Page 5 of King of the Weld (The Morrison Brothers #1)

The rain continues through the night, a steady drumming that usually soothes my restless mind. Not tonight. Tonight, my thoughts are as turbulent as the weather, circling around the woman who now sleeps on my couch for the second night in a row.

Sophia Valentine. Just the name carries weight, history, expectations. I've done my best to stay clear of such things since returning stateside. My life is purposely simple—the forge, the cabin, the woods. No complications. No responsibilities beyond my own survival.

Yet here I am, involving myself in her problems. Planning to take her into town. Positioning myself between her and whatever forces are hunting her. It goes against every boundary I've set for myself these past years.

I sit in the chair across from her sleeping form, a sentinel position I've held through most of the night.

She sleeps deeply, exhaustion still claiming her despite the rest she got today.

In sleep, her face softens, the wariness and determination that mark her waking hours temporarily erased.

She looks younger, vulnerable in a way that stirs protective instincts I thought I'd buried with my uniform.

Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous feelings.

Around three in the morning, I give up on the pretense of rest and move quietly to my workshop. The forge is cold, but the familiar routine of stoking it to life centers me. Soon the heat builds, orange flames licking at the metal I've positioned in the heart of the fire.

I lose myself in the rhythm of the work—heat, hammer, shape, repeat. The piece taking form beneath my hands is small but complex, a delicate leaf with detailed veining. Not my usual style, but my hands seem to have ideas of their own tonight.

The sky begins to lighten before I realize how much time has passed. I set aside the finished piece—still too hot to touch—and extinguish the forge. My shoulders ache pleasantly from the labor, my mind quieter now than it's been since finding Sophia at the edge of my property.

When I return to the cabin, she's still asleep. I shower quickly, letting hot water sluice away the soot and sweat of my night's work. By the time I emerge, dressed in clean jeans and a dark henley, the first rays of sun are breaking through the clouds.

I make coffee, its rich aroma filling the small kitchen. As if summoned by the smell, Sophia stirs, her eyes fluttering open to find me leaning against the counter, mug in hand.

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low.

She pushes herself up, running a hand through her tangled hair. "What time is it?"

"Just after six. Coffee?"

She nods, accepting the mug I offer with both hands. "Did you sleep at all?" she asks, eyeing the shadows under my eyes.

"Enough," I lie. "We should head out by seven if we want to beat the morning rush in town."

She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "You were in your workshop. I heard the hammering."

I shrug. Most people don't notice my comings and goings, don't pay attention to the rhythms of my existence. "Couldn't sleep. Might as well be productive."

"What were you making?"

"Nothing important," I deflect, though the leaf cooling on my workbench feels like something more significant than I want to admit. "You should eat something before we go."

I busy myself making a simple breakfast: eggs, toast, the last of the bacon. Sophia watches me move around the kitchen, her gaze so intent I can almost feel it.

"You don't like talking about your work," she observes.

"Not much to say about it." I set a plate in front of her. "It's just work."

"I don't think that's true," she says, surprising me. "I saw your face when you were at the forge that first night. That's not just work for you. It's something more."

I sit across from her, uncomfortable with her insight. "Eat your breakfast, Sophia. We've got a lot to do today."

She takes a bite of eggs, still watching me with those perceptive eyes. "You always use my name," she notes.

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, but most people just call me Soph or they gesture for me to come without saying my name. My family always does."

"I'm not your family," I remind her, perhaps more harshly than intended.

"No," she agrees quietly. "You're not."

We finish breakfast in silence. I can tell I've put up a wall, pushed her away with my abruptness, but it's better this way. Better for both of us if she doesn't get too comfortable, doesn't start thinking of me as anything more than temporary shelter from her storm.

After breakfast, I give her one of my flannel shirts to wear over Ethan's too-large t-shirt. It swallows her despite her height, but the layers will help disguise her figure somewhat, make her less immediately recognizable.

"What about shoes?" she asks, looking at her bandaged feet.

"I've got an old pair of boots that might work with enough socks. Not comfortable, but better than nothing until we can get you proper ones."

The boots are comically large on her, but with three pairs of thick wool socks, they'll stay on her feet. She winces when she stands, testing her weight.

