Chapter 1: Soap and Sawdust
The scent of honey and bergamot hung thick in the air, a tangible comfort Rose LaRue carried in her lungs like a prayer. Morning light, fractured by the bundles of drying lavender hanging in the window, painted the wooden countertops in stripes of gold and shadow. Her hands, slick with a blend of olive and coconut oils, moved with a practiced, rhythmic grace. This was her altar. Lye solution waited in a glass pitcher, a careful chemistry she respected with every fiber of her being. One wrong measure and the whole batch would be useless, or worse, cruel to the skin.
The shop door creaked, a specific, familiar sound she’d come to recognize like a heartbeat.
Her own heart gave a stupid, traitorous thump against her ribs.
She didn’t need to look up. The air in The Soapbox changed when he walked in. It grew heavier, warmer, charged with the scent of honest sweat, pine needles, and sun-baked leather. Sawdust, fine as pollen, drifted off his flannel shirt in the slanted light as he shouldered the door closed. Jake Cooper filled a space, not just with his sheer, formidable size, but with a quiet, anchored presence that seemed to settle the very dust.
“Morning, Rose.”
His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated in the hollow of her chest. She finally glanced up, wiping her hands on a flour-sack towel. Her smile came unbidden, a reflex as natural as breathing here in this safe place she’d built.
“Bear. You’re early. The pine tar shipment isn’t due until tomorrow.”
He leaned against the counter, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the street. His piercing blue eyes, the color of a Montana sky at its deepest point, held hers. A slow, easy grin broke across his face, carving those devastating dimples into his beard-dusted cheeks.
“Maybe I’m not here for the soap.”
Her breath hitched. She busied her hands again, arranging molds—little bears, mountain peaks. “Oh? Did you run out of excuses, then?”
“Used up the last one last week. The one about the alpaca needing a special oat milk blend.” He chuckled, the sound warm. “She did look softer, for what it’s worth.”
Rose laughed, a real one that made the dimples in her own cheeks ache. “You don’t have alpacas, Bear. You have about six hundred head of cattle.”
“Details.” He watched her work. “What’s this one?”
“Cedar and vetiver. For grounding.” She poured the lye solution into the oils, the beginning of the alchemy. “Or so Liam tells the yoga crowd. I just think it smells like a forest after rain.”
“Sounds perfect.” His gaze wasn’t on the soap. It was on her hands, on the swirl of ink that peeked from the cuff of her rolled-up sleeve. The new one. The bear paw, cradling a rosebud, just inside her left wrist.
She felt the look like a physical touch, a brand. She stopped stirring. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of everything they hadn’t said, of every glancing touch and shared laugh over the past year. It hummed alongside the faint jazz from the vintage record player in the corner.
“Rosebud,” he said softly. The nickname, her name from him, never failed to send a tremor through her.
“It’s just a tattoo,” she murmured, but her voice was feather-light.
“Maggie did good work.” He knew because he’d driven her to the appointment, had waited patiently in the truck with a cold bottle of water and a bag of her favorite saltwater taffy for afterward. He hadn’t asked what she was getting. He’d just been there.
“She did.” Rose pushed a curl, streaked with its defiant rose-gold pink, behind her ear. A nervous habit. “So. No pine tar. What can I do for you, Jake Cooper?”
He loved when she used his full name. She could see it in the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Came to see if you and Tommy wanted to come out to the ranch Sunday. For dinner. It’s nothing fancy. Just the usual chaos.”
The usual chaos was his family’s weekly dinner—a loud, loving, overwhelming affair of siblings, nieces, nephews, and his formidable mother, who had taken one look at Rose a year ago and declared her “too skinny” before piling her plate with a second helping of pot roast. Tommy adored it. The wide-open spaces, the dogs, the feeling of belonging to a pack.
Fear, cold and slick, coiled in her stomach. It was an old, familiar enemy. Dinner at the ranch meant something. It was a step out of her carefully constructed world of soap and safe boundaries and into his world. A world where people stayed. A world where loss had happened, and life had stubbornly, beautifully continued.
“I don’t know,” she said, the words automatic. “I might have inventory to do. Liam’s talking about a new lavender harvest display, and—”
“Rose.” He said her name like it was a whole sentence. He didn’t move closer, but his presence seemed to. “It’s just dinner. No inventory on Sundays. You told me that yourself. The shop is closed. The world is closed.”
