“Is it working?” He bent to kiss the gold spot on her nose, then lower, seeking her mouth.
“Yes.” She slid her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. This was the Anson she knew, the one who’d opened up to her through all those letters, who’d finally let her in last night. Before she could deepen the kiss, a heavy knock rattled the cabin door.
“Anson!” Boone’s deep voice cut through their moment. “You in there?”
He groaned against her lips. “Maybe if we ignore him...”
Another, louder knock. “Sut! Rook threw a shoe. Need you at the barn.”
“Fuck.” Sighing, he pushed himself up and called toward the door, “Coming.” He grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser and pulled them on, not bothering with underwear.
Maggie’s entire body flushed hot watching him, the memory of his body against hers still fresh.
“Stay right there.” He pulled a clean shirt over his head, then leaned in to kiss her again. “I won’t be long.”
He opened the door to find Boone on the porch, arms crossed over his broad chest. Bramble pushed past both of them, nearly knocking Anson into the doorframe as he headed for the forge, impatient to check on his kittens.
Boone’s gaze flicked from the gold paint still visible in his beard, then past him to where she sat on the bed. No doubt she had gold paint smeared all over her face again.
A smile twitched on Boone’s lips. “Well. Guess the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?” Anson grabbed his jacket and hat.
“That you two finally figured things out.” Boone clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “About damn time. But Rook won’t wait, and that horse gets cranky when his shoes aren’t right.”
Maggie didn’t catch Anson’s response as the door clicked shut and the men’s voices faded. She flopped back against the pillows, laughing despite herself, feeling warm and happy and so completely at home it scared her a little.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of Anson’s flannel.
Montana was home now.
Anson was home.
And if she could build houses from the ground up, she could damn well help rebuild a relationship between a stubborn father and his equally stubborn son.
thirty-seven
There was paint on his hands.
Anson rubbed his thumb against the streak on his index finger as he followed Boone toward the barn. A stupid grin tried to work its way onto his face, but he forced it down. Boone already knew too much—no need to broadcast it any further.
The barn door groaned open, releasing a cloud of warm, hay-scented air. Rook stood in the center aisle, one hoof lifted slightly off the ground, radiating impatience.
River leaned against a nearby stall door, arms crossed, and Bear loomed beside the horse like a particularly grumpy mountain.
“Well, well, well,” River called, straightening with a grin that spelled trouble. “If it isn’t the golden boy himself.”
Anson ignored him and crossed to his tack box to grab his tools.
“I mean that literally,” River continued, undeterred. “There’s actual gold in your beard, Sut. Were you eating it? Or... something else?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Was Maggie painting you like one of her French girls?”
Bear cuffed the back of River’s head without looking at him. “Shut it.”
That shut River up for all of three seconds. Then: “Jesus, who pissed in your corn flakes this morning, big guy?”
“You did.”
“Huh. Don’t remember doing that.” River rubbed his head, his grin never faltering as he turned back to Anson. “It was that kinky-sugi thing, right? That’s why Maggie needed the paint? Was it a whole-body application, or just strategic placement? Asking for a friend. That friend being me.”
