Chapter 2 #2
He either didn’t have an answer or didn’t want to give one. He glanced back at the bunkhouse, eyes narrowed, then turned and stomped off toward the main house.
Johanna stood in the yard for a minute, watching the snow chase itself across the bare ground. She heard the bunkhouse door slam, then Boone’s boots hitting the porch steps. He didn’t look at her. He stomped off toward the barn, head down against the wind.
She followed at a distance, letting him set the pace. Boone stopped at the edge of the field, hands jammed in his pockets, face aimed at the sky. Johanna stood a few yards back, not crowding him, waiting to see what he’d do.
“You’re still here?” Boone said, not turning around.
“Still here.”
“Why?”
“Walker asked me to be.”
“You do everything he asks?”
Her gut response was a vehement, “No!”, but she bit it back. “Not usually,” she said carefully instead and stepped closer. “But I’ve been known to make exceptions.”
Boone’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment she thought he might walk away. Instead, he turned to face her, his eyes narrowing against the cold.
“You know about me. About what I did.” It wasn’t a question.
“I read your file, yes.”
He snorted. “And now you’re here to fix me. To crawl inside my head and make everything better.”
The bitterness in his voice was so thick she could almost taste it. But there was something else there too—a flicker of hope, quickly disguised as defiance. He wanted help, even if he’d never admit it.
“I’m not here to fix you,” Johanna said. “I don’t think you’re broken.”
He stared at her with those cold blue eyes, searching for the lie. “Bullshit.”
“I mean it. I don’t believe in fixing people. I believe in helping them find their own way forward.” She gestured at the empty field around them. “This place could be good for you. But only if you want it to be.”
Boone’s jaw worked, the muscles tightening and releasing.
He looked away. “My mom didn’t recognize me today.
Called me Micah—that’s my dad’s name.” His voice cracked slightly.
“Fucking Hank Goodwin of all people had to talk her down. Whole time, he’s looking at me like I’m the one who caused it when it was his fucking family that threw her out on her ass for falling in love with the wrong guy. ”
“That must have been awful.”
“Been happening more and more. Doctor says it’s early-onset dementia. Says she’ll need full-time care eventually.” His shoulders slumped. “And I’m all she’s got.”
“That’s a heavy burden to carry alone.”
“Not like I have a choice.” He kicked at a clump of snow. “Can’t exactly put her in a home on my non-existent salary. Nobody wants to hire an ex-con.”
“Walker did.”
“Walker’s delusional. He sees something in me that ain’t there.”
This young man reminded her of so many others she’d worked with—angry, lost, carrying the weight of the world. But there was something raw about Boone that cut deeper, a pain so fresh it might as well have been bleeding.
“What if he sees something that is there, but you just can’t recognize it yet?”
Boone’s laugh was harsh. “Lady, I killed a man with my bare hands. I’m exactly what everyone thinks I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“Dangerous.” He said it like a badge of honor, but his eyes betrayed him—there was fear there, too. Fear of himself.
“I’ve worked with dangerous men before.” She kept her voice even, professional. The wind picked up, sending a swirl of snow between them. “But I’ve rarely met one who checks on his mother every day, no matter how much it hurts when she doesn’t recognize him.”
He scoffed. “You think you got it all figured out after a few hours here? You don’t know anything about me or my mother or Walker.”
“I know Walker better than you.” Even as the words left her lips, she realized the statement gave away too much. She hurried to add, “And I know enough to see that he didn’t make a mistake bringing you here. He believes in second chances.”
They stood in silence for several long moments, the wind screaming around them.
Finally, Boone spoke again. He lifted his hand, flexed his bandaged knuckles. “You going to ask about the fight?”
She considered, then shook her head. “Not today.”
He glanced over at her, his surprise evident before he hid it. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not over. You’re still in it. Still fighting.”
Boone barked a short, sharp laugh that clouded against the darkening sky. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
He turned back to the field. He was still tense, but his shoulders had eased a fraction.
She stepped closer, stopping just outside his bubble. “Walker’s betting everything on you. You know that?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “It’s a stupid bet.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
He didn’t answer. She waited, hands stuffed deep in her pockets.
When it became too dark to see the field without a flashlight, Boone finally turned and walked back toward the bunkhouse.
He passed her close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, paused, and looked at the main house where Walker was watching.
“He’s not going to fix me. And neither are you. ”
Johanna watched until he disappeared inside the bunkhouse, door slamming behind him, then turned for the house. She let herself in, shook the snow off her boots, and found Walker in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. He didn’t look up.
“He’s not ready,” he muttered.
“Yes, he is.”
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said. He’s ready. He’s right where he needs to be.
” She moved to the stove where a pot of what smelled like beef stew bubbled.
“He’s angry, defensive, hostile—all normal reactions for someone with his history.
But he’s here, Walker. After all that happened with his mom and the sheriff today, he came back. He chose that, and he didn’t have to.”
Walker was quiet for a long moment, his knuckles white against the counter. Then his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled a breath.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “He came back.”
She watched the hope settle into his features, tempering that constant vigilance he wore like armor. For the first time since she’d arrived, Walker looked like he believed this might actually work.
And, suddenly, she desperately wanted it to work, too.
He lifted his head and met her gaze, and her heart squeezed at the raw vulnerability there.
“Thank you for coming, Jo.”
She nodded and moved to the stove, picking up a spoon to stir the stew. She didn’t trust herself to say more. A whole week here suddenly felt like both too long and not nearly enough time.