The tension that had been building since that afternoon—since that moment when her hand was warm in his and her eyes had invited him closer—coiled tighter in his chest. Words choked him, words he couldn’t say to her face. Never could.
But he could write them.
He grabbed his notebook from the shelf and flipped to a clean page. The pen felt clumsy in his calloused fingers, but the words came easier on paper. They always did.
Maggie,
I’m not good at this. At any of it. Talking. Being around people. Being around you. Especially after today. I almost kissed you, and then I ran. I do that—run when things matter. When I might break something I can’t fix.
You’re right. I’ve been jealous of River. The way he talks to you. Makes you laugh. Touches your arm or shoulder like it’s easy. Nothing’s easy for me, except maybe working metal and fixing broken things.
You deserve someone who can give you more than silence and uncertainty. But I wanted to kiss you today. Have wanted to since you drove up that first day, even when I couldn’t look you in the eye.
I’m sorry I pulled away. Sorry I can’t be what you need. But I’m trying.
Yours always,
Anson
He read it over once, then again, his gaze snagging on two words.
Yours always.
He didn’t remember when he started signing his letters to her like that. But it was true. Somewhere between discussing his love of Lonesome Dove, her travel and projects, and Bramble’s impressive stick collection, he had become hers.
He’d never been anyone’s before. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Even his dad had let him go without much of a fight when the courts sent him to prison. Bramble was the closest thing to loyalty he’d known, and that was a dog.
He folded the letter carefully. Bramble’s ears perked up, recognizing the familiar sound of paper being prepared for delivery.
He held it out. “Letter for Maggie.”
Bramble pushed to his feet and padded over, accepting the folded paper gently between his teeth.
“Good boy.” Anson opened the door, and Bramble trotted out into the night, a silver ghost in the darkness.
Minutes stretched, each one pulling his nerves tighter.
What if she were asleep?
What if she read it and laughed?
What if?—
Bramble’s scratch at the door interrupted his spiral of doubt. He yanked it open, and the wolfhound trotted in, another folded paper clutched carefully in his jaws.
Shit.
That was too fast.
Did she not accept the letter? Had she turned Bramble away? He didn’t see how anyone could with that shaggy face and soulful eyes, but maybe he’d pissed her off enough to shut the door on Bramble, too.
But no—this was a different paper. A reply, not his own letter, returned.
Bramble dropped the note into his outstretched palm and returned to his bed, curling up with a satisfied sigh. Ansonstared at the folded paper, his name written in Maggie’s flowing script. With unsteady fingers, he opened it.
Anson,
Stop apologizing for who you are. I don’t want River. I don’t want easy conversation or someone who says all the right things. I want the man who built a two-story home for orphaned kittens. Who makes tools sing against metal. Who writes me letters that make me feel seen in ways no one else ever has. The man whose hands shake when he passes me tools but can forge metal into impossible beauty.
