In Her Defense

by Spectographer

When her teenage daughter is assaulted by a local football star, single mother Donna Paulsen blackmails prestigious New York attorney Harvey Specter into taking her case by threatening to expose his associate's fraudulent credentials. What begins as a forced partnership evolves into something deeper as Harvey becomes increasingly invested in helping Donna's family heal.

5. Just Boots

Chapter 5: Just Boots

I

Madison wakes to silence. Not the usual morning sounds – no coffee maker gurgling, no NPR murmuring from the kitchen radio, no soft pad of her mother's restless footsteps. Just silence, broken only by the whisper of snow against the windows and the distant clink of dishes from downstairs.

She lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, tracking the familiar cracks that spider across the plaster. The house feels different somehow, as if it's holding its breath. Even the air seems charged, expectant.

When she finally ventures downstairs, the first thing she notices is Tyler at the stove, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he flips pancakes. At thirteen, he's already taller than their mom, all gangly limbs and awkward grace. His dark hair is perpetually tousled, sticking up in unruly curls that Mom is always trying to tame. She watches him from the doorway for a moment, feeling a surge of love and sadness in equal measure. Ty, with his quiet wisdom and unwavering loyalty, has become the backbone of their family over these last few weeks.

"Mom's still sleeping," he says without turning around, as if he can sense her presence. "Checked on her a few minutes ago."

Madison freezes on the bottom step. Their mother doesn't sleep, not really. Not since Dad died, and certainly not since...everything else. She's like a ghost in reverse, haunting the living world with relentless energy, as if staying still might allow the darkness to catch up.

That's when she notices the unfamiliar coat hanging by the door – expensive, black, definitely not Montana wear. A pair of polished leather dress shoes sits neatly beneath it. She spots Eira sprawled in front of the guest room door, tail thumping lazily against the hardwood.

Madison takes a tentative step towards the kitchen. "We have company?"

Tyler glances up, nodding as he slides a pancake onto a plate. "Sir Dick, from his glass castle in New York." A grin quirks the corners of his mouth, betraying a dimple in his left cheek, a gift from their father.

"I'll have you know it's actually a penthouse," comes a dry voice from the hallway. Harvey Specter emerges, looking impossibly put-together despite the early hour. He's even showered, his hair still damp and slicked back. "And the glass is bulletproof. You know, for when the peasants revolt."

"Bold of you to assume we haven't already," Madison says, her voice flat but with an edge of something that might, in another life, have been humor. "Pretty sure this counts as a hostage situation. Eira's very committed to her role as jailer."

Harvey glances down at the massive white dog, who gazes back at him with adoration. "Yes, I noticed. She snored through her entire night shift. Very professional." He bends down, giving Eira a scratch behind her ears. The big Pyr leans into the attention with a contented huff.

Madison watches the interaction, torn between bemusement and suspicion. She can count on one hand the number of times they've had a guest stay overnight. And Harvey Specter, in his crisp button-down and five-thousand dollar coat, hardly seems the impromptu slumber party type. The sight of her family's massive dog rolling belly up for him just feels...odd. Like one of those surreal paintings Tyler likes to draw, where things are almost normal but slightly, disconcertingly skewed. She wonders, not for the first time in recent days, if she might be going insane. The notion is almost comforting; maybe this is all in her head. Maybe she'll blink and the world will right itself.

Or maybe Ethan Carter did leave her a little unhinged. It would be fair, really, after what he took. After how he tore through her life and left his marks all over her body and soul. The thought is sobering, and she shoves it aside, focusing on the bizarre man-dog show playing out before her.

"So," she says, drawing the word out, her tone deceptively casual, "how does a big-shot lawyer from New York end up spending the night on a futon in the Montana boonies?" She's trying for a teasing tone, but the question sounds accusing even to her own ears.

"Long, complicated, epic tale," he says, still petting Eira, who looks like she might die from sheer happiness.

"That's not a plot summary," Tyler calls from the stove. He flips another pancake and gestures towards the dining table. "Sit, Sir Dick, and regale us with the riveting story of your captivity." Madison raises an eyebrow at her little brother, not used to hearing him talk this much with anyone who's not immediate family. Then again, Ty's always been good with strays, both human and animal. It seems even the high-and-mighty Harvey Specter is not immune.

The older man takes a seat at their scuffed table and fixes Madison with a level gaze. She doesn't look away, even though part of her wants to – the same part that wants to flinch every time someone comes too close. The part that is irrevocably bruised.

"Your mom needed some legal assistance last night, and I couldn't drive to Kalispell due to weather, and your lovely abode was the nearest, safest place," he says, the sarcasm laid on thick enough to spread on toast.

Madison's mind whirls. The words make sense, on some surface level, but there's a story he isn't telling. There are gaps between his sentences as obvious as the Grand Canyon, and she knows there's something hiding inside them. Something with teeth. The old Madison, pre-Ethan Carter, might have asked. Might have pried the words from his mouth with relentless badgering and charm. But that girl is gone, snuffed out like a candle, and the current Madison just feels tired.