“Your fucking dimples and those eyes,” she whispered, the confession torn from her before she could cage it. “They wreck me.”
His grin softened, turning into something heartbreakingly tender. “Good.”
From the back room, the curtain beads clacked together. Liam emerged, a vision in a perfectly fitted mustard-yellow cardigan and dark jeans, holding a clipboard. “Darling, the essential oil order is a tragedy. The sandalwood price has gone full diva—oh!” He stopped, his sharp eyes darting from Rose’s flushed face to Bear’s patient smile. “Well, hello, Mountain Man. Come to gaze longingly at my boss again? You’re blocking the light for the succulents.”
“Hey, Liam.” Bear nodded, unfazed. He was the only person who seemed entirely immune to Liam’s dramatics, which was probably why Liam adored him.
“He’s inquiring about dinner,” Rose said, seizing the distraction. “On Sunday.”
Liam placed a hand over his heart. “A family dinner? How profoundly, devastatingly normal. You should go. You’ve been working too hard. You’re starting to smell more stressed than the chamomile blend.” He leaned toward Bear conspiratorially. “She’s been muttering to the lye again. It’s a sign.”
“I have not,” Rose protested, but she was smiling.
“The evidence is circumstantial but compelling.” Liam waved his clipboard. “Now, shoo, Grizzly Adams. We have a business to run that does not solely cater to your rustic hygiene needs. Some of us have sensitive skin and require hibiscus blossom facial bars.”
Bear pushed off the counter, his movement fluid for a man his size. “I’ll let you get back to it. Think about Sunday, Rosebud. No pressure. Just… think about it.”
He turned to go, his hand reaching for the door.
“Bear,” she said.
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
“I… I’ll think about it.”
That earned her another one of those smiles, the kind that felt like it could power the sun. “That’s all I ask.” The door creaked shut behind him, leaving the shop feeling suddenly too large, too quiet, despite Liam’s presence and the soft trumpet solo winding from the speaker.
“Well?” Liam chirped, circling the counter. “Aside from the obvious fact that you are deeply, stupidly in love with that man, what’s the holdup?”
Rose sank onto her stool, the adrenaline leaving her limbs feeling weak. She stared at the traced soap mixture, beginning its slow journey toward trace. “It’s fast, Liam.”
“A year of him buying soap he doesn’t need is fast? Honey, by soap-buying-courtship standards, you’re practically a golden anniversary. What’s the real thing?”
She traced the rosebud tattoo with her thumb. “Tommy. What if… what if he gets attached? What if I get attached, and then…”
“And then it doesn’t work out?” Liam finished, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He perched on the edge of the counter. “Let me tell you a secret, my beautiful, traumatized friend. Not working out is always a possibility. With anyone. That’s life. But not trying? Because of a ghost and a monster who doesn’t get to dictate your life anymore? That’s not living. That’s just… waiting.”
The truth of it sat between them. Her ex-husband was gone. The fear he’d planted was a weed with deep roots, but she was the gardener now. She got to decide what to pull.
“He’s nothing like him,” she said, more to herself than to Liam.
“Of course he’s not. One’s a man, the other was a gargoyle in a designer suit.” Liam hopped down. “Now, about this sandalwood crisis. I’m thinking we stage a protest. Very chic, very non-violent. Perhaps a strongly worded placard.”
The afternoon bled away in a comfortable routine of customers, blending, and Liam’s running commentary. Chloe, her assistant manager, arrived for the evening shift, her calm, sweet presence a balm. She took one look at Rose’s face and simply hugged her, no questions asked. Rose was boxing up an online order—a gift set of the cedar-vetiver bars—when the bell on the door jingled again.
It wasn’t Bear. It was Brody, Bear’s brother, with Chloe’s bright eyes and a similarly easy smile, though his was tinged with a hint of permanent mischief.
“Hey, Rose. Bear said he forgot to ask you something.” Brody leaned on the counter, identical to his brother’s pose but with a looser energy.
“Oh?” Her pulse, stupid thing, fluttered again.
“Yeah. He wanted to know if you had any of that lemon-verbena soap left. Says it’s the only thing that gets the branding iron smell off his hands after a long day.” Brody’s eyes were full of knowing laughter. “S’weird. He was just here. Coulda asked himself.”
Rose turned to the shelf, hiding her own smile. “I have one bar left. Tell him he’s in luck.”
