We move together under the heavy quilt, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the warm cabin. Every touch is deliberate, every press of my chest against hers a validation of the future we’re building. For once, I’m not healing a wound or saving a life. I’m just loving the woman Jesse willed to me.
Hours later, the fire has died down to a bed of glowing red coals, casting long, soft shadows across the ceiling. Bella lies asleep beside me, her head resting on my shoulder, her breathing slow and even.
I lie awake, staring at the shadows, my hand resting on her hip. For the first time in years, the weight of the guys we lost downrange doesn’t feel like a debt I have to pay with my own slow death. The shelter isn’t my fortress anymore. It’s our home.
The phone on the timber nightstand vibrates, the screen lighting up the dark room.
I reach out, keeping my arm still under Bella’s shoulders so I don’t wake her. The text is from Lucas Reid.
Wyatt, just got a call from my contact on Sterling’s team. Brock is bringing the foreclosure file to the hearing tomorrowmorning. The mortgage default, the tax liens, all of it. He’s going to argue you two are insolvent owners, and the county has to grant the variance before the property goes to a bank auction. It’s a public smear dressed up as due diligence. Tell Bella to be ready.
I stare at the screen, the blue light reflecting in the dark cabin.
My jaw clenches, a hard, cold anger settling into my bones. Brock Sterling thinks he can use her pain to break us. He thinks he can drag her through the mud in front of the town to take the meadow.
I lock the phone, dropping it back onto the table. I pull the quilt tighter around Bella’s shoulders, drawing her closer to my chest.
Let him try.
Tomorrow, we walk into that hearing. And Cascade is going to find out what happens when you threaten a pack.
THIRTEEN
The First Hearing
BELLA
The heavy brassstamp hits the blue carbon paper with a sharp, echoingthud.
“Stamped at eight-fifteen.” The county clerk slides the document back across the laminate counter. She doesn’t look up from her screen, her glasses sliding down a nose dusted with beige powder. “Pending state land trust review. Copy filed for the record.”
I take the paper, the dry ink still smelling of vinegar and ozone. My fingers are steady, but my chest is a tight drum.
Stamped.
Stamped and filed.
The conservation easement on the lower meadow is officially in the system.
Wyatt stands beside me in the drafty hallway of the municipal building. His shoulder is a solid, warm anchor against mine, his canvas coat smelling of the cold morning wind and thewoodstove from Mabel’s cabin. He reaches out, his large, scarred fingers taking the corner of the document.
His grey eyes lock onto mine, a quiet, fierce spark behind the storm. “We have the lock.”
“We have the lock,” I repeat, the counselor-calm register sliding over my voice like a coat of mail. “Now we just have to hold it.”
The community hall is already packed by the time we push through the double doors at ten minutes to nine. The room smells of damp wool, wet leather boots, stale coffee, and the sweetness of Mabel’s rolls. The rows of folding metal chairs are completely filled, with logging crews in flannel sitting shoulder to shoulder with shop owners from the main street.
Near the front, Mayor Reynolds and Sheriff Donovan sit behind a long folding table, stacked with manila folders and cardboard coffee cups.
To the right of the table, Brock Sterling’s team has set up three large easel boards. The displays show sleek, computer-rendered layouts ofThe Ridges at Angel’s Peak—condos with glass fronts, heated pools, and a sweeping road cut right across a green meadow that looks suspiciously like ours. Sterling stands beside them, wearing a tailored navy overcoat that looks absurdly clean next to the faded canvas and scuffed leather in the room. He’s talking to his lead attorney, a sharp-faced man with a silver leather briefcase.
A quiet murmur ripples through the hall as Wyatt and I walk down the center aisle.
The weight of every gaze in the room presses on me. Tess and Cole sit near the middle, Tess giving me a tight, encouraging nod. Dominic and Elena sit behind them, Dominic’s face sober,his usual easy smile replaced by a hard watchfulness. Further back, Ruth stands against the wood-paneled wall, her arms crossed over her PickAxe apron, her eyes locked on Sterling.
The gossip mill has done its work. The town knows Wyatt and I stand together. They know the co-owner Jesse left behind isn’t a corporate seller anymore, but they don’t know the size of the hole we’re standing in.
We sit in the second row, Max Lawson and Lucas Reid making room for us.
