Right. Time. Because six years wasn’t enough.
She snorted and tossed her toiletry bag onto the bed. She didn’t have time. Not with Landry still out there, still searching. Not with her career hanging by a thread while she hid from the man who’d turned her life into a waking nightmare. She’d come to Montana because Anson had made her feel safe when nothing else did. When her restraining order got stuck in a bureaucratic black hole. When the police stopped returning her calls.
Anson had been her last, best hope. And he couldn’t even look her in the eye.
She unzipped the toiletry bag and arranged her meager makeup on the small bathroom counter—tinted moisturizer, mascara, lip balm. She only bothered with makeup for filming now. On the show, she was Magnolia Rowe, a DIY queen who could turn literal trash into treasure. A woman whose hands were always steady, whose smile never faltered, whose life wasn’t falling apart at the seams.
Her real self—just Maggie—was someone who jumped at shadows and hadn’t slept through the night in months.
The pipes rattled when she turned on the tap, cold water sputtering before running clear. She splashed her face, letting water drip down her neck, not bothering to reach for the towel hanging beside the sink. The cold anchored her to the present,to this small cabin in the middle of Montana, thousands of miles from Landry and his obsession.
She pulled her laptop from her backpack and set it on the small table by the window. The view wasn’t much—a patch of overgrown grass, the edge of the bunkhouse, the corner of the barn in the distance. Somewhere out there, Anson was hiding from her. Probably regretting the letter that invited her to come, to stay, to find refuge here.
Her phone buzzed and a text popped up from Taryn, checking in:
Did you make it? Is everything okay? Is he as dreamy as you imagined?
She snorted. Dreamy wasn’t the word. Shut down, maybe. Distant. Mute.
I’m here. It’s... not what I expected.
The response came immediately:
In a bad way? Do you need me to come get you?
Taryn would, too. Would drop everything and drive to Montana if Maggie asked. It was tempting. Almost as tempting as crawling back into her truck right now and driving until Valor Ridge was just a distant memory.
But where would she go?
I’m okay. Just tired from the drive. Talk tomorrow.
She powered up her laptop, connected to the spotty Wi-Fi, and checked her email. Nothing from Landry, thank God. Justa message from the network about the mid-season schedule change and some preliminary notes on the barn renovation episode she’d filmed last month. Before everything went to hell.
She closed the laptop and rubbed her eyes. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. In her head, she’d imagined... what? Running into Anson’s arms? No. But something.
She pulled her duffel closer and reached inside, fingers finding the zippered pocket where she kept the letters. Not all of them—there were too many for that—but a selection. The ones she returned to again and again when she needed to remember there were good people in the world. People who understood her. Who saw past the TV persona to the real woman underneath.
The paper was soft beneath her fingertips as she pulled out the most recent letter, the one inviting her to Valor Ridge. His handwriting was tight, the letters neat and as upright as soldiers standing at attention. That should’ve been her first clue about his true personality.
Valor Ridge is still here. The offer still stands. Walker doesn’t ask questions, and we’ve got space. You could come for a visit, see if you like it. No pressure, no commitment. Just a break from whatever’s happening there.
She folded the letter and set it on the nightstand, wondering if the man who wrote those words and the one who’d turned his back on her today were even the same person.
Outside, the light faded, casting long shadows across the patchy grass between the cabin and the bunkhouse. A figure moved near the barn—tall, broad-shouldered, a silver-gray shape at his heels. Anson and Bramble, heading toward theworkshop Walker had pointed out earlier. Anson’s forge, his sanctuary, where he shaped metal and leather into useful, beautiful things.
She turned away from the window and crawled into bed fully clothed, suddenly bone-tired. She pulled the patchwork quilt over herself, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and pine, and closed her eyes.
A sharp rap at the cabin door startled her awake. She bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs, the patchwork quilt tangled around her legs. For one terrifying moment, she didn’t know where she was. The unfamiliar shadows, the strange bed, the sound of wind whistling through cracks in the window frame. Then it came back. Montana. Valor Ridge. Anson’s cold shoulder. She dragged a hand through her tangled hair and squinted at her phone. Nearly seven.
The knock came again, three quick taps. Not Landry. He always knocked twice, hard, impatient. This was someone else.
“Just a sec,” she called, voice rough with sleep. She stumbled to her feet and tugged at her rumpled clothes, trying to look somewhat presentable. Not that it mattered. The one person she’d actually cared about impressing clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
She cracked open the door, then pulled it wider at the sight of the man on her doorstep. He wasn’t Anson—this guy was leaner, younger, with wild dark curls peeking out from under his cowboy hat and an easy smile. He balanced a covered dish in one hand and lifted the other in greeting.
“Hey there! I’m River. Jo sent me with dinner.” He thrust the dish forward. “Don’t worry, she made it, not me. Last time I tried to cook, I nearly burned down the bunkhouse.”
So this was River Beckett. Anson had written about him and the chaos he reveled in. The former Marine could fix anything, and his impulsiveness drove Walker crazy. But he could alsomake anyone laugh, even Anson. She’d watched Anson’s letters grow more exasperated, then grudgingly fond as River proved himself a loyal friend.
