21. Walker
Chapter 21
Walker
R ed and I clean up the bar in record time, moving together like a well-oiled machine. We work in sync without even thinking about it—passing each other bottles, wiping down the counters, stacking chairs. It’s easy. Natural. Like we’ve been doing this forever.
Bringing her in to cover for Cash? One of my better decisions.
Even if it’s costing me.
Because working this close to her, spending hours in her orbit, watching the way she moves, the way she laughs, the way she fits into this place like she’s always belonged?—
It’s getting harder to ignore what’s happening between us. What’s been happening from the second she walked into my life, no matter how I try to fight it.
And then, I do things I have no business doing. Like getting involved in something I should’ve stayed the hell out of. But when I saw the look on her face when she dropped to her knees and clutched that damn dog like he was the last piece of home she’d ever had…
It was worth it .
On the way home, the road stretches dark and quiet ahead of us, the only sound the soft hum of the truck’s tires against the pavement. The stars are bright over Bridger Falls, but I focus on the yellow lines flashing beneath my headlights.
Violet is next to me, silent for once, her fingers tangled in Rip’s fur as he stretches across the seat between us, his tail giving the occasional lazy thump when she pets him. He seems like a good dog. Mack and Maggie liked him. And I didn’t miss the looks Violet kept trying to give me. She’s been sneaking glances at me since we pulled away from the bar. I can feel it.
And I know what’s coming.
“How did you do this?” she asks, her voice soft but insistent. “Just please tell me, Walker. How do you know Will Maren?”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, my jaw already clenching. I knew this conversation was coming, but that doesn’t mean I want to have it.
“Just leave it, Violet.”
She huffs out a breath, not letting it go. “No,” she presses, shifting to face me fully. “You—” she pauses, shaking her head like she doesn’t even know where to start. “You play guitar like a damn pro. You know famous people in Nashville. You own a guitar that most musicians would kill for, and you just—” she gestures toward me, frustration laced in her voice, “— gave it to me. Who the hell are you, Walker?”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “Just stop. Please.”
She stares at me. But I don’t say anything else. Because there’s nothing to say. And so much to say. So much that I won’t say. Opening up to her is something I can’t undo if it doesn’t go well. I’m nervous as hell to tell her the truth.
She sighs, leaning back against the seat, her fingers absentmindedly scratching behind Rip’s ears.
“I used to think,” she murmurs, staring out the window, “ that when I made it, when I got a record deal, everything would fall into place.”
I glance over at her. Something about her tone pulls me in.
“I had this dream, you know?” she continues, her voice distant. “Of writing music, that meant something. Of playing on stage and feeling free.”
Her laugh is bitter.
“And then I signed with a record label that made my life hell. It was called Royce Records.”
My stomach drops. Just hearing this from her lips sets me on edge. My hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
I say nothing. Mostly, because I can’t say anything. I’m frozen by her words.
She swallows hard, still not looking at me. “Anyway, I had a best friend back in Nashville who is also in the music industry,” she says, voice tight. “We did everything together. Wrote together, played together. I trusted her with everything. She was like a mentor to me. I actually thought she was helping me. It turns out that she was just getting me to write a bunch of songs that she could steal from me.”
My heart clenches at the pain and betrayal in her voice.
“She was toxic,” Violet says flatly, like she’s learned to make peace with the words, but I know better. “Took my songs, except I wrote them. Every damn lyric. Every chord. She just put her name on them, recorded them, made them into an album.”
My chest burns, rage curling in my gut.
Violet’s voice is quieter now. Rough around the edges.
“And when I called her on it when I told her she knew damn well those songs weren’t hers?” A humorless laugh slips from her lips. “She told me if I said a word, she’d make sure I never worked in the industry ever again.”
I swear, my pulse actually stops.
She keeps going .
“But those were mine, and I worked hard on those songs. They were my stories,” she says pointing at her chest as she looks at me.
“Then she got me dropped from my label,” she says, still petting Rip like she needs something to ground her. “Then to top it off, I walked in on her in my bed with my boyfriend.”
The air in the truck goes heavy.
