“Oh,” Maggie said, feeling out of her depth. She could rebuild an entire house from the studs up, but kitten care was new territory.
“It’s not complicated,” Lila assured her. “Just time-consuming. And vital. Without consistent care, they won’t make it.” She laughed as the orange boy nearly squirmed out of her grasp. “Oh, he’s got spark.”
“Spark,” Maggie repeated, watching as Lila settled the orange kitten next to his siblings. “That’s what we’ll call him.” The name fit him with that orange-coat flash of defiant energy, despite everything.
“Perfect. And this little one...” Lila gently stroked the calico, who was starting to squirm weakly on the heating pad. “She’s the fighter. Ember.”
“What about the gray one?” Maggie asked, crouching down to get a better look at the tiny kitten. His fur was the color of woodsmoke, soft and fluffy despite being half-frozen.
“Smoke,” Anson said quietly from behind her.
She glanced up, surprised he’d offered a suggestion. His eyes were fixed on the kittens, his expression softer than she’d seen it before. When he noticed her looking, he shifted his weight, the openness disappearing behind his usual mask.
“Makes sense,” she said, turning back to the kittens. “The forge kittens.”
Bear returned with a blue kit and handed it to Lila. She unzipped it and pulled out several small bottles, syringes without needles, and packets of what must be formula.
“Okay,” Lila said, sorting through the supplies. “Here’s the formula. Mix one part powder to two parts warm water. Not hot. Test it on your wrist like you would for a human baby. They’ll each need about 2-3 milliliters every two hours.” She demonstrated loading a syringe. “Like this. Slow and steady. If they get air in their lungs, they can develop pneumonia.”
Maggie nodded, trying to absorb everything. Lila continued her instructions, showing them how to hold the kittens for feeding, how to stimulate them afterward, what signs of troubleto watch for. Through it all, Anson stood close enough to hear but far enough that they never brushed against each other. She was acutely aware of him—the careful way he listened, the small nods he gave at key points in Lila’s explanation, the mud drying on his shirt, further highlighting the muscle beneath.
When Lila finished, she packed the supplies into a smaller bag and handed it to Anson. “This should get you through today. I’ll bring more formula by this evening and check on them. Anything happens before then, call me.” She glanced between them. “You two will be okay with this?”
“Yes,” they said simultaneously.
Anson cleared his throat. “Forge is warm. Got a steady fire going already.”
“Good.” Lila smiled. “They couldn’t ask for a better setup. I need to finish up with Suzy here, but then I’ll come by and help with their first feeding.”
Anson nodded his thanks, then gestured toward the door with his chin. “Should get them settled.”
eight
The walk to the forge was longer than Maggie expected. From her cabin, it looked closer than it was, but they had to cross a small wooden bridge spanning a bubbling creek and follow a worn path that wound through scrub grass. The forge itself was a converted pole barn, weathered to silver-gray, with high windows near the roofline. A brick chimney rose from one corner, trailing thin smoke that smelled of coal and hot metal.
And over the door was Anson’s first horseshoe, rusted now. He’d written about nailing it up there after finishing it. He tapped it as they crossed the threshold, in the mindless way of long-standing habit.
But it was what sat beside the door that made Maggie’s breath catch.
Sticks. Hundreds of them, stacked in a haphazard heap against the exterior wall, some smooth and weathered, others still bearing bark, ranging from finger-thin twigs to branches as thick as her wrist. Beside them, a smaller mound of pinecones in varying stages of decay, the fresher ones still sticky with sap.
She’d know that collection anywhere. Bramble’s treasure pile. He’d written about it in his letters, describing how Bramblebrought him gifts every day. It had started with sticks but had recently progressed to pinecones.
Five years of sticks,she thought, her throat tightening.Five years of a dog loving him, and him keeping every proof of it.
Inside, heat enveloped them immediately, radiating from a brick hearth in one corner where coals glowed orange-red. The space was meticulously organized. Tools hung in neat rows, organized by type and size. A heavy workbench ran along one wall, and an anvil stood on a massive stump in the center. Everything had its place, nothing wasted or superfluous.
Anson crossed to a partially walled-off area at the back. “Through here.”
The space beyond was small but just as neat. A military cot with wool blankets, a milk crate nightstand, a shelf with a few books, and basic toiletries. No decorations except for a single photograph tacked to the wall—a group of young men in wetsuits, smiling at the camera.
She recognized Anson immediately. He was younger and clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked back by water, his smile wide and genuine. Unguarded. His hands, draped around his buddies’ shoulders, were unscarred.
“Need a box,” Anson muttered, and disappeared back into the main workspace. He returned moments later with a wooden crate lined with clean towels. “Put the heating pad in here for now. Can rig something better later.”
Maggie knelt and laid the heating pad down.
Anson grabbed the blanket off his cot and stuffed it into the bottom of the crate, over the pad, then helped her transfer the kittens from her sweatshirt to the makeshift bed. They huddled together, still mewling softly but less desperately now that they were warm.
