places.
The man she’d met today had been... empty. A shell with nothing inside. As if someone had hollowed out everything that made him Anson, leaving only the husk.
It’s different for him, Johanna had said.Give him time.