She glances towards the window above the sink, where snow swirls in furious eddies outside the glass. When she was younger, her father would tell her stories of mountain spirits stirring the winter storms, mischievous sprites dancing in the wind, causing all sorts of mischief. A whimsical explanation for something as mundane as a weather system. It made her feel special, back then – as if nature itself was putting on a show, just for her.

The memory is bittersweet now, tainted by her father's absence and her own brokenness. Now the snow just reminds her of everything that's missing.

"Well," she finally says, tearing her gaze away from the window and turning to Harvey, "I guess we should offer you breakfast, since we're holding you captive and all."

Harvey glances from her to the stove where her brother is working his magic and says wryly, "Does it come with a ransom note?"

Tyler chuckles, and even Madison feels her lips twitch in what might, under a microscope, resemble a smile. It feels foreign on her face, that tiny upward curl of muscles. Alien and fragile. But she doesn't fight it. If anything is certain in this madhouse of a life, it's that you cling to those fragile moments of warmth when they come.

"You'd have to ask the jailer," she says, tilting her head toward the blissfully ignorant dog. "She holds all the cards around here. And incidentally, she has a fondness for bacon."

"Bacon, huh?" Harvey shakes his head. "I had her pegged as a wine-and-cheese kinda gal." His gaze roams over their mismatched mugs, chipped plates, and well-worn table – the relics of a family's life together. For a fleeting second, she wonders what it must look like through his eyes. The Harvey Specters of the world, she's sure, have kitchens with granite and stainless steel and spotless surfaces, devoid of personality or memory. She finds herself oddly, fiercely proud of her mother's homey touches – the quilted oven mitt that matches nothing else, the faded recipe cards from her grandma, the ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like chickens. It all tells a story. One of roots, of belonging, of resilience. Of making a home out of what's left behind.

She watches as Harvey stands and moves to the window, pushing aside the curtain to reveal a world transformed. The snow has buried everything – cars, fences, the old tire swing – under a thick white blanket. The road is completely invisible.

"Where are the plows?" he demands, his New York showing through in every syllable. In response, Eira perks up her ears and wags her tail hopefully. Clearly, the Pyr has an odd fascination with him, which Madison isn't used to. Most men, most people, she's more than happy to keep at a healthy distance, if not ignore completely. But there's something about Harvey that seems to have gotten past her radar. She's not sure whether that means her instincts are broken or if the man's simply that persuasive.

"Welcome to Montana," Tyler says, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. "The plows will get here when they get here. If they get here. Sometimes they don't bother with our road at all. Mom usually ends up digging us out herself with the truck plow. Assuming we can find it under all this." He nods towards the pile of white and then points at Harvey's shoes. "Hope you brought snow boots."

The disbelief etched across the lawyer's face almost makes Madison laugh out loud. Instead, she just offers a wry grin and shakes her head. "Yeah, you're pretty much stuck here. Try not to cause too much trouble, yeah?" With that, she turns to help her brother at the stove.

Harvey stares at them, then at his phone, and then back out the window. He mutters a few curses under his breath, none of them fit for polite company, and Madison finds her lips quirking again at his indignation. She feels Tyler glance sideways at her and catches his unspoken question: What do you think?

She responds with a half-shrug and the subtlest of nods: He's an asshole, but I don't think he'll kill us while our mom is sleeping. Tyler looks doubtful for a moment before rolling his eyes. He plates the pancakes and beckons for them all to sit. Madison watches as Harvey hesitates, clearly torn between the allure of food and his own discomfort in their ramshack kitchen. But the scent of warm pancakes wins in the end.

He takes a bite, his expression skeptical as his jaw works through the mouthful. Suddenly, his face shifts into something else, a flicker of surprise and pleasure. Madison shares an amused glance with Tyler, who grins and gives her their familiar fist-bump of triumph.

"Not bad, eh, Sir Dick?" Tyler says, digging into his own plate. He pours a glug of maple syrup over the stack, making Madison wrinkle her nose.

Harvey raises an eyebrow, mid-bite, and swallows. "I'll allow it to compete with breakfast from a food cart. On a bad day. And if we're grading on a curve." He nods at the window. "You know, taking into account the dire circumstances."

Tyler ducks his head and shoves another forkful into his mouth. He looks pleased and proud and shy all at once. It makes Madison's chest ache. He should have never had to grow up this fast. Should still be carefree, a little boy, unburdened by all this weight. The thought of the things that have been stolen from him – innocence, security, safety – is almost too much to bear. She reaches over to ruffle his hair, earning her an annoyed swat, but it's worth it to see his smile.

They fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the scrape of cutlery and the pad of Eira's feet as she ambles in to nudge a cold nose against each of their hands. Finally, Harvey leans back with a satisfied sigh. He eyes the dog, who is sitting at his side with her best pleading eyes. He shakes his head, his mouth curling in what might be mistaken for a hint of a smile, before grabbing his plate and heading for the sink. The domesticity of the action catches Madison off-guard, but before she can comment, the tell-tale squeak of their staircase announces her mother's appearance. Eira immediately perks up and bolts to meet her halfway up the stairs.

