Chapter 2
two
The cabin was cleaner than the main house.
No half-ripped out walls, no dust, and the one narrow bed was made up with hospital corners.
She unpacked her suitcase, which didn’t take long—she’d only planned to stay a night or two, at most—then spent some time online getting to know her newest patient.
Boone Callahan. Twenty-eight years old.
Walker had been right about the world not doing much for this kid.
His mom had been disowned by her wealthy family for chasing the rodeo and marrying a bull rider.
Then his dad had died of an aneurysm when Boone was only twelve.
According to reports, Boone had been alone with his father on the back forty of their ranch when it happened—his dad suddenly clutching his head, falling from his horse, and dying within minutes.
The boy had somehow managed to get his father’s body draped over the saddle and rode for hours to reach help, the report noting that rigor mortis had already set in by the time they arrived.
How horrifying that must have been for little Boone. No wonder the man now had issues with abandonment.
The military records painted an equally bleak picture.
Boone had enlisted at eighteen, served with distinction in Afghanistan, then watched as an IED took out most of his unit during a routine patrol.
The survivors—including Boone—had been pinned down for seventeen hours before extraction. Three more men died waiting for help.
She flipped through page after page of disciplinary reports upon his return. Bar fights. Disorderly conduct. Insubordination. Self-medication with alcohol. Classic signs of PTSD that no one had bothered to properly treat.
Then came the manslaughter charge. Johanna read the court transcripts twice, piecing together what had happened.
Boone had been drinking at a roadhouse outside of Solace when he witnessed a man roughing up a woman in the parking lot.
He’d intervened—violently. The police report described the victim as having multiple facial fractures, a crushed trachea, and a fractured skull.
He’d died at the scene. According to three witnesses, Boone had “snapped” and kept hitting the man long after he was unconscious.
The woman later testified that she hadn’t been in danger, that Boone had misinterpreted a lover’s quarrel and attacked her boyfriend without provocation.
And after the judge ruled that all the domestic violence reports between the couple were inadmissible, her testimony had been the nail in Boone’s coffin.
He’d been sentenced to eight years, but was released just last month after serving four.
So now, not only did he have his childhood trauma and PTSD, but he also had the added weight of a violent felony conviction and time served. The pattern was all too familiar—a broken childhood, military trauma, and a system that cycled him through punishment rather than treatment.
Walker sure knew how to pick the hard cases, didn’t he?
A knock at the door startled her, and she closed the laptop before calling, “Come in.”
Walker stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of cold air and woodsmoke. Snowflakes decorated the brim of his weathered brown Stetson and fell ot the floor as he swept it off his head when he crossed the threshold. “Boone’s back. Figured you’d want to meet him.”
She stood and smoothed her sweater. “How is he?”
“Pissed.” Walker’s mouth twisted around the word. “His mom forgot who he was again. Thought he was an intruder and called 911. By the time the sheriff got there to sort it out, she was having a full-blown episode. The sheriff is his mom’s brother and a complete asshole, so that just made it worse.”
“That must have been hard for him.”
Walker nodded, his eyes distant. “He doesn’t talk much about it. Just bottles it up.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
He grunted and turned away. “I’ll give you a tour on the way back to the house.”
Okay, then.
She scoffed, grabbed her coat, and chased him out into the cold.
When Walker first told her he’d bought a ranch, she thought maybe it was a couple of acres and a barn, but this property was huge with a view of the mountains to the west that would be stunning on a clearer day.
“How many acres do you have?” she asked when she finally caught up to him.
“Just under two thousand.”
Wow. Much bigger than she had thought.
“What happened to the other buildings?” she asked, noting the foundations where structures had once stood.
“Previous owners let the place go to hell. Had to tear down most of it. Fire hazard.” He pointed to a large pole barn at the edge of the clearing.
“That’s going to be a workshop eventually.
Thought the men could learn a trade while they’re here.
Blacksmithing, woodworking, leatherworking. Stuff like that.”
The men. Not just Boone.
Of course Walker was planning for more. He did nothing by half measures.
