“What made you want to become a US Marshal?”
Mason’s quiet for a moment, studying the board. His large hand moves a knight with surprising grace. “Wanted to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves. Saw too much bad shit in the world. Figured I could do something about it instead of just watching it happen.”
His answer is simple but I hear the weight behind it. The sense of duty. The strength.
I move my bishop and take one of his pawns. “And the military?”
I nod. “Yeah. Special Forces.”
“Wow.”
The moment the word leaves my mouth his entire body tenses. His mouth firms into a hard line, and whatever warmth was there a moment ago drains from his expression. The easiness between us shifts. He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the board like it holds all the answers.
“I don’t really talk about those days,” he says finally, voice rough and closed off. “Not with anyone.”
I feel a pang in my chest but I don’t push. There’s pain there, deep and old. I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten and his hand grips the edge of the couch. Instead I reach over and gently touch his wrist.
“Okay,” I whisper. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry I asked.”
He relaxes slightly at my touch. We continue the game in comfortable silence for a while, the storm providing a constant roaring soundtrack. The cookies disappear one by one, warm and gooey and perfect. Every time I take his pieces I do a little victory wiggle that makes himshake his head, but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
When I finally move my queen into position and say “Checkmate,” I can’t help the bright laugh that escapes me. I won. Against this mountain of a man who looks like he wins everything he sets his mind to.
Mason stares at the board for a long moment, then looks up at me with something like respect and heat in his eyes. “You’re full of surprises, Riley.”
I grin, feeling lighter than I have since the nightmare began. “My dad taught me well. Never underestimate the baker with the chessboard.”
We put the board away and sit closer on the couch, the fire warming our faces. The storm still rages outside but in here I feel at ease. Truly safe. Mason’s big body beside me radiates strength and protection. I lean my head against his shoulder without thinking, and he doesn’t pull away.
For the first time since I witnessed that horrible crime, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay. That this growly, battle-hardened marshal might be exactly what I need in more ways than just protection.
6
Mason
The fire in the wood stove has burned low, casting flickering orange light across the cabin walls. I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the dancing flames while the blizzard outside screams like a living monster. Riley’s moved to the bed now, sleep slowly pulling her under.
I keep thinking about how I shut her down earlier when she asked about the military. The way her bright eyes dimmed just a little. She’s so pure. So damn innocent. The last thing she needs is my ugly war stories filling her head after everything she’s already seen. Blood in an alley. A man dying in front of her. She doesn’t need to know about the sand and the screams and the things I did to survive. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble scrape against my palm. Sleep won’t come easy tonight. The couch is too small for my frame and my mind won’t stop turning.
The wood box by the stove is nearly empty. The storm is eating through our supply faster than expected. If I don’t bring more in soon we’ll wake up to a cold cabin tomorrow. I stand up quietly, my boots heavy on the wooden floor. The cold seeps through my bones as I pull on my heavy jacket, the fabric stiff. I grab the axe leaning by the door, the metal head icy under my fingers.
Riley stirs on the bed, her eyes fluttering open. She sits up slowly, the oversized t-shirt slipping off one smooth shoulder. The firelight catches on her skin, warm and golden. “Mason? Where are you going?”
“More firewood,” I say, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Stay inside where you’re out of harm’s way. I’ll be right back.”
She pushes the quilts aside and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor with a soft sound. “I can help. Please let me come with you.”
The thought of her out there in that brutal storm settles like a weight, coiling through me with a hard edge. “No. Stay inside, little one. The wind’s too strong. I need to know you're okay in here.”
She looks like she wants to argue, those pretty eyes narrowing, but she nods. “Okay. Be careful. Come back quick.”
I give her one last look, memorizing the sight of her warm and guarded, then step out into the storm.
The cold hits me like a physical blow the second the door closes behind me. Wind screams across the clearing, driving snow horizontally into my face with stinging force. The flakes feel like tiny needles against my skin, melting instantly on my cheeks and neck and sliding cold down the collar of my jacket. I pull my collar up higher and grip the axe tighter, boots sinking deep into the fresh powder with every step. The snow reaches past my knees in places, heavy and wet, clinging to my pants and making every movement a battle. The air burns in my lungs, sharp and freezing, tasting like ice and pine.
I trudge toward the woodpile against the side of the cabin, shoulders hunched against the wind. The snow is deeper here, almost to my thighs. Each step requires effort, muscles burning in my legs as I push forward. The wind howls louder, pushing against my back like invisible hands trying to knock me down. I reach the pile and start digging with gloved hands, the snow so cold it feels like fire against the exposed skin at my wrists. Chunks of ice and frozen wood come away in my grip. I set the first few logs aside and swing the axe to split a bigger piece.The blade bites deep into the frozen wood with a solid thunk that vibrates up my arms.