Madison glances up from her orange juice. Harvey has gone rigid by the sink, a dish frozen mid-air between his hand and the rack.

"Morning." Donna's voice drifts into the room ahead of her, sleep-raspy and soft around the edges. There's a beat before she appears in the doorway. Madison can't help but study her mother as she enters. She looks tired, her red hair loose and mussed around her shoulders, but there's something in her eyes – a clarity, maybe – that has been missing since this whole mess began.

"Donna," Harvey says in lieu of greeting. His tone is casual, but Madison detects a subtle shift in his posture, as if his attention has zeroed in on her mother, and nothing else matters. Interesting.

Donna stands there, looking for all the world like she might just disappear back up the stairs, as if her body can't quite decide what to do. Finally, after a small eternity or two, she steps into the kitchen, Eira at her side like the world's fluffiest shadow, her tail swishing. Madison and Ty exchange glances that speak volumes in that silent language of siblings. Things have gotten weird. Good, maybe, but weird nonetheless. Harvey sets down his plate and leans against the counter. "Thanks for the room." The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked half-smirk, and he gestures around him. "Quite the cozy little prison you've built here in the middle of nowhere."

Donna rolls her eyes at that, but there's no heat in it. "I live to please." She pauses in front of him and glances out the window at the snow. Her hand drifts down to Eira's head. "Looks like we're stuck with you for a little longer. Sorry, there's a distinct lack of five-star accommodations."

Harvey crosses his arms. "Yeah, the absence of a spa was the first thing I noticed."

"Well, you're welcome to shovel the walk. A good spa-grade upper body exercise." Her voice is light and almost teasing, a note that hasn't graced their home in months now, maybe years.

Harvey quirks a brow and mirrors her tone, "You're really leaning into the forced labor thing, I see."

"I prefer the term indentured servitude," she responds easily, moving towards the coffee maker. "But I'll give you full creative freedom."

Harvey scoffs, "Right, I'll remember that when we draft my slavery contract." Despite the cynicism that colors every word out of his mouth, he looks... Madison tries to pin it down. Relaxed isn't the word; nothing in his bearing or expression truly indicates that. But he doesn't look like he's one second from bolting. More like he's settled, decided that if he has to be in this ridiculous place, in the middle of nowhere, with a houseful of people that aren't exactly his 'type,' well, he may as well lean into the absurdity of it all.

Madison watches as Harvey's gaze lingers on her mother's figure as she pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to him without asking.

Harvey lifts the mug to his lips, but pauses. He sniffs at it suspiciously, one eyebrow arched.

"Something wrong with the coffee, your majesty?"

"There's...vanilla."

"And?"

"Not a typical morning aroma for Montana, or so I imagined."

"I'll have you know, this is fair trade organic coffee, mixed with the finest Madagascar bourbon vanilla." Her eyes twinkle at that, just a bit, before she takes a sip from her own cup, her stare fixed on Harvey.

He mirrors her movement and drinks, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh after. "Not bad. Almost forgivable."

Donna dips her chin in mock gratitude. "You honor me with your approval. Now if you'll excuse me, I have children to attend to." With that, she moves to take a seat beside Madison and ruffles her hair gently, a gesture as tender as it is familiar. Maddie stiffens for a second, caught off guard. The weight of the world has left so little room for simple, casual touch between them. When did that become such a rare commodity?

"How was the hostage's breakfast?" Donna asks, leaning in closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

Tyler answers before Maddie can, his enthusiasm overriding his wariness. "Sir Dick is quite the pancake enthusiast. Turns out, he's not all that hard to please," he says, earning a chuckle from their mother. The sound is foreign yet so welcome, like sunshine breaking through the clouds. It doesn't quite reach her eyes though. The exhaustion lingers there, etched into the fine lines and dark circles that have taken up permanent residence over the past months. But she's present, in the moment, not trapped in some endless mental loop of grief and worry. For that alone, the unexpected intrusion of Harvey Specter into their kitchen suddenly seems like a reasonable price to pay.

Madison watches Harvey, his attention focused on his mug as he listens in silence, his fingers absentmindedly carding through Eira's fur, as if the act has become subconscious. She can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing each interaction and cataloguing their family's idiosyncrasies like pieces of evidence. Probably mentally drafting their subpoena already.

She can't decide if it's comforting or unnerving to know he could ruin them all before lunch. He could take their farm, their livelihood, their only refuge from a world that seems dead set on grinding their family into dust, with a flick of his pen. He's a grenade, a ticking bomb, in their home. Her mother thinks she has him on a leash, but Madison is not convinced. Harvey Specter might be many things, but submissive is not one of them. He's here because he wants to be. For the thrill, the game, his own sick curiosity? Maybe all of those. But the longer he stays, the more Madison is sure that his story will intersect with their own tragedy. And when the dust settles, there's no guarantee their hearts and dreams will be spared. The only certainty is that nothing in this house will ever be the same.