As she wrapped the bar in tissue paper, Brody cleared his throat. “So, Sunday. You comin’? Ma’s making her peach cobbler. The one with the biscuit topping that makes you want to weep.”
She handed him the soap. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Think harder,” Brody said, winking. “Tommy’s been practicing his lasso technique with my old rope. Told him I’d show him how to properly coil it. Kid’s a natural.” He tapped the package on the counter. “See you Sunday, then.”
He was gone before she could correct him.
The day ended. Chloe and Liam left together, arguing good-naturedly about movie choices for their respective spouses. Rose locked the door, flipped the sign to ‘Closed’, and engaged the security system with a series of confident beeps. The cameras, her silent guardians, watched from their corners. She walked through the dim shop, the scents of the day—citrus, spice, woodsmoke—layering into a comforting perfume.
In the back room, she pulled her phone from her apron pocket. There was a text, sent an hour ago.
Bear: Did Brody harass you?
She typed back, her fingers flying.
Rose: He may have attempted emotional blackmail involving peach cobbler and my son’s budding cowboy career.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Bear: I’ll talk to him.
Rose: Don’t. It was sweet.
A pause. The dots pulsed.
Bear: Was it?
She took a deep breath. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach. But beneath it, warmer and stronger, was a current of want. A longing for the chaos of his family table, for the way his laugh felt when it rumbled through her, for the safety of those big, calloused hands.
Rose: Tell your mom we’ll be there. And to save me some cobbler.
His reply was instant.
Bear: She’ll make a whole extra one just for you. See you Sunday, Rosebud.
Rose placed the phone on the counter and looked at her reflection in the dark window. The woman staring back had freckles across her nose, defiant pink in her dark curls, and eyes that had seen too much but hadn’t given up. She saw the tattoos on her skin—the bee, the butterfly, the rose, the paw. A map of survival, of change, of becoming.
The final chapter wasn’t written in scar tissue or in bank statements from a trust she never touched. It was waiting out on a ranch, under a wide-open sky, with a man who looked at her like she was the only light in the room. She blew out the last candle, plunging the shop into a darkness sweet with promise, and went to pick up her son.
The Montana air outside The Soapbox was a crisp, clean slap after the cloistered, perfumed warmth of the shop. Rose took a deep breath, letting the scent of distant rain on dry earth wash over her. It was still strange, sometimes, this air. It didn’t sit in your lungs like the heavy, humid blanket of New Orleans; it rushed in, sharp and clarifying, a tonic.
She walked the three blocks to Little Sprouts Preschool, her boots clicking a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. The evening sun was a fading bruise of orange and purple behind the Bridger Range, casting the downtown buildings in long, skeletal shadows. She could feel the weight of the day in her shoulders, but also a new, fluttering lightness in her chest. We’ll be there.
Tommy exploded from the preschool doors like a launched firework, his backpack bouncing, a crumpled piece of paper gripped in his fist. “Mama! I drawed a horse! A big one, like Bear’s! Miss Janie said I got the legs all wrong but I like ‘em!”
She caught him, his small, solid body thudding into her legs. At five, he was all kinetic energy and endless questions, with her dark curls and his grandfather’s kind, serious eyes. She kissed the top of his head, breathing in the scent of child sweat, crayons, and apple juice. “It’s a magnificent horse, baby. The best legs I’ve ever seen.”
His teacher, Janie, gave a warm smile from the doorway. “He talked about Bear’s ranch all afternoon. Something about a baby calf? I think a field trip is in order.”
“We’re going for dinner on Sunday,” Rose said, and saying it out loud to someone else made it more real, a concrete plan in the universe.
“Oh, fun!” Janie’s eyes twinkled. Everyone in this town knew Bear Cooper. And everyone, Rose was slowly realizing, had quietly approved of his constant presence at her shop.
Hand in hand, they walked back toward the shop where her old, reliable Jeep was parked behind the building. Tommy chattered nonstop, a stream-of-consciousness narrative about Lego spaceships, the chicken fingers at lunch, and the definitive superiority of bears over lions.
“And Bear said maybe I can help name the next calf, if it’s a girl, and I think ‘Starlight’ is good, or ‘Velvet,’ but he said I should think on it, which is what he says when he thinks my idea is kinda silly but he’s too nice to say so.”
Rose laughed, squeezing his hand. “He doesn’t think your ideas are silly. He just wants you to be sure.”
