Chapter 29
twenty-nine
The howling continued as Ghost stepped out of the house and replaced his hat on his head.
He crossed the driveway, passed the bunkhouse and the firepit, and found the guys all leaning against the fence of the agility yard.
Inside, X and his new husky, Kavik, were howling in unison, a discordant symphony that made Ghost’s teeth ache.
The sound echoed across the ranch yard, probably scaring half the wildlife in a five-mile radius.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, wincing as X hit a particularly off-key note that the husky matched with enthusiasm. “Is that supposed to be bonding?”
“They’re already speaking the same language,” Jonah observed.
Jax leaned against the fence, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Echo sat at his feet, watching the newcomers with a tilted head. “They’re going to drive everyone insane within a week.”
“We need to invest in earplugs,” Anson muttered.
Bear grumbled an agreement.
Ghost’s gaze drifted to River, who was on his knees in the muddy training yard, waving a tennis ball in front of a golden retriever with the attention span of a gnat. The dog stared at the ball with mild interest before flopping onto his back, tongue lolling out as he pawed at his own face.
River threw the ball. The dog watched it bounce and roll to a stop, then yawned widely.
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to fetch?” Jonah suggested.
River jogged over, retrieved the ball, and demonstrated with exaggerated movements. “See, buddy? You’re supposed to go get it and bring it back.” He tossed the ball gently. “C’mon, Goose. It’s easy. Just grab it and bring it back.”
Goose rolled in the dirt, completely ignoring the ball in favor of chewing on his own paw.
“Good boy!” River praised as if the dog had performed some miraculous feat instead of failing spectacularly at the most basic retriever task.
Ghost snorted. “That dog is useless.”
“Maybe at fetching,” Jonah said. “But I don’t think River cares.”
“He should. Retrievers are supposed to retrieve.”
“Look at his face,” Jax said quietly.
Ghost did. River was beaming at the golden retriever like the animal had hung the moon, his usual cynical edge completely dissolved by the simple joy of watching his new dog be an absolute disaster.
“He already loves that dog exactly as he is,” Jax continued. “Doesn’t need him to be useful. Just needs him to be Goose.”
Something pulled tight in Ghost’s chest as he watched the pairs form their bonds—one instantaneous and built on mutual skill, the other immediate but founded on simple acceptance.
He glanced around, searching for his dog.
He’d seen her follow him from the Hub, but now she was nowhere to be seen.
She rarely joined the group activities, preferring the shadows, just like him.
Was that his fault? Had he somehow taught her to keep her distance, the way he kept his?
Across the paddock, River had abandoned the ball and was now sprawled in the grass beside Goose, scratching the dog’s ears.
“Looks like those assignments are going to stick,” Jonah said, hopping down from the fence. “I’d better get back to Trapper. Anson, you need help with that rear shoe?”
Ghost stayed at the fence as the men dispersed. His mind drifted to Naomi. To the careful distance he maintained even when they were alone together. To the way she watched him sometimes, waiting for a door to open that he kept firmly locked.
Jax was still beside him, pocket knife in hand, shaving careful curls from a piece of pine.
His hands moved with the confidence of someone who’d found his purpose, his place.
Ghost had seen him before Nessie and Oliver, and now—the way his hard edges softened around them, the way he let the boy climb on his back like a jungle gym—it seemed impossible that this was the same man who’d once held a knife to a woman’s throat, driven by demons and drugs and despair.
The question formed in Ghost’s mind, dangerous and far too revealing. He shouldn’t ask it. Shouldn’t need to know. And yet—
“How’d you do it?”
Jax didn’t look up from the wood taking shape in his hands. “Do what?”
Ghost hesitated, then crossed his arms over his chest. The movement bought him time, allowed him to arrange the words in his head. To make them sound clinical rather than desperate.
“Let them in,” he said finally. “Nessie. The kid.” He paused, the words difficult to form. “How’d you stop expecting it to blow up in your face?”
Now Jax looked over at him. His eyes held none of the judgment Ghost had braced for, only a weary understanding. He didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “You think I stopped?”
Ghost frowned, his brow furrowing. The answer wasn’t what he’d expected. Jax had seemed so certain with Nessie, so steady with Oliver. As if he knew exactly what he was doing, as if he’d conquered whatever darkness had once driven him.
Jax turned back to his whittling, the blade moving in smooth, practiced strokes.
“Every day I wake up waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Nessie to look at me and realize I’m not who she thought.
