He led her up a gentle slope, then?—
“Okay, open.”
She opened her eyes. There, nestled in a small clearing among towering pines, stood a cabin—or what remained of one. Single-story with log walls darkened by decades of weather, a stone chimney rising from a roof that, surprisingly, looked mostly intact. Windows still held most of their glass, reflecting the late afternoon sun. The porch sagged dangerously, and thefront door hung from one hinge, but beneath the neglect lay the bones of something solid.
“Anson.” She stepped forward, already assessing, calculating, seeing past the decay to what could be. “What is this place?”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking younger, almost shy. “It was here when Walker bought the property. Foreclosure sale twelve years ago. Nobody’s touched it since.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I found it last fall, walking the boundary line. Been coming out here, thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” But she knew, even as she asked. Could see it in the careful way he watched her face, gauging her reaction.
“Walker says if I want to fix it up, it’s mine.” He took her hand again, leading her toward the cabin. “Ours, if you want it to be.”
The porch steps protested under their weight, and she tested each board before committing. Professional habit. The door screeched when Anson pushed it open, revealing a single large room layered in dust and animal droppings. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, mirroring the external chimney. Wide plank floors spread beneath the debris, and a rough ladder led to a loft space overhead.
“Mice in the corners,” she noted, already moving through the space. “Raccoons have been using the chimney. Probably need to completely replace the porch. But the roof looks sound from inside too. That’s something.”
She crossed to a window, wiping away years of grime with her sleeve. The view stopped her cold—a perfect frame of valley and mountains beyond, bathed in golden afternoon light. With the right restoration, this place would be stunning.
“It needs work,” Anson said behind her, his voice low. “A lot of work. But I thought maybe...”
She turned to find him kneeling in the middle of the dusty floor, a small wooden box in his scarred hands.
“I thought maybe we could make it ours,” he continued, his voice steady despite the nervousness in his eyes. “Somewhere that’s just for us, not the bunkhouse or your cabin. Something we build together.”
He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple but beautiful, a band of silver inlaid with threads of gold that formed an intricate pattern. Gold in the cracks. Beauty born from brokenness.
“Magnolia Rowe,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Will you marry me? Help me turn this wreck into something worth keeping?”
The tears came before she could stop them, blurring her vision of this man who’d walked through fire for her, quite literally. Who’d faced his worst fears and come out stronger. Who’d taken all his broken pieces and learned to see the gold in them, just as she’d tried to show him.
“Yes.” She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. “Absolutely yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger with hands that still trembled slightly, whether from emotion or lingering nerve damage, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The ring caught the light streaming through the dirty windows, gold flashing like signals in the dust-filled air.
Relief washed over his face, smoothing the worry lines between his brows. He tugged her closer, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that warmed her from head to toe despite the cabin’s chill. When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—leather and woodsmoke and steel.
“I brought a picnic,” he said after a moment, his voice rough. “If you want to stay a while. Talk about what we could do with the place.”
“You planned this whole thing.” She smiled against his coat. “Mr. I-Don’t-Talk-Much had a whole speech ready.”
“Had to get it right.” He kissed the top of her head. “This is important.”
“It is,” she agreed, pulling back to look at him. “So let’s see this picnic.”
He’d packed sandwiches and apples, a thermos of coffee, and a blanket thick enough to spread over the dusty floor. They sat close together, shoulders touching, Bramble curled at their feet, and ate as the golden light of afternoon gave way to the deeper blue of evening.
“The fireplace needs to be cleared and inspected,” she said between bites, already mentally cataloging the work ahead. “But I bet it works. These old stone ones usually do.”
“Chimney might need repointing.” He poured coffee into the thermos cap and passed it to her. “The porch definitely needs replacing. Noticed some rot in the support beams.”
“We could extend it,” she suggested. “Wrap it around to the side where the view is better.”
“Built-in bench along the railing.” He nodded. “For summer evenings.”
“We’d need a woodstove for backup heat.” She glanced around the space, already placing furniture in her mind. “And that loft should be bigger. The ladder needs to go—proper stairs instead. Wide ones, with storage underneath.”
“Runner for electricity from the main grid. Septic system’s still in place from the original build, but it’ll need updating.” His hand found hers, fingers intertwining. “Kitchen along the back wall?”