As they turned into the alley behind the row of shops, the comfortable warmth of the evening shifted. A subtle prickle, like static electricity, raised the hairs on Rose’s arms. It was too quiet. The back doors of the feed store and the bookshop were closed, the recycling bins casting long shadows. And there, idling at the far end of the alley, was a car she didn’t recognize.
A sleek, black sedan with rental plates. Out-of-state. It was pointed toward them, its headlights off but the engine running. A dark silhouette sat behind the wheel.
New Orleans fear, old and ingrained, shot through her veins, cold and immediate. It was a taste of copper in her mouth, a sudden clutch in her gut that had nothing to do with rational thought and everything to do with memory. A different car. A different alley. The shriek of twisting metal.
“Mama? Your hand’s sweaty,” Tommy said, trying to wiggle his fingers free.
“Sorry, baby.” She forced her voice to be light, but her grip tightened. Her keys were in her other hand, the jagged metal teeth poking into her palm. Her Jeep was ten paces away. The security camera above her shop’s back door was a small, unblinking eye. She focused on it, on the solid, recorded truth of it.
Walk. Don’t run. Don’t let him see you run.
The driver’s side window of the sedan began to roll down.
Rose’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. She angled her body, putting herself between Tommy and the car. Her mind raced through the steps Liam had drilled into her: Camera. Description. License plate. Run.
A man’s face appeared in the window. Pale, narrow, with a sharp jaw and sunglasses despite the fading light. He seemed to be looking right at her, his head tilted.
“Tommy,” she whispered, her voice taut. “When I say ‘go,’ you run to the Jeep as fast as you can and climb in the back seat. Don’t look back.”
“Mama—”
“Go.”
She yanked her hand free and gave him a slight push toward the vehicle. He ran, his small sneakers slapping the asphalt. Rose didn’t run. She turned fully to face the car, standing her ground in the middle of the alley, her keys now clenched between her knuckles in a makeshift weapon. She stared at the driver, memorizing the shape of his head, the rental plate frame, the dark tint of the rear windows.
The man lifted a hand. Not in a wave. He held up what looked like a small camera or a phone, pointing it in her direction. There was a faint, mechanical click-click sound.
Then, with a low purr, the sedan’s window slid back up. The car reversed smoothly, turned, and disappeared around the corner onto Main Street.
The alley was silent again, empty. The threat, if it was a threat, was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Rose stood frozen, adrenaline making her limbs tremble. The metallic taste of fear was still strong in her mouth.
“Mama? I’m in!” Tommy’s voice, scared and small, called from the Jeep.
She snapped into motion, rushing to the vehicle, fumbling with the key fob. She locked the doors the second she was inside, her hands shaking so badly she could barely fit the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.
“Who was that man, Mama?” Tommy asked from the back, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Probably just someone lost.” The lie was automatic, brittle. She checked the mirrors compulsively, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. No black sedan. Main Street was its usual sleepy evening self—a few pickup trucks, couples window-shopping, the warm glow from the diner.
But the calm was shattered. The carefully constructed peace of Bozeman now had a hairline fracture in it, and through it seeped the old, familiar dread.
She drove toward home, a pretty little cottage on the outskirts of town with a big garden Tommy loved. Her mind replayed the scene on a loop. The silent car. The sunglasses at dusk. The camera. Was it a reporter? Her father was wealthy, but not newsworthy wealthy. Her ex-husband’s family? They were bankrupt, disgraced, and had blamed her for their son’s death. She’d changed her name, legally, from DuMont back to LaRue. She’d been so careful.
“Are we still going to Bear’s on Sunday?” Tommy’s question cut through the panic spiral.
The sound of his name was an anchor. “Yes, baby. We’re still going.”
“Good. I wanna ask him about Starlight again.”
She forced a smile for him in the mirror. “I’m sure he can’t wait.”
Once home, she followed the routine with hyper-focused precision: homework, bath, two stories. Tommy, blessedly resilient, seemed to have shaken off the alley, absorbed back into the safe world of pirates and talking dogs. It was Rose who was jumpy, checking the locks on the doors and windows twice, peering out into the darkening yard.
When Tommy was finally asleep, his breaths deep and even, she retreated to the living room. She didn’t turn on the lamp. She sat in the dark, curled in the corner of the sofa, and called Liam.
He answered on the first ring. “Darling, I was just telling Chris about the sandalwood hegemony. He’s proposing economic sanctions. What’s up?”