II

Donna stands at the kitchen window, steam from her coffee cup fogging the glass as she watches Harvey attack the snow that's swallowed their driveway. His form is barely discernible through the swirling white, a shadow amidst the flurry. He's been at it for a solid twenty minutes now, his strokes fierce and determined, as if he were sparring with the weather itself.

A slight huff behind her signals Eira's approach. The giant dog nudges her arm with a wet snout, as if to confirm her owner is truly seeing the insanity happening in their front yard.

"He's from New York," Donna says as a means of explanation, stroking the dog's head. Eira simply blinks back, unconvinced that city living justifies what appears to be an act of madness unfolding in front of their eyes.

She sighs, taking another sip from her cup, her gaze never leaving the spectacle. There's something about his tenacity she can't seem to look away from – that force of will pushing him forward, challenging the mountain itself. A flicker of memory crosses her mind, of Nate tackling the very same driveway in an identical fashion, cursing all the while but never stopping, never admitting defeat to the whims of nature. She'd teased him mercilessly then, telling him he'd better grow gills if he thought the storm would yield to a lone shovel and an Irish temper.

She blinks and Nate is gone. Her vision now clears to show Harvey in sharp contrast. The similarities end at their shared stubborn streak. Nate was warmth and humor, his grumbling laced with affection. This man...she shakes her head, at a loss to describe him. What drives a New York attorney to wade into a fight that has nothing to do with him? It certainly isn't the reward; her family's livelihood teetering on the brink doesn't offer much in terms of professional gain. There's no accolade to claim, no grand ceremony waiting for the one who rights all their wrongs. Even the blackmail angle rings false.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost doesn't hear the creak of a floorboard behind her.

"He's gonna freeze his balls off out there," comes Tyler's dry observation. The kid might be barely topping 5'9", all limbs and big hazel eyes, but his deadpan delivery has more than a little of Nate in it. It tugs at her heart, not for the first time. They all carry echoes of the man; Maddie's fiery spirit, Ty's humor. Even their damn dog picked up his loyalty.

"That's a sacrifice I think we'll all survive," she murmurs back, not looking away from where Harvey has begun carving out a trench towards the barn.

A pause, then: "Should I help him?"

At that Donna does turn, meeting his inquisitive gaze. Her instinct is a flat 'No.' Harvey's crusade against Mother Nature has nothing to do with her kids and everything to do with some personal demon that drives him. Her job as a parent is to protect her children, not to enable grown-ass men throwing their weight around out of...what exactly? Some need to exert control where there is none to be had?

Yet, the thought of Harvey alone, his fine shoes sinking into the icy depths with every step, triggers a flare of empathy in her. She pictures Nate again, shoulders hunched, refusing to come in from the storm without a victory under his belt.

"Take him a Thermos of coffee, at least," she concedes. "But no shoveling."

Tyler's expression is hard to parse: part confusion, part relief, and a good measure of that ever-present weariness they've all come to share.

He moves to fill their old battered thermos – the very one that used to accompany Nate on his own snowy odysseys. The familiar weight of it rests heavily in Tyler's hand. She doesn't miss how he lingers on it for just a fraction of a second, tracing its dents and scrapes. She's tempted to tell him to use the new one from the back of the cupboard, spare him from the flood of memories she sees threatening to spill over his walls, but stops short. If there's one thing she's learned through all this grief, it's that avoiding the pain doesn't dull its edge. All that does is widen its berth. Better to walk the minefield, to confront the hurt on your terms.

As Tyler makes to leave, his footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards, she lays a hand on his arm. "Hey," she begins, but words fail her. Comfort has never come easy. Instead, she pulls him in for a hug – awkward, stiff at first, then melting into mutual exhaustion. Eira paws at their legs, and Ty bends to ruffle the fur around her ears. He leaves without another word. Donna isn't sure any more were needed.

Donna's eyes find Harvey once more, now with Ty's silhouette beside his. The kid hands off the flask, their exchange too far away to hear or comprehend. Then he's grabbing a damn shovel. Donna feels a smile tease her mouth despite her exasperation. Another thing Nate left him: an innate ability to get himself roped into grunt work with all the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever with a brand-new stick to chew.

They work together, an unlikely tandem. Ty, with his lanky frame and youthful energy, moves in long sweeps and strides, making up for his lack of bulk with sheer tenacity. Beside him, Harvey's movements are sharper, more deliberate. They weave around each other in a strange harmony. She almost feels guilty watching them like this – two males from wildly different worlds, bound by some unseen thread. And, of course, her own hand in forcing that connection.

As they move down the length of the drive, it strikes Donna how mismatched Harvey is against the unforgiving Montana backdrop. He's dressed for success, not for snowdrifts. Even Ty's hand-me-down thermal is better equipped to handle this climate.

