Bramble gave him a look that could only be described as impatient, then stood, trotted out about ten feet, and looked back.
“You want me to follow you?”
The dog huffed and continued walking.
Anson stepped back, intending to close the door and return to his work. The kittens needed feeding soon. He should heat the formula, get the bottles ready.
Bramble barked once. A rare sound from the normally silent dog.
“Fine,” he muttered and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. “But make it quick.”
He followed Bramble across the yard, squinting against the sunlight. Halfway to Maggie’s cabin, he realized what his wolfhound was doing. The pattern was familiar by now—Bramble would fetch Maggie for the next feeding, lead her to the forge as if it were his job to make sure the kittens were tended to on schedule.
Only this time, he’d wanted Anson to join him.
The door to Maggie’s cabin opened before they reached it. She stepped out onto the small porch, wrapped in an oversized hoodie he recognized as one of River’s—too big for her frame, sleeves rolled up to free her hands. His chest tightened at the sight of her, at the easy smile she gave Bramble as the dog bounded up the steps to greet her.
“Hey, boy,” she said, crouching to kiss the wolfhound’s forehead. “Is it that time already?”
A completely irrational spike of jealousy shot through Anson as he watched her touch Bramble so easily, so naturally. As if the wolfhound had been hers all along. Then she looked up, saw him standing awkwardly in the middle of the yard, and her smile faltered slightly before returning, more cautious now.
“Morning,” she called, straightening up. “I was just coming over.”
He nodded, unable to find words. The sunlight caught in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper at the edges. She’d pulled it back in a messy knot, wisps escaping around her face. Work hair. Not camera hair.
“They’re awake,” he managed finally. “Hungry.”
“I bet.” She came down the steps, Bramble at her heels like a silver shadow. “River loaned me this.” She plucked at the oversized sweatshirt. “Said I’d freeze to death otherwise.”
Another spike of that same irrational feeling. He pushed it down. “Montana’s colder than Florida.”
“So I’ve noticed.” She fell into step beside him, close but not touching, as they walked back toward the forge. “How was your night? Did they let you sleep at all?”
“Some.” Three hours, broken into fragments between feedings. He’d spent the rest of his time working on the kitten’s home. “Spark started climbing out of the box at 3 a.m. Found him halfway to my workbench.”
Maggie laughed, and the sound warmed something cold inside him. “Little escape artist. Better keep an eye on that one.”
He nodded, watching her from the corner of his eye as they walked. River’s sweatshirt swallowed her, making her look smaller than she was.
He should’ve been the one offering her his shirt, not River.
Instead, he’d stayed silent. Let another man take care of her while he hid in his workshop.
Three days of shared purpose had eased some of the tension between them, but he still felt like he was navigating that minefield.
Bramble trotted ahead, tail held high, pleased with himself for completing his self-assigned task. The wolfhound pushed the forge door open with his nose and disappeared inside.
“He takes his job seriously,” Maggie said, a smile in her voice.
“Born herder,” Anson agreed. “But his PTSD won’t let him herd sheep.”
“From the wolf attack?”
When Walker gave Bramble to him a few months into his stay at Valor Ridge, he’d written to her about the wolf attack and how Bramble was now terrified of the animals he was bred to protect.
Anson nodded, surprised she remembered those details from his letters. “Yeah.”
“Does he still struggle with loud noises and wolf howls?”
