“She set a man on fire,” Maggie pressed. “She killed two people in Tampa. She hurt Princess Jellybean. And I invited her into our lives.”
A heavy silence followed her words. She remembered all the times she’d praised Sarah’s—Laura’s—work. All the extra time she’d spent helping her perfect her joinery. The pride she’d felt watching a woman she thought was healing from abuse find strength in creation.
It had all been a lie. Every moment of connection, every shared smile, every gentle correction—all part of Laura’s sick fantasy.
“Ms Rowe.” Brandt’s voice pulled her back to the present. “This is a common reaction among stalking victims. You’re not responsible for Laura Kemp’s actions. The only person to blame is Laura herself.”
“Brandt’s right,” X added. “You couldn’t have known.”
Anson tugged gently on her hand until she looked at him. His eyes were steady, certain in a way that anchored her. “The only reason I’m alive is because you taught me that some broken things can be mended. That’s who you are. Not whatever twisted version Laura created in her head.”
She took a shuddering breath, trying to believe him. Outside the window, night had fallen fully, turning the glass into a mirror that reflected the room behind her—Valor Ridge gathered close,a protective circle around them both. Not one of them looked at her with blame or doubt. Only concern. Only certainty.
They believed in her innocence. In her goodness. Even knowing what had happened—what could have happened—they remained unmoved in their support.
They were still her family.
Anson squeezed her hand again, and this time, she squeezed back.
Most of the Valor Ridge family had filtered out of Anson’s room as night deepened, leaving only Ghost stationed in the hallway like a particularly vigilant shadow. Maggie had curled herself into the visitor’s chair pulled right against Anson’s bed, her hand never far from his bandaged one. Neither of them had slept, though the nurse had dimmed the lights an hour ago with pointed suggestions about rest. Anson’s pain meds were wearing off, evident in the tight lines around his mouth, but he refused to press the call button. Stubborn, always so stubborn.
She was about to reach for it herself when a soft knock broke the quiet. The door eased open, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure hesitated at the threshold.
“Dad?” Anson’s voice caught, barely louder than a whisper.
Wendell Sutter stepped fully into the room, removing his battered Stetson to reveal a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. “They said you were hurt. Your hands.” His own work-roughened hands tightened on his hat brim. “Heard you ran into a fire.”
Anson’s jaw clenched. “How did you know I was here?”
“Walker called me. Said you’d been hurt.” Wendell’s eyes darted to Maggie, then back to his son. “Said you saved lives.”
Maggie hadn’t known Walker made the call, but she wasn’t surprised. The man had an uncanny sense for the mending that needed to happen around him—be it bodies, minds, or relationships.
“Wasn’t that bad,” Anson muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. “You didn’t have to drive all this way.”
“Course I did.” Wendell hovered awkwardly by the foot of the bed. He had Anson’s same eyes, Maggie noticed, the same set to his jaw, though weather and time had carved deeper lines into the father’s face. “Can’t have my boy in the hospital without checking on him.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, fraught with things unsaid. Maggie watched the two men, so alike and yet so distant from each other, and her heart ached for the wasted years.
“I’m Maggie,” she said finally, standing to offer her hand. “We spoke on the phone at Christmas.”
“Wendell Sutter.” His grip was firm but careful, like a man used to his own strength. “Recognize your voice.”
She glanced at Anson, then back to his father. “Your son’s been teaching me about leatherworking. He’s incredible with his hands.”
“Always was,” Wendell agreed, his voice softening. “Even as a kid. Could fix anything mechanical. And then when he learned to shape metal...” He trailed off, a shadow crossing his face. “His mother would’ve been proud.”
Anson’s breathing changed, his chest rising and falling a little faster. “Dad?—”
“I still have that first horseshoe you made.” Wendell interrupted, words coming in a rush like he’d been holding them back too long. “The one that was too small for anything but a miniature pony. Keep it on my workbench.”
For a moment, Anson looked like he’d been struck. Then his expression shuttered, and he looked away. “You never said.”
“Should have.” The simple admission hung in the air. “There’s a lot I should have said.”
Maggie felt suddenly intrusive, witnessing something intensely private. She stood. “I should check on Hollis. See how she’s doing.”
Anson caught her wrist with his fingertips, the most he could manage with his bandaged hand. “You don’t have to go.”