For Oliver to get scared and pull away.” He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a resigned gesture.
“But I love them anyway. Even if it hurts.”
Ghost considered this. It wasn’t the answer he wanted—wasn’t a formula, a series of steps he could follow to banish the fear that sat like a stone in his gut whenever he thought about letting Naomi closer.
“That doesn’t sound sustainable,” Ghost said, the words clipped.
Jax gave him a sidelong glance. “Maybe not. But what’s the alternative? Push them away? Hurt them first so they can’t hurt you?” He paused in his carving, turning to face Ghost fully. “Trust me, I tried that. It doesn’t work.”
Ghost knew what Jax meant. He’d read the man’s file, knew about his spiral, his crime, the years he’d spent locked away. The price he’d paid for letting the darkness win.
“Nessie knows what I did,” Jax continued, his voice even. “She knows exactly who I was. And somehow, she still chooses to see who I am now.” He resumed whittling, wood shavings falling like snow at his feet. “I don’t deserve it. But I’m done fighting it.”
“And if it ends badly?”
“Then it ends badly.” Jax met his gaze steadily. “But every morning I get to wake up next to her is worth whatever comes after.”
Ghost looked away, his jaw tight. It sounded like madness to him—willingly walking into potential destruction, eyes wide open. The risk assessment didn’t compute. The cost-benefit analysis failed.
“I’m not like you.”
“Thank God for that,” Jax replied. “The world doesn’t need two of me.”
Ghost stared at the agility yard. He didn’t have a response for Jax, at least not one that would make sense if he said it out loud. Jax was right about one thing—Ghost wasn’t like him. Ghost was something else entirely, something carved from darker stone.
River had given up on teaching Goose to fetch and was now lying flat on his back in the mud, the golden retriever’s head resting on his stomach. The dog’s tail thumped lazily against the ground, his entire body radiating contentment despite his complete failure at the most basic retriever skill.
Ghost watched them, something uneasy shifting beneath his ribs. River didn’t care that his dog couldn’t perform. He wasn’t measuring Goose’s worth by his utility, wasn’t tallying skills against deficits. He simply... accepted. Loved. Without condition.
The concept felt foreign, dangerous. Ghost had spent his entire life measuring his own value by what he could do, by how useful he could make himself. To the military. To his handlers. To the operation. Performance was safety. Utility was survival.
And now here was River—chaotic, self-destructive River—showing him another way without even trying.
“She knows what I did,” Ghost said, the words slipping out before he could catch them. “But she doesn’t know who I am.”
Jax set down the piece of wood, his movements unhurried. “Have you given her the chance to find out?”
Ghost’s jaw tightened. No. He hadn’t. He’d kept Naomi at arm’s length even when he’d pulled her from that clearing, even when he’d held her through the nightmares that followed. Physical proximity without emotional access. It was safer that way. Safer for her. Maybe for him, too.
“Some things aren’t meant to be shared,” he said finally.
Jax nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. “That’s what I told myself, too. Turns out, I was wrong.”
Ghost didn’t respond. He watched the wood shavings scattered at Jax’s feet, pale curls against dark earth. Something taking shape through patience and careful removal of what wasn’t needed.
“You know what’s funny?” Jax said, folding his knife and tucking both it and the carved piece into his pocket.
“When I first got here, I thought you were some kind of machine. No emotions, no attachments, nothing but ice and efficiency.” He paused, watching X and Kavik’s continued howling with a slight shake of his head.
“Took me a while to see that wasn’t true. ”
“Maybe you were right the first time,” Ghost said, his voice flat.
Jax snorted. “Sure. That’s why you’re standing here asking me how I let Nessie in. Because you’re a machine with no feelings.”
Before Ghost could respond, Jax clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him alone at the fence with his thoughts and the unwelcome feeling of being torn open.
Cinder materialized at his side, her black coat gleaming in the late afternoon light. She pressed against his leg, a rare public display of affection that told him she sensed his unease. He dropped his hand to her head, running his fingers through her silky fur.
“What do you think?” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. “Am I overthinking this?”
Cinder huffed, as if the answer were obvious.
River laughed as Goose rolled onto his back, paws in the air, utterly content in his uselessness.
The sound carried across the paddock, genuine and unfettered.
The golden retriever would never be a working dog, would never track suspects, guard property, or herd sheep.
But he made River laugh, and maybe that was purpose enough.
Ghost pushed away from the fence. He had some thinking to do.