“Tell that to your sleepy face,” Jax said, smiling. He whistled for Echo, who bounded to his side. “Night, guys.”
Anson reached into the trash can without saying a word. He fished out the pieces, brushing off coffee grounds and yesterday’s sandwich wrapper. He gathered every shard he could find, cradling them in his twisted, scarred hands.
“What are you doing?” River asked, eyebrows shooting up. “You can’t fix that.”
“Didn’t ask your opinion.” He wrapped the pieces in a clean dish towel, leaving River staring after him as he headed for the door.
Bramble followed, sticking close enough that the dog’s nose was practically up his ass. He didn’t mind. Over the last year, he’d learned how to function with the giant nervous beast glued to his side.
The night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside. Fall was settling in, bringing that bone-deep Montana chill that warned of winter’s approach. His breath plumed in front of him as he made his way toward the workshop, the bundle of broken ceramic cradled carefully against his chest.
Bramble kept bumping his nose against his hip, seeking reassurance with each step.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “It wasn’t your fault. King needs to learn some manners.”
Bramble grumbled his agreement and loped ahead when they reached Coldwater Creek. The footbridge over the little bubbling stream marked the boundary between the ranch proper and the section that Anson considered his sanctuary.
The small barn and outbuilding had been used for extra storage when he’d first arrived at Valor Ridge five years ago, but Walker had let him convert it into a forge and workspace. It was the only place on the property that felt entirely his and he spent more time out here than in his room at the bunkhouse.
The shop smelled like wood shavings and coal, with a lingering trace of the oak he’d burned last night while working on a custom belt buckle for Walker. Anson flicked on the lights, and they buzzed to life, casting a warm glow over his domain. Tools hung in perfect order on the wall—hammers, tongs, chisels, all arranged by size and purpose. The forge sat cold and dark in the corner, waiting for tomorrow’s fire.
This place steadied him. Always had. Even on the worst days, when the memories crashed down and the nightmares followed him into daylight, he could come here and find something solid to grip onto.
He set the bundle of broken ceramic on his workbench and carefully unwrapped it. The pieces lay there, jagged and lost, no longer resembling anything useful. Just like most of the men who came to Valor Ridge, himself included.
Bramble settled onto his ratty couch near the old wood stove—he dog was too big for a typical dog bed, so Anson had found him the couch at a yard sale. Brambled watched with those liquid gold eyes as Anson pulled open the drawer where he kept his small repair supplies. He found the superglue and a pair of tweezers, then settled onto his stool.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Anson muttered to the dog. “I know it’s probably stupid.”
He arranged the blue fragments on the workbench, trying to fit them together like a puzzle. The ceramic had broken cleanly in some places, jaggedly in others. The handle was in three pieces, and a chunk from the rim was missing entirely.
Anson squinted, turning a piece over in his calloused fingers. His hands were built for metal and wood—for forcing stubborn materials to bend to his will. His fingers felt too big, too clumsy against the fragile ceramic.
He just had to think of it like his leatherwork, he decided. It was a hobby he’d picked up last winter, and at first he’d thought he’d be no good at it, that his twisted hands were too ruined for the delicate craftsmanship needed to craft the leather. But he’d found a rhythm, a patience, and the leather had responded to his touch in a way he hadn’t expected.
This was different. The blue ceramic was unforgiving. Every time he tried to align two pieces, they’d slip just slightly out of place. The curve wasn’t right, the edges didn’t match perfectly.
“Shit,” he muttered as a sharp edge nicked his finger. A bead of blood welled up, and he wiped it on his jeans before it could stain the ceramic.
He didn’t want to add his own mark to Ghost’s mug. The man was particular about his things—what few he had.
Anson had noticed that about Ghost from the beginning. Most of the men at Valor Ridge arrived with duffel bags full of their past lives—clothes, photos, books, trinkets. Ghost had shown up with a backpack containing the bare essentials—toiletries, a few changes of ill-fitting clothes that had been obviously donated to him.
Was it any wonder he’d grown so attached to that mug after Boone gave it to him?
And now it was in pieces.
The second attempt wasn’t much better. The handle refused to stay attached, and the crack down the middle kept separating no matter how firmly he held it. The fucking thing mocked him, refusing to become whole again.
Bramble whined softly from the couch.
“Yeah, I know,” Anson sighed. “Some things aren’t meant to hold again.”
He set down the tweezers and leaned back, stretching his stiff shoulders. The shop was quiet except for the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall and Bramble’s rhythmic breathing. Outside, an owl called once, then fell silent.
Anson glanced at the letter he’d been writing earlier, now sitting half-finished on the corner of his workbench. He’d been telling Maggie about the new commission he’d taken from a rancher over in Helena—a set of custom gate hinges with pine cone details. He’d sketched the design for her, knowing she’d appreciate the craftsmanship even if she couldn’t see it in person.
He pulled the letter toward him now, flipped it over to the blank side, and picked up his pen.
