While Nessie sketched out directions, Greta leaned against the counter, studying Maggie with undisguised curiosity. “So, what do you do? Besides write letters that make our resident blacksmith actually smile once in a blue moon.”
The whispering from the corner table grew more insistent. Maggie felt sweat prickle along her spine despite the chill outside.
“I’m in construction,” she said vaguely. “Restoration work, mostly.”
“Head north out of town,” Nessie said, “and turn when you see a bar called The Rusted Spur. After about ten miles, you’ll see the turnoff for Ridge Road. There’s a wooden sign that says ‘Valor Ridge Ranch,’ but it’s set back a bit from the road. The driveway’s long—almost a mile—and it winds through some trees before opening up to the ranch.” She slid the napkin across the counter. “You’re going to be good for him.”
Greta snorted. “If he doesn’t screw it up by being all closed-off and broody.” She grinned at Maggie. “Give him hell. He needs it.”
Maggie nodded, tucking the napkin into her pocket. “What do I owe you?”
Nessie waved her off. “Water’s free.”
“Thanks.” She headed for the door before the women in the corner could place her face. The bell chimed overhead as she stepped back into the cold morning air, relief washing over her as she escaped the scrutiny.
Her truck was where she’d left it, the Airstream still gleaming in the pale November sun. She climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot, heading north toward the ranch.
Toward Anson.
Ten miles.
That’s all that separated her from the man whose words had become her lifeline.
two
The rasp scraped metal against keratin, rhythm smooth and even. Anson checked the angle, adjusted, scraped again. Red’s tail swished once, but he held still. The gelding was wary, always watching, but he’d learned to tolerate the work.
Bramble dozed in the corner, sprawled in a patch of sunlight cutting through the gap between the barn doors. The wolfhound’s chest rose and fell slow and steady, ears twitching at the scrape of the rasp but not enough to wake him.
“You still planning on that commission?” Jax leaned against the stall door, thumbing through something on his phone. Echo sat at his feet, her mismatched eyes fixed on Jax like he might disappear if she looked away. “The Helena ranch?”
“Yep. Gate hinges. Pine cone details.” He set Red’s hoof down and straightened, rolling his shoulders. The burn scars on his forearms pulled tight when he moved too fast, puckered skin catching on the fabric of his flannel. He barely noticed anymore. “Should have the sketches done tonight.”
“Maggie gonna get a copy?”
His hands stilled on the rasp. “Probably.”
Jax’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “You hear back from her yet? About coming out here?”
“No.” He moved to Red’s other side, ran his hand down the gelding’s leg, waited for him to shift before lifting the hoof. Red obliged, ears still tracking every movement. “Mail’s slow. Might be another week before I get a response.”
He’d sent his reply two weeks ago. Told her she was welcome at Valor Ridge whenever she was ready. Told her there was space for her Airstream, that Walker wouldn’t mind, that she’d be safe here. But he hadn’t heard back, and the waiting was eating at him.
“Six years is a long time to write someone without meeting them,” Jax said.
Anson positioned the hoof and started rasping again, keeping his strokes even. “She was writing me when I was still inside. Not exactly date material.”
“You’re out now.”
“Still not date material.”
Jax didn’t argue. He knew better.
Besides, he didn’t know what Maggie looked like or how old she was. Maybe she wasn’t date material, either. That had never mattered to him, but since receiving that last letter telling him she was coming to Montana, it was all he could think about.
The barn settled into quiet again, just the scrape of metal and the occasional shuffle from the horses.
Anson liked it this way. Liked the simplicity of working with his hands, the straightforward logic of a horse’s hoof, the way the animal communicated through muscle and breath instead of words. Horses didn’t lie. Didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer.