“A car.” Her voice sounded thin. “In the alley behind the shop. When I went to get Tommy. Black sedan, rental plates. A man took a picture of me.”
All the theatricality bled out of Liam’s voice. “What did he look like?”
“White. Thin face. Sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes. He just… looked. Took the picture. Drove away.”
“License plate?”
“I got part of it. Montana plate, but a rental agency frame. Started with ‘7E’.”
She could hear Liam moving, the tap of computer keys. “Okay. Okay. The system recorded it?”
“The back door camera should have. I haven’t checked the feed.”
“I’m logging in remotely right now. Chris is here. He’s looking up rental agency identifiers.” Liam’s voice was calm, methodical. This was the Liam few people saw—the one who had helped her disappear from one life and build another. “Are you safe? Is Tommy safe?”
“We’re at home. Doors are locked.”
“Good. Stay there. I’m calling Brody.”
“Liam, no, I don’t want to—”
“Rose, a strange man photographs you in a dark alley. This is not a soap scent consultation. This is a ‘call the sheriff’ situation. Especially your sheriff, who also happens to be your almost-boyfriend’s brother. Brody will know what to do without setting the whole town on fire.” She heard the furious clicking of keys. “Got the footage. Downloading it now. The car is in frame, but it’s grainy. The zoom on the license plate is… questionable. But we have it. And we have him.” A pause. “He’s just sitting there. Waiting. Rose… he was definitely waiting for you.”
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. “What do I do?”
“You let Brody handle it. And you tell Bear.”
“I can’t tell Bear. He’ll… I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“He’ll want to protect you. Let him. That’s not a weakness, letting someone who cares about you help. It’s how this is supposed to work.” Liam’s tone softened. “I’ll send the footage to Brody. He’ll probably come by to see you tonight. Just… breathe. You have an army, remember? You’re not in that city alone anymore.”
He was right. She had an army. The knowledge was a slow, warm infusion in her veins, pushing back against the cold fear. She hung up and sat in the quiet dark. The memory of the man’s faceless gaze warred with the memory of Bear’s smile in the sunlit shop, his dimples, the patience in his blue eyes.p
Headlights swept across the living room wall. Not Brody’s squad car. A familiar, lifted Ford truck pulled into her driveway, its engine cutting with a deep rumble. Bear.
Her heart, still jittery from the adrenaline, did a different kind of stutter. She watched through the window as he got out. He wasn’t in rushed panic. He moved with deliberate calm, like a man approaching a spooked animal. He had changed out of his sawdust-covered flannel into a clean gray henley, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. He walked to her front door and knocked, softly.
She unlocked and opened it. The porch light cut across the worried lines of his face. “Brody called me,” he said without preamble, his voice a low gravel. “He’s on his way. Told me to come sit with you. Can I come in?”
Wordlessly, she stepped back. He filled her small foyer, his presence immediately changing the atmosphere of the house, making it feel safer, sturdier. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and then just looked at her, his gaze scanning her face.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just scared.”
“Tommy?”
“Asleep. He didn’t really understand.”
Bear nodded, a muscle working in his jaw. “Tell me what happened. From the start.”
She did, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. The walk, the alley, the car, the window, the camera, the feeling. He listened, utterly still, his eyes never leaving hers. When she finished, he reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and took her hand. His thumb brushed over the rosebud tattoo.
“Okay,” he said, a single word that held a universe of resolve. “Here’s what’s not gonna happen. You’re not gonna be scared in your own home. You’re not gonna look over your shoulder when you pick up your boy.” He squeezed her hand gently. “And that son of a bitch isn’t gonna come near you again.”
“Bear, you can’t know that.”
“I can,” he said, with a quiet certainty that brooked no argument. “Brody’s on it. I’m on it. The whole damn family is on it the second I make a call. We’re gonna find out who he is and why he’s here. And then we’re gonna deal with it.”
It wasn’t a threat said with bluster. It was a fact, stated simply, like the sun rising or cattle needing feed. It was the promise of his entire being, his history, his loyalty, laid at her feet.
The tears came then, hot and sudden, a release of the tension she’d been holding since the alley. She didn’t sob, just stood there as they tracked silently down her cheeks.
Bear didn’t tell her not to cry. He just pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, burying her face in the soft cotton of his shirt, breathing in his scent—soap, sunshine, him. His arms wrapped around her, solid and immense, one hand cradling the back of her head. He held her as if she were something priceless and fragile, but his embrace was unbreakable. She could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart against her cheek.
