“Found her by the creek,” Anson explained, setting Princess gently on the table. “Someone hurt her. Deliberately.”
“We think she’s been there for days,” Maggie added and explained about the sounds she’d heard the morning after her arrival.
Lila’s expression darkened as she examined the cat. “Broken ribs. Severe dehydration. Plus the stab wound and possible internal bleeding.” She looked up at them. “She’s lucky to be alive, but she needs intensive care.”
Maggie must have swayed slightly, because suddenly Anson’s arm was around her waist, holding her upright.
“Sit.” He guided her to a nearby stool. “Breathe.”
He crouched in front of her, hands on her knees, eyes level with hers. The walls he’d built between them had vanished completely, burned away by crisis and concern. This was Anson fully present—the man from the letters and the man from the forge merged into one, focused entirely on her.
“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “You’re safe here. Whoever did this to Princess won’t hurt you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
In that moment, with his hands steady on her knees and his eyes never leaving hers, she believed him completely.
fifteen
Anson paced the length of the forge, the floor planks creaking beneath his weight. The kittens slept in their home, tiny bodies curled around each other, oblivious to his restlessness. He checked their water, their heating pad, the latch on their door—all perfect, all exactly as they should be. But the sick worry gnawing at his gut wouldn’t settle. He kept seeing Princess Jellybean wrapped in his flannel, shaking and bloody. Kept seeing the horror on Maggie’s face when she realized someone had deliberately hurt the cat. Someone who might have been watching her cabin that first morning.
“Fuck,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
Bramble lifted his head from his bed by the stove, amber eyes tracking his movements.
“Go back to sleep.” He nudged the dog’s flank with his boot. “Just checking on them.”
Bramble huffed but settled back down, his muzzle resting on his paws. Anson rubbed the back of his neck, muscles tight with tension. Sleep wasn’t going to happen, not with his mind spinning through worst-case scenarios, not with the image of Maggie’s face—pale, scared—lodged in his brain. Lila and Bear had taken Princess to the nearest animal hospital, promising todo everything possible. The cat was stable but critical. Blood loss. Dehydration. The knife wound had missed her vital organs, but infection had set in.
“Pure fucking luck she’s alive,” Bear had grumbled when he returned.
What kind of person would stab a cat?
The kind who might do worse to a woman?
And Maggie was alone in that cabin.
Anson grabbed his coat and hat off the hook by the door. Bramble stood, stretching.
“Stay,” he commanded, shoving his hat onto his head. “Watch them.”
The wolfhound grumbled his annoyance but settled back down, resting his muzzle on his paws, eyes still fixed on Anson as if to say, “You’re being an idiot.”
Maybe he was. But he needed to know Maggie was safe.
The cold air hit him as he stepped outside, sharp enough to sting his lungs. The ranch lay quiet under a blanket of stars, buildings dark except for the security lights that Walker had installed after last summer’s trouble. He crossed the footbridge, boots crunching on the first thin layer of frost. Not quite winter, but close enough to feel its approach in his bones.
The path to Maggie’s cabin seemed longer tonight, each step weighted with uncertainty. What was he doing? What would he say when he got there?
I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d make sure you’re okay?
Pathetic.
But honest.
Her cabin windows glowed with soft light. She was still awake. Standing at the edge of her porch, he raised his hand to knock, then froze.
This was a mistake.
She needed space after today’s shock, not him crowding her with his awkward presence. Not after he’d run from her at the barn. Not after he’d put his hands on her by the creek, saying things he shouldn’t have said, making promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.