With that thought, Donna's feet find their own path upstairs, to the back of a dark closet where memories sleep under blankets of dust and denial. The smell greets her first. Wood shavings. Oil from a disassembled motor. All the tiny fragments of life that made her husband whole.

Nate's boots are there, where she last threw them. Angry tears blurring her vision as her hands hurled anything within reach at an invisible target – a system, a decision, a destiny that had dared snatch her happiness away. Six years gone and they look untouched, waiting for him to slip his feet back into the well-worn grooves.

She remembers his smile as she'd presented him the boots – a simple, practical gift on his 32th birthday. Nothing to write home about. But those big, gentle hands had gripped her face, and that lopsided grin widened. He'd pulled her in close, planting the kind of kiss you read about in novels, his scruffy beard scratching against her chin, while a hand sneakily slid south to grope her ass in that playful way of his.

"Just what I needed, baby."

His words still resonate clear, like it was just yesterday. But yesterday has slipped into last month, and that into last year, until they've piled on top of one another, burying his voice under a landslide of forgotten tomorrows. She can still recall the rough feel of his palms, calluses scraping over her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She traces those sensations along the boots' laces now, her eyes burning at their echo. His boots. Her loss. There's so much life left in these threads. So much more they could bear witness to. She can't leave them here, mementos of what once was, collecting mothballs and melancholy. They deserve better.

Eira nudges her arm, pulling her out of her reverie. Her brown eyes stare up, a question there: 'You're taking too long.' She strokes the fur of Eira's cheek.

"You're right. It's just shoes."

And it's just clothes, just memories. They can't fill the holes left behind; can't laugh at Ty's dry wit, or hug Maddie tight when the world becomes too sharp, or make Donna see herself as something other than a fractured shell desperately holding all these pieces together.

Eira barks and paces in front of her. There's a glint to her eyes now, something Donna almost dares to call impatience. Her big, lumbering nanny-dog wants to go outside and join the fun. Donna chuckles and gets to her feet. It's settled. The shoes deserve another adventure, one filled with purpose, not stagnancy.

"What are you doing?"

Madison's voice startles her. Donna turns to find her daughter in the doorway, arms crossed, expression wary. When did she stop seeing a teenage girl and start seeing a woman, hardened by experience beyond her years?

"Maddie..." she begins, then stops. Where to go from here? With Nate, everything was straightforward: love, protect, provide. She'd wrap him up in his scarf before a cold day, pack an extra snack in his lunch pail – small ways to show her care for that towering mountain of a man. And Tyler – well, he'd always been an open book, emotions scrawled across every page in bold.

But Maddie's needs have never been as clear. She has never been content to simply be looked after. Her fire burns too brightly. Her desire to confront has always pushed back against Donna's instinct to shield and safeguard. She is the embodiment of all that has eluded her: a ferocity that doesn't yield to circumstance. And now that fire is being choked, smothered, dampened. Her daughter's soul is a dying flame, flickering weakly beneath an icy wind. She wants desperately to warm her again.

She gestures towards the boots. "I thought I could..." Donna hesitates, her gaze returning to her daughter. She's bristling in the threshold, her stance rigid. Eira, sensing the shift in the air, retreats behind her legs. She's never quite understood how to mediate between mother and child. Donna sighs.

The truth is Donna isn't entirely sure what she intends. Giving away Nate's belongings feels monumental, irreversible – a step into unfamiliar terrain.

Yet, she knows she can't go back. The ghosts are following too closely for her to risk staying put, waiting to be swallowed. There must be motion. Progress. Escape.

"I know it's difficult," she continues. "But Harvey needs boots and these serve no purpose sitting here unused. It makes sense."

Madison is quiet. Too quiet. Her stillness is unnatural for someone normally bursting at the seams. Then, softly: "No."

"Mads..."

"Those are Dad's boots."

"And Dad would want them to—"

"What, be trampled by a lawyer?" she cuts in. Her tone is sharper now. "He'd say that man doesn't have a lick of damn sense, wandering out there with his fancy loafers like this is some kind of catwalk."

Her mimicry is flawless. It's been months since she's done this – slipping into Nate's cadence and drawl, a perfect imitation down to the mischievous smile she can't help afterward.

Donna bites her lip. Madison's eyes glisten. For a moment, neither of them speak, lost in memories that refuse to die no matter how many doors Donna tries to close them behind. The silence stretches.

Finally: "It's time we stop living in the past. That's not what he'd have wanted."

Maddie shakes her head. "It's disrespectful. They were his."

The anger has ebbed away now. She seems small again, standing there in her old flannel.

Donna sighs, walking towards her. "There's a man out there that's here to help us, Madison. A man I can't afford to pay, helping our family. I can't let that go without gratitude. Your father, wherever his soul rests now, wouldn't let that stand, regardless of Harvey's stupid loafers. He would be the first one out there, passing over these boots."

"He's only here because you forced him."