“I’m so tired of being afraid,” she whispered into his chest, the confession muffled.
“I know, Rosebud,” he murmured into her hair. “But you don’t have to be. Not here. Not with me.”
They stood like that in the quiet foyer for a long time, until another set of headlights announced Brody’s arrival. Bear loosened his hold but kept an arm around her shoulders as he let his brother in.
Brody Hayes had his sheriff’s hat in his hand, his expression all business, but his eyes were kind when they landed on Rose. “Liam sent the footage. We’ve got a good shot of the car, a partial on the plate. I’ve already put out a BOLO. We’ll find it if it’s still in the county.” He glanced at Bear, a silent communication passing between them. “Any idea who might want to hassle you, Rose? Old debts? Family stuff?”
She swallowed. “My ex-husband’s family. The DuMonts. They… they lost everything after the accident. The lawsuit, the bad press. They said it was my fault he was driving that night. They might blame me.”
Brody nodded, taking a small notebook from his pocket. “Names?”
She gave him what she could—the mother, Annette, a brother, Laurent. A world of old-money bitterness she’d fled.
“Okay. I’ll dig into it, see if any of them have taken a recent trip to Montana.” Brody closed his notebook. “In the meantime, I’ll have a unit drive by here regularly. You see anything, anything, you call me directly.” He handed her his card with a cell number written on the back. “Not just 911. Me.”
“Thank you, Brody.”
He offered a tight smile. “Family looks after family.” He looked at Bear. “You staying?”
“I am.”
Brody nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else. “Good. I’ll be in touch.” He left, the night swallowing his cruiser’s taillights.
The house felt different with Bear in it. He walked through, checking the locks on the windows in the kitchen, the back door, with a practiced eye. “Motion lights out back are good. Front could use one over the garage. I’ll put one up tomorrow.”
“Bear, you don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said simply. He came back to the living room, standing before her. The easy flirty rancher was gone, replaced by something more primal, more focused. “Rose, I need you to listen to me. I’m not him. I’m not gonna smother you, or tell you what to do, or try to own you. But I am gonna keep you safe. And Tommy. That’s non-negotiable. You can be mad about it, you can fight me on it, but it’s gonna happen.”
She looked up at him, this giant, gentle man with fear for her shining in his blue eyes. “I’m not mad,” she whispered.
He cupped her face in his big, calloused hands, his touch unbearably tender. “I’ve been waiting a year for you to let me in. I can wait a lifetime if that’s what you need. But now that there’s a shadow near you, all that waiting is done. I’m here. I’m all in. You understand?”
She understood. The last of her walls, the ones built from fear and past pain, didn’t crumble so much as dissolve under the sheer, steadfast force of him. She leaned into his touch. “I’m scared,” she admitted again.
“I know. But you’re not alone in it.” He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Now. You eaten?”
The mundane question, in the midst of the turmoil, was almost funny. “No.”
“Okay. I’m gonna make you something. You’re gonna sit. And then you’re gonna try to sleep.”
He found his way around her kitchen as if he’d always been there, frying eggs, toasting bread, brewing tea. She sat at the small table, wrapped in a blanket, and watched him. The domesticity of it, the care of it, undid her more than any grand declaration could have.
He joined her with two plates of simple, perfect food. They ate in a comfortable silence, the events of the evening a shared weight between them, but lighter now for being shared.
Later, he settled on her couch, a blanket and a pillow from the linen closet looking comically small next to him. “I’ll be right here. You get some rest.”
She paused at the entrance to the hallway. “Bear?”
“Yeah, Rosebud?”
“Thank you.”
His gaze held hers, soft and certain in the dim light. “Go to sleep.”
In her bed, with Tommy softly snoring in the next room and the living room floorboards creaking under the weight of a man who would stand guard all night, Rose stared at the ceiling. The fear was still a live wire in her gut, its hum a reminder of the black car and the faceless man.
But layered over it, stronger, was the feel of Bear’s arms, the rumble of his voice, the sight of his broad back in her kitchen. The promise was not just of safety, but of something she had almost forgotten how to want: a future, unafraid.
The fracture in her peace was still there. But for the first time, she believed it could be mended with something stronger than what had been broken. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, she did not dream of screeching tires or shattered glass. She dreamed of a sprawling farmhouse, of a table crowded with laughter, and of a pair of blue eyes, wrecking her in the very best way.