[Taryn] 11:38 PM: Network called. Again. They’re getting antsy about your “extended hiatus.” I stalled them, but they want filming dates.
[Taryn] 5:18 AM: Call me when you wake up. Important.
The messages sucked the air from her lungs. Her fingers trembled as she swiped to unlock the phone, but she stopped herself from reading the full texts. Not now. The kittens needed help first. She could deal with Landry and the network later.
She scrolled through her contacts, then swore under her breath. She didn’t have anyone’s number at the ranch. Not Anson’s, not Walker’s, not even River’s—though he’d offered to exchange numbers last night and she’d forgotten in her exhaustion.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She shoved the phone into the pocket of her sweatpants and ran back outside. The kittens were still crying, their voices weaker now. Bramble remained beneath the porch, his largebody curled protectively near them, but he couldn’t reach them either.
She scanned the ranch desperately, looking for any sign of life in the pre-dawn gloom. The main house windows were dark. The barn was too far to shout to. But there—a figure walking from the bunkhouse toward the pole barn, a steaming mug in his hand.
Anson.
He moved with the easy confidence of a man on familiar ground, his stride long and unhurried. He hadn’t seen her yet. As she watched, he slowed, then stopped completely, his body language shifting into something more hesitant as he glanced toward her cabin. He seemed to be debating with himself, one foot already turning back toward the bunkhouse.
“Anson!” she called, waving frantically. “Over here!”
He froze at the sound of his name, shoulders tensing visibly even at this distance. For a horrible moment, she thought he might pretend not to hear her and keep walking. Then his gaze landed on her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the way she gestured urgently toward the porch.
Everything shifted.
He changed course immediately, heading straight for her. As he drew closer, she could see the wariness in his face, the careful distance he maintained—fallout from last night’s revelation about her identity—but he came anyway.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough with early morning.
“Kittens.” She pointed beneath the porch where Bramble’s tail was just visible. “Trapped under there. I can’t reach them.”
Anson assessed the situation in a single glance. Without a word, he set his coffee mug on the porch steps, dropped to his knees, and yanked off his bulky coat. His flannel shirt stretched across his back as he leaned down, and her breath caught in her throat. His shoulders strained against the fabric, the musclesbeneath shifting with controlled power as he reached under the porch. She’d known he had to be strong—blacksmithing was a physically demanding career—but seeing that strength was something else entirely. The sleeves of his shirt rode up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with those burn scars she’d glimpsed last night.
Heat crept into her cheeks. This was not the time to notice such things. Not with freezing kittens under the porch. Not when he’d practically run away from her last night after discovering who she really was.
But she couldn’t look away.
“Bram, back up,” he commanded in that low gravel voice. The wolfhound obeyed immediately, inching backward while keeping his body between the kittens and the cold. Anson flattened himself against the cold, muddy ground and stretched further under the porch, his jaw clenched with effort as his fingers brushed against the tiny bodies.
“Easy now. Easy. Let’s get you out of here.”
Maggie knelt at the edge of the porch, waiting. Seconds stretched into minutes. She heard soft rustling, murmured words she couldn’t quite catch, then?—
“Got one.” He withdrew his arm, a tiny ball of fur clutched in his palm. The kitten was so small it fit entirely in his hand, gray with blue eyes and ears still folded. It mewled pathetically, its tiny body shivering violently.
“Here.” She pulled her sweatshirt over her head and held it out between her arms, making a nest. The morning air bit at her skin through her thin t-shirt, but she ignored it. Anson placed the kitten gently into her makeshift nest, his calloused fingers brushing against her arms as he pulled away. The touch sent a ripple of awareness through her despite the chill.
“Two more,” he said, already turning back to the task.
She cradled the first kitten close, trying to transfer some of her body heat to the tiny creature. “How old do you think they are?”
“Few weeks, maybe.” He disappeared halfway under the porch again. “Too young to be without their mother.”
She looked around the yard, searching for any sign of an adult cat. “Where is she?”
“Don’t know.” His voice came muffled from beneath the porch. “Could’ve been taken by coyotes.”
The thought made her stomach twist. Was that the sound she’d heard? A coyote taking the mother cat? She looked around the yard again, and her gaze snagged on an indentation in the mud near her front window.
A footprint right under her window.