Violet turns toward me again, and when I glance at her, I wish I hadn’t. “I guess my songs weren’t enough to steal. She took my boyfriend, too. Whatever she wanted, I guess.”
Because her eyes are full of hurt.
Not in the way that says she’s still broken. In the way that says she’s had to rebuild herself from nothing.
And I know exactly how that feels.
“Red,” I start, my voice lower than I meant for it to be.
She shakes her head, forcing a small, too-casual smile. “It’s fine,” she says. “I mean, it sucked. It broke me for a while. But I got out, and I got away.”
She swallows hard. “And now I’m here. And I’m not telling you all of this for you to tell me anything. But I just want you to know why I am the way that I am.”
I don’t say anything for a long moment. Because I’m glad she’s here. But I hate that she’s here for those reasons.
Because what the hell am I supposed to say?
I know what it’s like to watch someone steal from you, to watch someone you trusted turn into a monster.
I know what it’s like to walk away from everything you thought you wanted, because staying would have destroyed you.
I glance at her again, and the weight in my chest feels unbearable.
“This is why you don’t talk about your past,” I say quietly.
She nods. “Yeah. ”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Your ex—” I grit my teeth, exhaling through my nose. “He took Rip to hurt you, didn’t he?”
She hesitates, then nods again.
Something inside me snaps. Because I hate that I know this game.
I hate that I know exactly what kind of person would take a dog to make someone suffer.
I hate she had to learn it the hard way too.
I hate that this world and this industry spits people out and doesn’t care. It shouldn’t be that way.
And I hate that I still care.
Even after all these years, music still has its hooks in me, tangled somewhere deep in my chest where I can’t reach. I think it always will.
No matter how much I tried—still try—to escape, it will always be a part of me.
I slow the truck as we near the house, pulling into the long gravel driveway, headlights sweeping over the front porch.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Violet finally exhales, her voice quiet. “And now you know.”
Yeah.
Now I know.
And I wish like hell I didn’t. Not personally, and not from her story.
I stare out the windshield, my thoughts spiraling into places I don’t want to go. I look at her then, really look at her, and something cracks inside me.
“Now tell me what happened to you,” she whispers softly.
She watches me, quiet.
“I lost everything,” I tell her, my voice lower. “And I rebuilt all of this,” I exhale, shaking my head.
Violet’s expression softens .
I glance around at the house, the land stretching behind it, the stillness of it all.
“But I want this quiet life more than I want what I lost.”
She doesn’t say anything right away.
Then I say softly, carefully, “I think I want this too.”
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m the only one running from the past.
Maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to run anymore. Maybe I could let her in.
The sky is painted in soft hues of gold and lavender, the Wyoming sun starting its slow descent behind the mountains. There’s a stillness out here that I’ve never found anywhere else. A quiet that settles in my chest, grounding me.
And tonight, it feels different.
Not just peaceful.
Full.
The barn doors are wide open, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of fresh hay and warm earth. The horses shift in their stalls, ears twitching as Mack skips past, Rip Heeler and Pickles darting happily at her heels.
I lean against the fence, arms crossed, just watching. This is the kind of life I built for her. A place she could have her animals and be happy. Live a life that I dreamed of having for her.
Maggie smiles at me from her favorite spot on the porch, sipping her iced tea like she’s watching a Hallmark movie play out in real-time.
“Never thought I’d see the day Walker would have a full house,” she muses, eyes twinkling.
I shoot her a less than amused look. “Nursing home. ”
She hums in amusement, completely ignoring me. “I think Rip sure likes it here. Care to explain that?"
"Nope," I smirk.
I glance back at Pickles and Rip, now rolling in the grass, completely at ease.
Yeah. He does like it here.
And so does his owner. Red’s taken over my kitchen, making the most amazing dinners. I won’t ever tell Momma Mary at the bar, but she cooks even better than her, and Momma Mary has been cooking for over thirty years. Call it whatever it is; I love it. Tonight, she’s making some sort of pasta I can smell all the way out here. My mouth is already watering.
Violet calls out the back door, “Dinner’s almost ready!”
