She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, hammer gripped tight, and pulled on the closest sweatshirt. The cabin floor feltice-cold through her socks as she crept toward the door. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening.
Nothing.
She eased the door open just a crack, peering through the gap. Gray light filtered across the yard—not quite dawn, that strange in-between hour when everything looked washed out and ghostly. The ground outside glistened with early morning dew or maybe a light frost. Nothing moved. No shadows where shadows shouldn’t be.
She pushed the door wider, scanning the tree line, the path to the bunkhouse, the road leading back toward the main ranch. Empty. Still.
It’s okay. You’re safe. He doesn’t know you’re here.
Maggie stepped onto the porch, hammer still clutched in her right hand, and moved toward the steps. That was when she noticed the mud. Dark patches near the bottom step, disturbed earth that hadn’t been there last night when River left.
Footprints.
The air seized in her lungs. She crouched down to look closer.
The prints weren’t clear—just smudges in the soft earth, really—but they were definitely fresh. Someone had been here, right at the base of her porch steps. Recently. Last night, maybe. Or earlier this morning, before the dew settled.
But whose footprints? They could be Anson’s from when he’d delivered the note. Could be her own from when she’d rushed out to meet him. Could be anyone’s.
Or they could be Landry’s.
No. She shook her head, hard enough to make her neck hurt. Landry was in Florida. Two thousand miles away. He couldn’t have found her, not this quickly. Not unless...
Unless someone had told him. Unless Taryn had given him her general location. Unless someone from the café recognized her yesterday and posted about it online. Unless, unless, unless.
The paranoia was familiar now, a constant companion that whispered what-ifs and maybes into her ear at every turn. She’d spent so many nights staring at shadows, convinced they were moving, that she no longer trusted her own perception. Half the time, the “footprints” she’d reported in Tampa had turned out to be nothing—a stray cat, a neighbor’s kid cutting through the yard, her own imagination working overtime.
Was she doing that now? Creating danger where there was none?
A soft sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts—a weak, high-pitched mewling coming from beneath the porch. Maggie froze, listening. It came again, so faint she almost missed it.
She dropped to her knees and peered into the darkness under the cabin. The space beneath was shadowed, but as her eyes adjusted, she made out small, huddled shapes pressed against the foundation. Kittens. Tiny and shivering, their bodies bunched together for warmth.
“Hey there,” she whispered, reaching as far as she could. Her fingertips fell inches short. “Come here, little ones.”
The kittens mewed pitifully but didn’t move toward her. Too weak, maybe. Or too scared.
Something large moved in her peripheral vision, and she jerked back, hammer raised. But it was only Bramble, materializing silently at her side like some enormous, shaggy ghost. The wolfhound sniffed at the edge of the porch, then looked at her with solemn eyes.
“There are kittens under there,” she told him, feeling slightly ridiculous for explaining the situation to a dog. “They’re stuck.”
Bramble huffed softly. Without hesitation, he lowered himself onto his belly and crawled forward, his massive body barely fitting into the space beneath the porch. He inched toward the kittens, not touching them but positioning his bulk toblock the wind, creating a living barrier between them and the cold morning air.
Smart dog.
“Good boy,” she murmured. “Keep them warm.”
She tried again to reach the kittens, stretching until her shoulder ached, but they remained just beyond her grasp. Their cries grew more frantic, high-pitched squeals of distress that made her chest tighten with urgency.
“Shit,” she muttered, pushing herself up. “I need help.”
She rushed back inside and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with notifications—all from Taryn. Her stomach dropped as she read the first few previews.
[Taryn] 6:42 PM: Police called. Break-in paperwork was “misplaced” again. They’re “looking into it.”
[Taryn] 7:15 PM: Your restraining order application got bounced back. Missing signature or something. Need to refile.
[Taryn] 10:27 PM: Three more “concerned fan” emails today. Same writing style as before. Definitely him.
