Spark squirmed in her grasp, twisted free, and leapt back to the workbench where his siblings were already wreaking havoc. Ember batted furiously at a scrap of leather, while Smoke stalked Bramble’s tail with exaggerated stealth, haunches wiggling before each pounce. The wolfhound didn’t even lift his head from his paws, just swished his tail lazily, as if deliberately taunting his tiny tormentor.
Princess Jellybean watched it all from her perch on the highest shelf, green eyes narrowed in what Maggie swore wasamusement. The calico had transformed over the months from a hissing, feral creature into the matriarch of the forge. She still wore the scar along her flank where Sarah/Laura hurt her, but her coat gleamed with health, and she’d even begun allowing Anson to scratch under her chin when she was feeling particularly generous.
Maggie turned back to her shelves, pride warming her chest as she surveyed the expanded workshop. What had once been Anson’s solitary sanctuary now housed both their crafts—his anvil and forge at one end, her woodworking tools at the other, with a shared central space where they often worked side by side. Open rafters above stored lumber and metal stock, while windows they’d installed together flooded the space with Montana’s endless sky. It felt right. It felt like home.
Across the workshop, Anson hunched over his workbench, his focus absolute as he stamped a pattern into a leather dog collar. The metal tool looked awkward in his grasp, his fingers not quite curling around it the way they once had. The fire at Haven House had ravaged his hands, layering fresh burns over old scars, requiring skin grafts and endless physical therapy sessions.
She watched him work, his movements slower than before but no less precise. He’d lost some dexterity, gained constant aches that worsened in cold weather, but the specialists said he’d recovered better than expected. He never complained, even on mornings when his fingers were too stiff to button his shirt, and she had to help him dress.
“How’s it coming?” She crossed to him, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. He smelled like leather and sweat and the sandalwood soap she’d made him try.
He tilted the collar toward her. “Almost done. X says Kavik destroyed his last one chasing a squirrel. Let’s see him try to destroy this.”
The leather bore an intricate pattern of mountain silhouettes and stars—the view from their clearing at night, rendered in miniature.
“It’s gorgeous.” She trailed her fingers over the tooled leather. “You’re getting faster.”
“Doesn’t feel faster.” He flexed his left hand. Three fingers still wouldn’t straighten completely. “But better than last month.”
“Progress, not perfection.”
He snorted a half-laugh at Johanna’s mantra. “Yeah, yeah.”
Spark chose that moment to dive-bomb from a shelf, landing squarely on Anson’s shoulder with claws extended. He winced but didn’t flinch, just reached up to detach the kitten.
“No climbing the human tree.” He set Spark on the floor with gentle firmness. The kitten immediately began scaling his leg instead. “Stubborn, just like your mom.”
“Which mom? Me or Princess?”
“Both.” He smiled up at her, the small, genuine smile that still made her heart stutter. “Definitely both.”
She perched on the edge of his workbench. In the early days after the fire, she’d worried he’d retreat again, build those walls she’d worked so hard to breach. Instead, something had shifted. He spoke more freely now, not just to her but to others. Wore short sleeves despite the fresh scars mapping his forearms.
The fire that had nearly destroyed him had somehow freed him instead.
“Claire called,” she said, picking up a leather scrap and rolling it between her fingers. “Haven House got approval for that expansion. They’re adding three more bedrooms and a bigger workshop.”
He nodded, stamping the final star into Kavik’s collar. “Good. They needed the space.”
“It’s just too bad Hollis isn’t there to see it.” She shook off the sadness that settled over her every time she thought of her friend. “She also said Laura’s court date is set.”
His hands stilled momentarily. “You still planning to testify?”
“Yes.” She’d wrestled with the decision for months. Laura had tried to kill her—had tried to kill dozens of women in that fire. But she was also deeply ill, her obsession with Maggie distorting her reality until violence seemed reasonable. “She needs help, not just punishment.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I know.”
He set down his tools and stood, pulling her against his chest. His arms encircled her, strong and sure despite his damaged hands. “How about a break? I want to show you something.”
“Keep your eyes closed.”
“Anson—”
“We’re almost there.”
He guided her forward. “Just over this rise.”
