The path opened into a small clearing where the creek widened and spilled over a jumble of flat rocks. The water pooled into a deep, clear basin before continuing its journey downstream. In summer, it might have been a swimming hole. Now, with November’s chill setting in, it offered a stark, peaceful kind of beauty.
Anson led her to a large flat stone overlooking the water. “Best seat.”
They sat side by side, not touching but close enough that she felt the heat of him against her side. The moon hung low and full just over the tops of the mountains.
Bramble splashed happily in the shallows, snapping at water droplets that caught the pale light.
“Beautiful,” she murmured.
“Yeah.” His voice was soft, barely audible over the water’s gentle rush. “Makes sense here. Everything... makes sense.”
She understood what he meant. The forge was his controlled space—where he worked with purpose, shaped things with his hands. But this was wild space—untamed, untouched, yet somehow equally calming. Both places where he could be fully himself.
“Can I ask you something?” She kept her eyes on the water, making it easier for him. “Why are the letters easier? Than talking, I mean.”
He was silent so long she thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was low and measured, as if he’d thought about this question many times.
“On paper, I can... think. Cross things out. Try again.” He traced patterns on the stone between them. “Be the person I want to be. Not the one who freezes. Panics. Can’t find words. Not the one with all of these…” He held up his hands, flexed his fingers. “Ugly scars on his body and soul.”
“But they’re both you. The man who writes those sweet, beautiful letters and the man sitting here now. They’re both real.”
“One’s more broken than the other.”
“You’re not broken, Anson.” She turned to face him fully. “You take care of the kittens and Bramble. And Nessie told me you helped save Oliver’s feral cats, even though you don’t like to leave the ranch. You share your sacred spaces.” She gestured around them. “You take care of things that need protecting.”
Surprise crossed his expression. “Nessie… told you about that?”
“At girls’ night.” Maggie’s gaze drifted back to Bramble, who had abandoned the water to investigate something in the underbrush. “They all had things to say about you, actually.”
His shoulders tensed. “What things?”
The wine made her brave enough to meet his eyes directly. “Good things. Nessie loves you for saving the cats after the fire at her bakery. Naomi loves you for fixing Ghost’s mug.” She smiled. “And Greta thinks your beard is hot.”
He rubbed it self-consciously. “It’s just a beard.”
“It’s a very nice beard,” she said, then laughed at his obvious discomfort. “Sorry. The wine is making me say things I normally wouldn’t.”
“It’s... okay.” His hand moved across the stone, brushing against hers. Once. Twice. The third time, he let his fingers close around hers, holding for three heartbeats.
He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away. “What else did they say?”
She hesitated, suddenly aware of how much she might reveal. “That I’m lucky. To have someone who looks at me the way you do.”
The air between them thickened. Anson went completely still, his profile sharp against the moonlight. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“Do you?” she asked softly. “Look at me a certain way?”
He stared at the water, the muscles in his jaw working. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re leaving.” The words came out rough, almost angry. “Because you have a life somewhere else. TV show. Career. Future.” He gestured vaguely toward the ranch. “This is temporary for you. Hiding place. Until it’s safe.”
“Is that what you think? That I’m just passing through? Even after my letter last night?”
He opened his mouth to retort, but a low, distressed whine shattered the moment, and he shot to his feet. “Bram?”
The dog wasn’t in the water.