"Still hurts?"

"I'll manage," she says, lifting her chin with stubborn determination.

I grab my wallet and keys, then pause at the gun safe tucked in the corner of my bedroom. After a moment's consideration, I unlock it and remove my Glock, checking it before securing it in the holster at the small of my back. Better to have it and not need it.

Sophia's eyes widen when she sees the weapon as I shrug on my jacket. "Is that necessary?" she asks.

"Probably not," I admit. "But I don't like being unprepared."

She nods, accepting this without further question. Another surprise—most civilians get nervous around firearms, ask too many questions, want reassurances I'm not willing to give. Sophia just accepts it as part of the reality we're navigating.

We head out to my truck, an older model Ford that's seen better days but runs reliably enough. I help her climb in, pretending not to notice her wince of pain as she settles into the passenger seat.

The drive to Pine Haven takes about twenty minutes, the road winding through dense forest before opening up to farmland on the outskirts of town.

Sophia is quiet beside me, her eyes taking in everything: an escape route, perhaps, or just the novelty of scenery that isn't manicured Valentine property.

"Pine Haven is kind of small," I tell her as we approach the town limits. "About ten thousand people. One main street with shops, a couple of restaurants, the usual small-town businesses. The rodeo grounds are on the north side."

"Have you lived here long?" she asks.

"I grew up here."

"You never thought about leaving? It seems so..." She trails off, searching for the right word.

"Isolated?" I supply.

"I was going to say peaceful," she corrects. "But isolated works too, I suppose."

I shrug, eyes on the road. "Needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could just be."

She doesn't press further, just nods as if she understands completely. Maybe she does.

Pine Haven appears around the bend, a small collection of buildings nestled in a valley. It's not much to look at. Nowhere near as grand as the cities I'm sure Sophia is used to, but it has its own kind of charm.

"First stop is the rodeo grounds," I say, turning north at the main intersection. "I need to assess the job, give them a quote. Then we'll get you what you need."

"Will your brother be there?" she asks, a note of anxiety in her voice.

"Probably. Is that a problem?"

She hesitates. "What if he recognizes me? The Valentines are well-known, and my picture was in all the society pages for the engagement announcement."

It's a valid concern. I hadn't considered that Jack might connect the dots, might have seen those society pages with their splashy headlines about the Valentine-Blackwood merger. That's what these high-society marriages really are, business arrangements dressed up with flowers and cake.

"Jack's not the most observant," I say, though I'm less confident than I sound. "And you look different now. Hair unstyled, different clothes. Just keep your head down, let me do the talking."

She nods, tugging the borrowed flannel shirt closer around her like armor.

The rodeo grounds appear ahead. A sprawling complex with a large arena, stables, and various outbuildings. Several trucks are parked near the main entrance, including Jack's truck.

I park a short distance away, turning to Sophia before we exit. "Ready for this?"

She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "As I'll ever be."

"Remember, you're my niece from out of state. Here visiting for a few weeks. Keep it simple, don't volunteer information."

"I know how to lie, Ethan," she says, a hint of steel in her voice. "I was raised in a family where it's practically an art form."

I nod, conceding the point. "Let's go, then."

I keep my pace slow, allowing her to navigate without drawing attention to her difficulty in the oversized boots. As we approach the main entrance, I spot Jack talking with a group of men near the arena railings, the ones I'm supposed to be fixing, I assume.

Jack spots us, waving enthusiastically. "Ethan! Over here!"

I feel Sophia tense beside me but keep my expression neutral as we approach the group. Jack's eyes immediately go to Sophia, curiosity written all over his face.

"Gentlemen, this is my brother Ethan," Jack introduces me to the group. "Best welder in three counties. Ethan, this is Dave Simmons, the rodeo committee chair, and his team."

I shake hands with the men, going through the pleasantries while keeping myself positioned slightly in front of Sophia, as if I can shield her from their curious glances.

"And who's this lovely lady?" Dave asks, eyes lingering on Sophia despite my efforts.

Before I can answer, Jack jumps in. "This must be the mystery woman from yesterday!" he says, grinning widely. "The one who had my big brother all tight-lipped."