Donna thinks about the gun in Harvey's pocket, about the way he'd talked her down from the edge of something unforgivable. About how he'd followed her home instead of leaving her alone with her demons. About his fingers brushing over Eira's head, and how his face softens despite himself. Little things, incongruent with the persona he presents.

"You really think that's true?"

Their eyes lock. Donna reads her daughter like a favorite book she's poured over thousands of times before, and still finds herself surprised by what lies beneath the cover. There's doubt there, an uneasiness, an inkling of curiosity. She's smart; too intuitive to be taken in by half-truths or comforting lies. Her walls may be high, but the mind within them remains sharp as ever.

When she responds, it's almost too quiet to catch. "No."

"Neither do I." A pause hangs, then she ventures: "He's here to help. Maybe to help himself, too – I don't know, he's a strange man. But if we close ourselves off from any hand reaching in..." Donna trails off, her gaze dropping. She sees Maddie nod from the corner of her eye. She gets it. The need for self-reliance, but the futility of isolation. She'd make Nate proud.

Donna offers the ghost of a smile. "Then I guess I'm off to give Mr. Harvey Specter from New York the best pair of feet on this side of the Rockies."

The tension diffuses. Maddie's mouth curls, almost imperceptibly, at her joke. "Try not to break his pretty toes." Her eyes still hold too many questions, too many unvoiced worries. But for now, she acquiesces. It's as much a victory as Donna can hope to achieve.

She gathers the boots up, holding onto their bulk with something akin to reverence. Nate had been so much larger than life that handling pieces of him – remnants of a physicality that was once as solid and imposing as these mountains – brings back that intimidating scale.

With Madison retreating, and Eira back to circling her heels, she makes her way to the front porch.

Sometimes moving forward means letting go, she tells herself, even when it hurts. Even when every step feels like betrayal. Nate would understand that. He would tell her, in his easy going way, 'They're just boots, baby. They'll do a man better in use than sitting pretty in the dust.'

Yes, she can imagine him saying that. Just boots.

III

As the sky clears above the farmhouse, so, too, do the roads. The plows that couldn't find the Paulsen household only hours before have finally arrived.

Harvey steps back, wiping his damp brow with his forearm and breathing heavy, uneven breaths. The snow still lays in heaps around the driveway, but the pathway is nearly cleared to where it meets the cars. At his side, a boy, hardly a teenager, works tirelessly, matching each of the attorney's movements with twice the effort.

"You sure you don't want to be a professional snow-shoveler? I hear it's a booming career choice out here," Harvey quips, leaning on his tool. A bead of sweat runs down his back despite the freezing temperature. He hadn't signed up for any of this, but then again, there hasn't been a thing about his recent journey that he's actually prepared himself for.

Tyler wipes his nose on his sleeve, leaving a streak of mud against his freckles. "I'm good," he says, a twinkle of mirth in his hazel eyes. They are a reflection of his mother's, a deep forest-green mixed with specks of warm amber. They remind Harvey of sunlight streaming through tree canopies. "I've got bigger dreams than being elbow deep in ice."

"Really? Do tell."

"I wanna be an engineer," Ty replies, without missing a beat, like it's something he's wanted all his life, not questioned or wavered. Harvey, at that age, hadn't known what the hell he was going to eat that night for dinner, let alone his life's dream. Yet here is Tyler, who has experienced a life's worth of tragedy already, and still stands tall and hopeful, the world's potential at his feet. Harvey admires him. Pities him, too.

"What kind of engineering?" Harvey asks.

"Aerospace. I love space." His cheeks redden ever so slightly with the sheepish admission.

"Aerospace. Ambitious."

"You gotta think big, right?" Ty swings the shovel into another pile, sending it flying. "Besides, it's all just physics and chemistry and math. That stuff comes easy to me. Just make sense of it, write the equations, solve the problem, get it right." There is a wistful quality to the way he explains, a longing. "I wanna build a rocket. I wanna go to Mars. There's so much to discover. So many questions we don't know yet. Out there is just..." He glances towards Harvey. "...a lot simpler than this stuff down here."

Harvey's heart clenches uncomfortably. He remembers that desperate feeling of wanting to run away, of leaving something broken behind you, without ever looking back. Hell, in a lot of ways he's still running. From a family, from his home, from the wreckage of every ill-fated attempt to settle down. Running and running, never slowing long enough to examine what lies beneath the adrenaline of flight.

"What does your mother think about that?" Harvey prompts.

Tyler frowns at the mention of Donna. He turns back toward the work, avoiding Harvey's eyes. "I'm taking her with me, wherever I go. Maddie, too. We need to stick together. Especially after—" His breath catches. He won't finish that sentence. He doesn't have to. Tyler shoves his blade into the snow hard, suddenly stern and serious, the boy vanishing in an instant. "I wouldn't leave them behind. Ever."

"I never suggested—" Harvey begins to say before he is cut off by the bang of the front door and the call of a voice from the porch. They look over and see Donna, her red hair glowing against the gray sky as she marches out to the yard, boots in hand. Tyler watches her come down, shovel poised in mid-air.