“No stock yet,” he said as they passed the dark and silent main barn. “Planning on rescue horses, eventually. Therapy animals. Lot of guys don’t talk, but they’ll talk to a horse. Or a dog. Or a goat, if it comes to it.”
“That’s a really good idea,” she said quietly, studying his profile as they walked.
The Walker Nash she remembered had been all sharp edges and barbed wire, but this—this vision of sanctuary he was building—suggested something had shifted in him since they’d last seen each other.
“I’m so happy you’ve found a new mission.
You always needed something to fight for. ”
His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment she thought he might say something personal, something that would crack open the carefully maintained distance between them.
Instead, he turned and kept walking. “Not fighting anymore. That’s the point.”
They continued past the barn and eventually ended up back by her car in the circular driveway in front of the main house. The larger building next to the house, which she originally thought was the barn, looked newer than everything else. He led her there next.
“Built this bunkhouse first thing,” Walker explained. “Figured the men would need their own space before I got around to fixing up the main house. Boone’s in here.”
“How many residents are you planning to take in?”
“Room enough for eight men, eventually. Maybe more if I renovate some of the guest cabins on the property.” Walker hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “But I wanted to get it right before—” He stopped. “Before I tried with a full house.”
So for now, there was only Boone. The loneliness of it struck her—this big empty space waiting to be filled, and just the two of them rattling around in it. The isolation must be overwhelming.
Walker opened the door without knocking. Inside was a cozy living room with a TV, fireplace, and two leather sectionals. There was even a pool table by the big windows that overlooked the back pasture. A hall off the living room led to several small, private rooms.
“Boone?” Walker called. “You in here?”
No answer. The bunkhouse was silent except for the soft popping of the fire someone had started in the hearth. Walker’s jaw tightened, but he pushed through the living room toward the kitchen.
Boone was at the table, arms crossed, glowering at a can of chili. He looked up once, saw them, and went back to glaring at the food.
Johanna knew from her research that he was young, not even thirty yet, but it was a world-weary kind of young. He had a big frame, gym-cut shoulders, dark hair that needed a trim months ago, a jaw shadowed by a thick layer of beard scruff. His knuckles were bandaged, indicating a recent fight.
But his eyes were what caught her—a beautiful navy blue as cold and volatile as the deep ocean.
Walker nodded at him. “Boone, this is Dr. Perrin.”
Boone grunted. Not quite a greeting, but not a challenge, either. He uncrossed his arms and pushed the can to the center of the table.
“She’s here to help with the adjustment,” Walker said. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”
Boone’s eyes cut to hers, then away. “Whatever.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Boone,” she said softly. “Walker’s told me some of what you’ve been going through, and I’d love to help if I can.”
He shrugged, shoulders tight under his Army hoodie. He traced a ring of rust on the table with his thumb. The silence stretched, unbroken except for the pop of the wood in the stove.
Walker cleared his throat. “Dr. Perrin’s got experience with—”
“I don’t care who she is or what she’s got experience with,” Boone muttered. “I’m not talking to her.”
Walker’s lips flattened, but he didn’t give up. “She ran the therapy program at the VA in Missoula and volunteered with Frontier Veterans Services. Helped a lot of guys.”
Boone huffed. “Don’t need help. Just need a place to sleep.”
He stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Six-four, maybe, with hands that looked like they’d rather break something than shake it. He moved to the counter and started opening drawers at random. His whole body radiated a low-level warning, like a guard dog behind a chain link fence.
Walker held the silence a beat, then tried again. “We’re going to set up a group dinner tonight. Gets dark too early out here. Company helps.”
Boone didn’t answer. He found a spoon, snapped the can open, and ate straight from the tin.
Walker gave up and headed for the door.
After one last glance back at Boone, Johanna followed. Outside, it was even colder, the wind rising out of the west.
“I can’t get through to him,” Walker admitted, voice low. “That’s why I called.”
Yes, she could see that. And his file had already painted a bleak picture. She zipped her jacket, eyes on the horizon. “What do you expect me to do? He’s not going to trust me.”
“He won’t trust anyone.”
She looked at him, searching for some sign that this was a lost cause. “Why are you doing this, Walker? For real.”
He shrugged. “Somebody has to.”
“Why you?”