Mack groans from where she’s petting the dogs. “Five more minutes?”
“One,” I tell her.
Mack brushes her hands off on her jeans, giving Rip one last scratch behind the ears before heading toward the house. Rip and Pickles trail behind her.
I linger behind, taking it all in.
The barn. The land. My daughter laughing. My dog’s happy. Violet’s dog here. Everyone is happy.
Life doesn’t get much better than this.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t want it to change.
When I enter the kitchen, it smells damn near illegal.
Garlic, butter, basil—a mix of everything good and holy in this world.
I step inside, and Violet is at the stove, stirring a pot of what I can only assume is the best-smelling pasta I’ve ever encountered in my life.
She’s barefoot, her hair piled up in some messy twist that’s barely holding together, a smear of flour dusting her cheek. And she looks… happy.
Maggie is perched at the kitchen table, wine in hand, watching Red like she’s witnessing a miracle.
“Do you know my niece can cook?” Maggie asks, eyes wide, like Violet just pulled off an exorcism. “I mean, really cook?”
Violet snorts, shaking her head. “I literally just threw together some ingredients.”
Maggie waves her off. “I thought when you said you were cooking that you meant, like, ‘making boxed mac and cheese without burning the house down’ kind of cooking.”
Violet rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Nope, that’s you Aunt Maggie.”
Mack, hovering way too close to the garlic bread, sniffs the air dramatically.
“This is next-level, Dad,” she declares, nudging me. “You better prepare yourself. Our standards are about to go way up.”
I cross my arms, smirking. “Oh yeah?”
Mack nods seriously. “Yup. Your cooking? Not gonna cut it anymore. You and Maggie are fired.”
Maggie gasps, clutching her chest. “Excuse me?”
Mack grins. “You literally tried to microwave eggs once, Maggie.”
Maggie narrows her eyes. “I was experimenting.”
Violet laughs, pulling the bread from the oven, and the smell alone has me questioning everything I thought I knew about life.
“Alright,” she says, setting the food on the table. “Eat before Mack stages a mutiny.”
Mack grabs a slice of bread before the plate even fully touches the table.
“Oh my God,” she groans, eyes rolling back dramatically. “Violet, this is insane.”
Red smirks. “Good insane? ”
Mack gestures wildly at the bread. “I never knew garlic bread could taste like this.”
Maggie takes a bite and actually moans.
“Don’t expect this kind of food in your nursing home,” I tease.
Maggie waves me off. “Shut up and eat, Walker.”
I grab a plate, piling on more pasta than I probably need, and take my first bite.
And holy hell. Yeah, I needed all of this. Probably seconds.
I freeze mid-chew.
Violet watches me with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Well?”
I swallow, then clear my throat. “This is…” I shake my head, pointing at my plate. “You made this from scratch?”
She shrugs like it's nothing. “Yeah.”
Mack leans forward, grinning. “So, Dad?”
I raise a brow. “What?”
Mack gestures between Violet and the food. “Can we keep her?”
Red chokes on her wine.
Maggie laughs so hard she nearly tips over her glass.
I glare at my daughter. “She’s not a stray, Mack.”
Mack shrugs. “She comes with a dog. Rip is basically part of the family now. And I like her food.”
Red sets down her fork, wiping her mouth, her eyes full of mischief. “Wait, wait,” she says, feigning offense. “You like my dog first? And then me?”
Mack nods, completely serious. “I mean, the food is really good, but Rip is, like, next level.”
Violet pretends to glare and murmurs. “Unbelievable.”
Maggie, grinning over her wine glass, winks at Violet. “Don’t take it personally, hon. Walker was just telling me how much he likes having you around.”
I choke on my drink .
Red raises a brow. “Oh, really?”
I shoot Maggie a warning look, but she’s got that damn twinkle in her eye.
Mack gasps dramatically. “Dad, do you have a crush on Violet?”
I groan. “I’m gonna eat my food in the barn now.”
Violet laughs, shaking her head, and something in my chest unwinds. God, I love her laugh.
I don’t know what the hell is happening.
But I know one thing?—
I don’t want this to end.