CHAPTER ONE
MAX
The metal glows orange in the dim light of my forge, heat radiating against my face as I shape what will eventually become an eagle's wing. Or maybe it won't. Maybe it'll end up in the scrap pile with the rest of the pieces I've ruined this week.
Three months in Grizzly Ridge and I still haven't figured out how to make my hands create what my mind sees. The TBI scrambled something in there, crossed wires that used to connect seamlessly. Now I fight for every clean line, every curve that matches the image burning behind my eyes.
The hammer comes down. Once. Twice. The rhythm steadies me the way nothing else can. Not the pills the VA tried to push on me. Not the meditation bullshit the therapist suggested. Just fire and iron and the bone-deep satisfaction of bending something hard into something beautiful.
My shop sits at the edge of town, far enough from Main Street that nobody wanders in by accident. That's how I like it. Logan tried to get me to set up closer to the center of things, but I've never been good with people dropping by. With small talkand friendly waves and all the normal human interactions that feel like speaking a foreign language I never learned.
The bell above my door jingles.
I don't turn around. Whoever it is will figure out soon enough that I'm not interested in company. Most folks in town have learned to leave me alone by now. Maggie still sends food from the diner sometimes, delivered by one of her staff who knows better than to stick around for conversation. Logan checks in once a week, sits with me in silence, doesn't push. That's about all the social interaction I can handle.
"Excuse me?"
Female voice. Young. Uncertain.
I set down my hammer and wipe my hands on my leather apron, still not turning around. "Shop's not open. Come back tomorrow."
"I'm not here to buy anything."
Something in her voice catches me. A thread of determination underneath the nerves. I've heard that particular combination before, usually from people who aren't going to take no for an answer.
I turn.
She stands in the doorway, afternoon light silhouetting her figure. Petite. Natural hair twisted up in some kind of protective style. Skin like burnished copper. She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater that's seen better days, and she's got a duffel bag slung over one shoulder like she just stepped off a bus.
For a second, I don't recognize her.
Then she steps forward, out of the glare, and I see her eyes.
Marcus's eyes.
The world tilts sideways. My chest goes tight, and for a horrible moment I think I'm having one of my episodes. The kind where reality fractures and I'm back in the desert, sand inmy teeth, blood on my hands, Marcus's voice crackling through the radio.
But no. This is real. This is happening.
"Claire?"
Her face transforms with a smile that stops my heart. Marcus's smile. The same warmth, the same light.
"You remember me."
Remember her. Jesus Christ. I remember a skinny kid with braces who used to follow me around at cookouts asking endless questions. I remember teaching her three chords on an old guitar because she wouldn't leave me alone until I did. I remember the weight of her small hand in mine at her father's funeral, her tears soaking through my dress whites while I sat frozen, unable to offer any comfort except my presence.
That was ten years ago.
The woman standing in my shop is not that girl.
"What are you doing here?" The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can't seem to soften them. My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts too scattered.
Her smile falters slightly, but she lifts her chin. Stubborn. Just like Marcus.
"Looking for you."
"Why?"
