Page 5 of Garrett

The question surprises me. Most contractors just want to know the scope of work, not the why behind it.

“I’ve driven by this place so often when I’ve come up to visit Ryder,” I find myself saying. “It always caught my eye. There’s something special about this place - the way it feels separatefrom everything else, but not lonely.” A jay calls from a nearby pine, emphasizing the point. “Plus, the view isn’t terrible.”

He follows my gaze through the window, where the valley spreads out below us, all snow-covered peaks and endless sky. “No,” he says softly. “It’s not terrible at all.”

Something in his voice makes me look at him, but he’s already moving to examine another wall. “What about you? Elena mentioned you were with Ryder and Garrett in the military, but he never said how you ended up in Heart River.”

“Needed a change of scenery.” His tone suggests that’s all I’m getting, but then he surprisingly continues. “After my last tour... cities felt too crowded. Too many people, too much noise. Montana made sense.”

I think about what Ryder’s told me about their time overseas. About the nightmares that still wake him sometimes. “And does it help? Being up here?”

He’s quiet for a moment, sunlight and shadow playing across his face as clouds drift overhead. “Most days.” He glances at me. “Your brother probably told you I’m not much for conversation.”

“Ryder says a lot of things.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “He also thought Hearts & Grinds was a fancy-pants coffee shop, and now he’s there three times a day trying to flirt with Dana.”

That gets a low chuckle out of him. “Yeah, he’s not exactly subtle about that.”

“Subtlety isn’t really a Winston family trait.”

“I’ve noticed.” His eyes meet mine briefly, something unreadable in them, before he turns back to his inspection. “These support beams are actually in decent shape. Might be able to keep some of the original structure here.”

I hide my smile at this small concession. “See? Not everything needs demolishing.”

“No,” he says quietly. “Sometimes the old bones are worth saving.”

The way he says it makes me wonder if we’re still talking about the cabin. Before I can analyze it too deeply, he asks, “Why an artists’ retreat? You could make more money turning these into luxury vacation rentals.”

“It’s not about the money.” I run my hand along a rough-hewn timber, feeling the history in its grain. “Artists need spaces like this. Places where they can step out of their normal lives and just... create. I want to give them that.”

When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “You sound passionate about it.”

“I am.” I force myself to maintain eye contact, even as his gaze makes my pulse skip. “My gallery in New York... it’s successful, but it’s also political. All about who knows who, who’s trending, who’s got the right connections. This is different. This is about giving artists space to make something real.”

A shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating dust motes dancing between us. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“Something real,” he repeats softly. Then he clears his throat. “We should check the foundation while we still have good light. Storm’s moving in.”

He’s right - clouds are building over the western peaks, their gray mass promising snow. The temperature’s dropping too; I can feel it in the way the air sharpens with each breath.

We crunch through fresh powder to examine the foundation, our boots leaving parallel tracks in the pristine white. A deer watches us from the tree line, then bounds away in graceful leaps when Garrett shifts some fallen timber.

“The stonework’s solid,” he says, brushing snow away from the base. “They built things to last back then.” His hands move over the rock with surprising gentleness. “See these marks? Hand-cut. Someone put real care into this place.”

“You know a lot about historical construction.”

“My dad restored old buildings.” Something soft crosses his face. “Taught me everything I know about reading a structure’s bones. Before he...”

He trails off, but I remember Ryder mentioning something about an accident. About Garrett learning construction young because his father died before he could finish teaching him.

“He’d like what you’re doing,” I say quietly. “Saving old places like this.”

Garrett’s hands still on the stone. For a moment, I think I’ve overstepped. Then he says, “Yeah. He would.”

Thunder rolls in the distance, and the deer I spotted earlier darts across the clearing with several friends, heading for shelter.

“Smart animals,” Garrett straightens. “We should follow their example. Storm’s coming in fast.”

We make our way back around front, snow starting to fall in fat, lazy flakes. The wind’s picking up too, carrying the sharp scent of approaching winter weather.

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