Because that’s what we are, she realized with a sinking feeling. Strangers. For all the words they’d shared, all the secrets, all the late-night confessions, they’d never had to navigate the simple act of standing in each other’s presence.
Anson nodded. His hands—the ones she knew had crafted intricate leather work, had calmed frightened horses, had penned thousands of words to her—were jammed deep in his pockets. “Nessie,” he said. “At the café. Jax’s girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” Maggie forced herself to take another step closer, bridging the vast chasm between them by a few inches. “Sheseemed nice. Said you’d been checking your watch. Waiting for me.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, visible even through the beard. Still, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “They talk too much.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t find words for. In her letters, she could edit, rewrite, find the perfect phrasing for complicated feelings. Here, with him watching—but not watching—her, everything tangled in her throat.
“How’s the forge?” she tried, desperate to connect. In his letters, he’d written about building it with someone named River, about the peace he found in shaping metal, about how Bramble would lie in the doorway watching him work. “Still working on those hinges for the stable doors?”
“Done.”
“Oh.” She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “What about the leather collar for Echo? The one with the brass fittings?”
“Finished that, too.”
Another dead end. Maggie looked around, searching for any topic that might break through the wall he’d erected. She’d known he was reserved—he’d said as much in his letters—but this was something else entirely. This man was physically incapable of sustaining a conversation with her.
Ugh, this whole trip had been a colossal mistake. She should get back in her truck and?—
Bramble suddenly pressed against her legs, nearly knocking her off balance. She braced her hand on his back to steady herself, fingers sinking into his coarse fur, and laughed despite herself.
“Hi, Bramble. You’re exactly how he described you. The gentle giant.”
Bramble huffed, tail swishing. He nudged his snout against her hand.
“He likes you,” Anson said, his voice softening.
She crouched down, bringing herself to Bramble’s eye level. The dog immediately pushed closer, his amber eyes watching her with far less reservation than his owner’s. She cupped his grizzled face between her palms and let him snuffle at her cheek, her hair, learning her scent.
Bramble’s tail thumped against the ground. He allowed her to stroke his ears, his beard, the white-flecked muzzle that spoke of advancing age, the scars where his hair hadn’t grown completely back.
Anson had written about how Bramble had defended his flock against a wolf attack, but came out of it with PTSD. His previous owner couldn’t use a dog who startled at every unexpected sound, so the wolfhound had ended up at Valor Ridge shortly after Anson arrived. He’d written about how they’d instantly recognized something in each other, two creatures designed for facing danger who now flinched at their own shadows.
“I’ve been wanting to say this to you for a long time—you’resucha good boy,” she murmured and kissed Bramble’s head. “The absolute best boy.”
When she looked up, she caught sight of Anson’s hands. He’d pulled them from his pockets while watching her with Bramble, and the scarring there was?—
Oh… wow.
They were so much worse than she’d pictured.
Thick, ropy tissue covered his knuckles, stretched across his palms, and disappeared beneath the cuffs of his shirt.
She stared a beat too long.
Anson followed her gaze down at his hands, and his jaw clenched. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, his shoulders hunching forward.
“Anson,” she started, wanting to explain, to tell him it didn’t matter.
But he’d taken a step back, putting distance between them. His face shuttered. All traces of the softness that had appeared while watching her with Bramble vanished behind an unreadable mask.
“I should… get back to work,” he muttered, not even pretending to look at her now.
“Wait.” She straightened, reaching out, but he was already turning away. “Anson, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, I just?—”
“It’s fine.” His voice was flat, empty of emotion. The same voice she imagined had answered prison guards and parole officers. Not the voice that had filled pages with thoughts about redemption and second chances and the beauty in broken things.