Donna's expression is strange. It shifts between determination, doubt, and an unexpected tenderness. Harvey feels that same clench in his chest again when her eyes find his. "Harvey..." she says, extending the boots in offering. She seems almost shy, which doesn't fit at all.

"Here," she says. "Take these." His confusion must read across his face, because she continues. "For your feet. I won't have a lawyer in my house losing a toe to frostbite." He stares at the boots. They look old and sturdy, worn from their previous use, but cared for. Love radiates from them, in every crease of the leather. Love and memory. These aren't any old shoes. They carry a history and a significance that Harvey doesn't want to take on.

He doesn't move.

Donna takes a few more steps toward him and thrusts them at Harvey. She stands at the center of the shoveled pathway, snowflakes melting in her hair. "Please, just..." she sighs and looks around, her face softening when her eyes fall on Tyler and the path they've made, as if seeing the future. An avenue, unblocked and unburdened. A chance to heal, for the landscape around her to change. Harvey wonders where he factors in. He's been brought into their life without any real consent or understanding. Yet, he remains. A roadblock, an open field. Who the fuck knows.

"Look," she finally says, and Harvey drags himself back from his own musings to the here and now. Her eyes hold his. Green on brown, a battle of color and emotion. He can see the tired lines on her skin, the worry and hurt that weigh her down. But beneath all that, she looks fierce and determined, like she is ready to take on the world. He wonders what he looks like through those forest eyes, and then shakes himself from that question. He doesn't care what she or anyone else thinks of him.

"I know you don't have a pair, and you can't very well continue on in those." She gestures at his leather loafers, already wet and ruined. "You won't last long around here without protection from the elements, and I..." Donna pauses, her gaze flickering, like the fire within her is trying to jump to another branch. "You need these. Trust me." She extends her arms, pushing the boots against his chest. She's so close now, so earnest and insistent that he has no choice but to take them, the laces hanging heavily between his fingers.

Tyler watches from behind the wall of snow that has accumulated, an unreadable expression on his face. He clearly has an opinion, but he doesn't voice it. He shifts awkwardly and bites his lip. Donna seems to catch the gesture. She places a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and gives him a kiss on top of his head, whispering something Harvey can't hear. The boy nods in reply. She smiles at him and picks up her own shovel to start on the path.

Harvey, not wanting to make his change of shoes a scene, excuses himself to the front porch. He leans against a railing, peels his dress shoes away from his frozen feet, and tugs on Donna's husband's boots. The weight of them feels strange, too heavy.

Nathan Paulsen was a bigger man than Harvey. His presence here was one that was strong and large, and Harvey can feel that legacy press into him now as he laces up the borrowed pair. It's almost suffocating, the feeling of wearing a dead man's shoes, of carrying around a ghost on your ankles, but there's an honor in it that Harvey doesn't take lightly.

He picks back up his shovel, ready to continue working when another presence slips up to him. Eira has bounded out from the warm indoors and onto the porch beside Harvey. Her nose goes down to sniff at Harvey's boots. She blinks up at the man and tilts her head to the side curiously.

"New shoes. You like them?" he asks the dog. Eira presses her snout against Harvey's palm, nudging his hand, and lets him pat her head before taking off across the yard. Her feet leap, flying her in great, big steps over the drifts until she skids, ungracefully, up to the Paulsen pair.

Harvey follows after her and falls back into rhythm. Tyler digs in his corner while Donna works through hers, and Harvey takes up the section in-between. They form an effective, silent assembly line, moving with an ease and precision one would think they'd practiced a hundred times before.

A slam from the front door. A pair of new boots thump against the steps. A red jacket passes in his peripheral.

"Hey," a soft voice speaks. He glances up to find Madison approaching the group, her shovel in-hand. Harvey's gaze flashes back towards Donna. Her mother watches the girl come down, her body rigid as if braced for confrontation, but there is none. Instead, Madison takes to working alongside Tyler, silently at first, and then with light banter that makes the boy grin. Harvey catches Donna's sigh of relief and the soft smile that follows, but when her eyes flit back to meet his, he's already looking the other way, digging into a fresh drift.

He can feel her gaze though, sharp and searching, boring a hole into his shoulder as if she is trying to peel him apart and dig through the inner workings of his soul. He doesn't look up. Doesn't dare glance at the boots, nor at Donna or Tyler or Maddie. If he focuses hard on each stab into the ice, each lift of a heavy shovel, he can pretend his only job here is to free his rental car of snow, deliver a couple of subpoenas, and then get the fuck on out of dodge, back to his penthouse apartment in the sky and his office and the fast lane where nothing can keep him in place for long. No time for emotions. No room for baggage.

A body sidles up close to his. Donna. She's at his side now, shoveling beside him, like there isn't the length of a football field for her to go pick at instead.

"How are the boots? Fit well?"

"I haven't gotten a blister yet." His voice comes out gruffer and shorter than he intended.

