His eyes finally met hers, just a quick flash of contact before skittering away again, but in that brief moment, she saw something that made her breath catch. Vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
“I’ll come back early,” she promised. “You need to get cleaned up, too.”
He looked down at his muddy clothes as if just realizing how dirty he was.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, sending dust motes dancing in the light from the high windows. “Should probably do that.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said. “Less.”
nine
Between the kittens’ feeding schedule and Maggie’s scent all over his forge, filling his head, sleep had been an impossibility these last three days.
And Anson couldn’t go to the bunkhouse. He didn’t dare leave the kittens alone, and besides, the sounds were wrong there—Bear’s snoring, River’s restless midnight pacing, the constant shuffle and creak of men living too close together. Not like the forge, where the only sounds were the ones he made himself, or Bramble’s soft breathing from his bed by the stove.
Anson pushed himself up from the cot he’d been half-dozing on for the past hour, his muscles protesting the awkward position. The three kittens slept in a tangle of tiny limbs on their heating pad, Ember tucked between her brothers for extra warmth. He checked them briefly—all breathing steadily, bellies round with formula—before heading out to his workbench.
He’d needed something to keep his hands busy after Maggie’s final feeding visit last night, so after she left, he’d sketched out plans for a better box for the kittens— a hinged lid for easy access, an upper level with a hole for them to climb through once they got bigger, and a wool lining he’d salvaged from his old blanket. Something that would last.
Not a box. A home.
He planed the cedar board with long, even strokes, each pass of the tool peeling away a paper-thin curl of wood that fell to the forge floor in a tight spiral. He tested the edge with his thumb, feeling for any splinters that might catch on delicate kitten paws. Too rough still. He switched to finer sandpaper, the rhythmic scrape echoing through his workshop as dawn light filtered through the high windows.
The rhythm of creation settled him the way it always did, slowing his racing thoughts until there was nothing but wood beneath his fingers and the steady rasp of his breathing.
The kittens would need stability. Structure. A place where they felt safe.
He understood that need better than most.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t turn, recognizing Walker’s tread. Bramble lifted his head from his bed, acknowledged the ranch owner with a single tail thump, then settled back down.
“Coffee,” Walker said, setting a thermos on the edge of the workbench. “Good stuff, not the sludge Jax makes.”
“Thanks.” He lined up the second panel, testing the joint before reaching for the small bottle of wood glue.
Walker circled around him, examining the work. “That for the kittens?”
He nodded, focusing on applying the thinnest possible line of glue along the joint. Too much and it would squeeze out, creating a mess. Too little and the bond wouldn’t hold.
“How are they doing?” Walker asked, moving toward the cot where they slept in their makeshift nest.
“Better.” He slid the pieces together, checking the alignment before reaching for a clamp. “Orange one’s eating good. Other two improving.” He tightened the clamp carefully, watching for any slippage. “Lila says they’ve got a chance now.”
Walker nodded and rested his hands on his belt. “Jo told me. Said you and Maggie have been trading off the night feedings.” A pause. “That working out okay?”
Anson concentrated on positioning the next panel, buying time. The feedings required a schedule. Every three hours now, better than every two of that first night. They’d settled into a rhythm—he took the midnight and 3 a.m. feedings, she came for the 6 a.m. and 9 a.m., working together for the rest. It meant seeing her multiple times a day. Sharing a purpose, if not always words.
“It’s fine,” he said finally, reaching for another clamp.
Walker let the silence stretch for several beats. “You know she’s not staying forever,” he said finally. “Once she figures out her next move.”
“I know.”
“What happens to the kittens then?”
He hadn’t allowed himself to think that far ahead. Three days of focused care, of watching the tiny creatures fight their way back from the edge, of sitting across from Maggie in the dim light of the forge while they fed their charges together. Three days of not talking about anything that mattered.
“I’ll keep them,” he said, the answer rising before he’d consciously decided. “They can stay here.”
