Anson’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could he say? That he was pathetic enough to send notes via his dog because he couldn’t manage basic human conversation? That seeing River walk out of Maggie’s cabin laughing made something ugly twist in his chest? That for six years he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t—someone capable of connection?
He shoved the phone back in his pocket without responding and scrubbed a hand down his beard.
The damn group chat would keep going all night if he let it, an endless stream of jokes and jabs at his expense. Normally, he didn’t mind—it was how they showed affection—but he wasn’t in the mood tonight.
The porch light cast Maggie’s cabin in a warm glow. Had River sat in there with her, making her laugh? Had he managed to wash away the memory of Anson standing tongue-tied in the yard? Had he told her about Anson’s panic when they learned she was coming—how he’d nearly backed his truck into a fence post trying to escape to town?
His phone buzzed again. Walker this time, a direct message separate from the group chat.
Don’t let them get to you. Some women worth having are worth the wait. And the work.
He didn’t respond to that either. Walker and his cryptic cowboy wisdom. As if patience was the issue here, and not Anson’s fundamental brokenness.
Movement caught his eye. Maggie’s door opened, spilling light across the small porch. Anson stepped deeper into the shadows of the forge, but didn’t retreat completely. Couldn’t, even though every instinct screamed at him to hide.
She stood in her doorway, silhouetted against the light. Looked down at the note, then out into the darkness. Searching for him? Or just checking that no one else was watching?
Bramble materialized from the shadows beside her porch. Maggie startled, then crouched down. Even from here, Anson read her body language—the gentle slope of her shoulders, the careful way she extended her hand. She was talking to the dog, her words lost to the distance, but he knew the cadence of her voice from the videos he’d watched.
His phone buzzed. Another text. He ignored it. Couldn’t look away from the tableau across the yard.
Bramble pushed his grizzled muzzle into her hand. Something in Anson’s chest ached at the sight. Bramble, who took three months to let Walker close enough to touch him. Bramble, who was afraid of his own shadow and thought snow was suspicious. Bramble, who trusted almost no one, pressing into Maggie’s palm like she was safe. Like she belonged.
Maggie straightened and pulled something from her pocket. A piece of paper. No—his note. She read it again under the porch light, then reached back into her cabin and returned with what looked like a notebook. She wrote something, folded the paper, and offered it to Bramble.
The wolfhound took it carefully between his teeth, and Anson’s breath caught. She was writing back. After everything—after his cowardice, his rudeness, his complete failure as a human being—she was writing back.
Maggie stood, the light catching gold in her hair as she looked across the yard toward the forge. Her eyes couldn’t possibly find his, not with him half-hidden in shadow and the distance between them, but she raised her hand in a wave anyway.
His heart stuttered. Stopped. Restarted with a painful thud.
After a long moment, he raised his own hand. A simple gesture. The barest acknowledgment. But somehow it felt like the bravest thing he’d done all day.
She watched until Bramble was halfway to the forge, then retreated into her cabin, the door closing quietly behind her.
Anson stepped fully out of the forge, dropping into a crouch as Bramble approached.
“Good boy,” he murmured, scratching behind the wolfhound’s ears. “You did good.”
Bramble whined, pressing his head into Anson’s palm, the note still clutched gently in his teeth. He didn’t release it until Anson held out his hand. The exchange happened with practiced care—Bramble never punctured the paper, never drooled on the message. Anson had trained him too well for that.
The forge’s warmth wrapped around him as he stepped back inside, Bramble trotting at his heels. The fire was nearly out, just embers now, but heat lingered. He added another log, watched the flame catch, then settled on his stool, turning the folded paper over in his hands. His name on the outside, written in a flowing script so different from his own tight, controlled lettering.
His fingers shook as he unfolded it. He smoothed it flat against his thigh, the paper catching on his calluses.
Anson,
Don’t apologize. I get it. I’m nervous too. But here’s the thing—I didn’t drive two thousand miles for smooth conversation or perfect meet-cutes. I drove here for you. The real you. Scars and awkwardness and all.
The man in the letters is wonderful. But I want to know the man who writes them. Even if he can’t find words when I’m standing in front of him. Especially then.
Maybe we do this your way for a while. Letters. Until you’re ready for more. I’m not going anywhere.
- Maggie
He read it again. Then a third time. His throat tightened, and he blinked hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
She got it. She wasn’t running. Not yet.