Donna seems to notice. "Sorry for forcing them on you," she says with an air of caution, like she is feeling her way through the room in the pitch black. "I just thought..."

"No, it's good," Harvey replies quickly. He stops shoveling and glances over, catching her gaze. A strand of auburn hair blows into her eyes. Her cheeks glow pink, either from the exertion of labor or the crisp cold, Harvey isn't sure. He suddenly doesn't know how to stand in his body, how to breathe properly and function normally. This is ridiculous. She is ridiculous. All of this, him shoveling snow in some stranger's driveway while she stands there, doe-eyed and concerned, and—

A distant rumble, a purr that crescendos to a thundering roar as two bright headlights cut across the trees, turning down the driveway. The group freezes.

Harvey looks up just as a massive red pickup truck crests the hill, a yellow snowplow mounted on its front like some sort of medieval battlement. The vehicle fishtails slightly as it navigates the slick road, finally coming to a theatrical stop at the end of their freshly cleared pathway.

The passenger window rolls down to reveal Mike's grinning face. "Well, well, well," he calls out, clearly delighting in the scene before him. "Harvey Specter shoveling snow? Do my eyes deceive me or have I walked into an alternate dimension?"

Before Harvey can respond, the driver's door swings open with dramatic flair. Out steps a man who can only be described as a fever dream of Western fashion gone horribly wrong.

He's wearing cowboy boots, at least three different types of fur (that Harvey can count) and a ten-gallon hat. There's fringe and rattlesnake skin, an alarming shade of purple, and a bolo tie to tie it all together. The pièce de résistance however, has to be the fact that, against all logic and common sense, his jacket hangs unzipped and his chest – an unimpressive patch of hair included – is exposed to the elements.

"Oh lord," Donna breathes out beside Harvey, a mixture of amusement, disbelief and fondness playing on her face. He can't tell if she wants to laugh or bury herself in the nearest snowdrift. Maybe both.

The eccentric cowboy tips his hat towards Donna in a grandiose gesture that somehow seems more performative than sincere. Donna responds with an equally dramatic curtsy that she almost manages to execute with a straight face.

The man turns to Harvey, and with a grin, spreads his arms out wide. "Louis Litt. Attorney at law, three-time regional dressage champion, and..." he pauses for dramatic effect, "...your new co-counsel. Welcome to Montana." Before Harvey can reply or even process the onslaught of words that just left Louis's mouth, he's enveloped in an enormous, suffocating hug.

As they're crushed together, the fringe from Louis's...jacket? Vest? It's definitely some sort of animal fur and fringe combo...tickles Harvey's nose, and the scent of leather and what might be hay surrounds him. He catches sight of Donna and Tyler who both wear near identical expressions of amused bewilderment. Even Madison, with all of her apathy and disaffected demeanor, watches with something akin to morbid curiosity in her eyes.

Over Louis's shoulder, Harvey spies Mike, who looks like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, clearly savoring the spectacle unfolding.

"Louis," Donna says slowly, as though speaking to an excited child, "let Mr. Specter breathe."

Louis immediately releases his death grip, but the gleeful smile remains plastered across his face. "Right, sorry, got carried away." He takes a step back and claps his hand together. "So, where do we begin?"

Harvey shuts his eyes for a moment, hoping that when he reopens them, this living caricature of a human will have magically vanished. No such luck. Louis continues to beam at him with unabashed enthusiasm.

Mike exits the truck, strolling over to the motley crew. His shit-eating grin stretches from ear to ear. "You look like you're having the time of your life, Harvey," he teases, clapping a hand onto Harvey's shoulder.

"You," Harvey says, jabbing a finger into Mike's chest, "have exactly ten seconds to tell me what the hell is going on and why I've apparently fallen into some kind of acid trip featuring the cast of 'Brokeback Mountain' before I—"

"Easy there, New York," Donna interrupts. She steps closer, and as Harvey looks down into those inscrutable hazel eyes, his anger evaporates.

"Let's not get off on the wrong boot, okay?"

Her hand gently settles on his arm, her fingers lightly squeezing. Her touch radiates a warmth that seems incongruous with the frigid air, a gesture as complex as the woman before him, an entanglement of soft and sharp.

"Harvey, this is Louis. I know he seems a bit..."

"Exuberant," Mike offers.

"Off-the-wagon," mutters Madison, folding her arms.

"Idiosyncratic," says Tyler.

"A character," finishes Donna.

"An ass," Harvey grumbles under his breath.

"But beneath his flamboyant exterior, he's a good attorney," Donna says, meeting Harvey's gaze. The earnestness in her tone is almost disarming, and Harvey has a feeling she's not one to give empty praise.

Harvey exhales deeply, weighing her words. Then he casts his glance back over to Mike, still smirking, and to Louis who is now petting Eira's fur like he's about to burst into a rendition of "Raindrops on Roses."

He shakes his head and refocuses on Donna. "If you insist," he relents.

"I do." A subtle nod seals their understanding. An accord is reached. She pulls her hand away from him. His skin misses its heat.