“He worries anyway.” Ghost’s mouth twitched in what might have been a hint of a smile. “Man’s been patrolling every night after you go to sleep. Bramble’s exhausted.”
Her heart squeezed. She’d noticed the dark circles under Anson’s eyes, but he’d waved off her concerns, blaming it on a new order of custom bridles he was finishing. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t wanted to see that haunted look return to his eyes.
“I’ll tell him,” she promised. “Tonight.”
Ghost nodded once, apparently satisfied.
She picked up her chisel again, but the question that had been nagging at her for weeks pushed its way out. “That campsite Boone found—any luck figuring out who was there? Who hurt Princess?”
“Nothing concrete.” Ghost’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Couldn’t pull prints from what was left. The photos were too damaged to trace where they were developed.”
The memory of those surveillance shots—her and Anson by the creek, that heart carved into the tree—still made her skin crawl. “It had to be Landry, right?”
“Timeline doesn’t fit. He was in Nebraska when that campsite was active.” Ghost shifted his weight. “But the carving, the photos—maybe it’s someone who knows about you and him.”
“So he hired someone to scare me?”
“Possible.” But his tone said he didn’t think so.
And the more she thought about it, the less that made sense. Landry would have to know her location to hire someone to terrorize her, and by all accounts, he still didn’t know exactly where in Montana she was.
She sighed. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Ghost grumbled. “It doesn’t.”
She smiled at him. “It’s driving you nuts, isn’t it?”
“I will figure it out.” He turned to leave, but stopped short. “Hey, some woman from Haven House called, too. Sarah? Asked if you could bring more sandpaper tomorrow.”
She smiled at that. In the weeks since Sarah’s arrival at Haven House, the battered woman had transformed from a terrified shadow to an eager student with a surprising talent for detailed work. Her keepsake box project was coming along beautifully, and she grew more confident as her bruises faded.
“Make sure she has your new number,” Ghost said, then melted away from the doorway, leaving her to her work. She finished the spice rack, then glanced at her phone.
Four missed calls from the network. Not from Taryn, thankfully. After discovering that Taryn had been scheming with Landry to relaunch Building Home all along, she refused to work with Taryn again, and they respected her wishes. Last she heard, they’d placed Taryn on leave pending an investigation into her actions.
Maggie didn’t feel the least bit bad about that.
The days blurred together in the best possible way. Mornings in the forge or barn, helping Anson with simple tasks, learning the rhythms of ranch life. Three afternoons a week at Haven House, teaching women to build the things they needed—shelves, tables, beds free of memories. Evenings around the dinner table with the hodgepodge family she’d somehow acquired—River’s wild stories, Boone’s quiet wisdom, Walker’s gruff affection, Johanna’s sharp insights.
And the nights.
God, the nights.
Nights were for Anson. For the careful, tender dance they’d been perfecting.
The first week, he walked her to her cabin each night after the forge cooled, kissed her at the door, and left to stand guard. The second week, he’d stayed for cocoa, then left. The third week,he’d stayed until she fell asleep, his body curved around hers on top of the covers.
Now he stayed. Every night. Stripped down to his long-sleeved undershirt and boxers, he slid under the covers with her. But every time she turned in his arms, every time her hands drifted under his shirt, he tensed. Pulled away. Made some excuse about an early morning or a project that needed attention.
Tonight followed the same pattern. They were curled together, her back against his chest, his arm heavy across her waist. His breath was warm and steady against her neck, his body solid and real behind hers.
She counted his breaths. Focused on the weight of his arm, the way his fingers splayed across her ribs. Tried not to think about how much she wanted to turn in his arms, to slide her hands under his shirt, to feel his skin against hers.
He shifted, pulling her closer, and her body ached with wanting him.
She woke to find Anson already gone, the depression in his pillow the only evidence he’d been there at all. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Another network message, more urgent than the last.
Production meeting scheduled for January 3rd. Your attendance is non-negotiable. Contract requires minimum 8 episodes before renewal option. Please confirm receipt.
