Chapter 9
nine
Boone woke with a jolt, his neck stiff and his mouth tasting like he’d been chewing on cigarette butts and old pennies. Sunlight cut through the curtains, a strip of it slashing across his face and forcing his eyes shut again.
Where the hell was he?
Not the bunkhouse.
A couch.
Walker’s couch, he realized. The one with the springs that dug into your back.
Last night came back to him in fragments—the truck, the snow, the folder with Crystal’s story inside. Walker saying things Boone hadn’t been ready to hear. Family. The word still burned in his chest, uncomfortable and foreign.
He shifted, feeling something scratchy against his face—the ancient afghan Walker kept folded over the back of the couch.
Someone had draped it over him after he’d passed out.
His last memory was stumbling into the house behind Walker, the older man’s hand steady on his shoulder, guiding him like he was some lost kid instead of a grown man who’d spent four years in a cell barely big enough to stretch out in.
A soft exhale, warm and damp, brushed against his dangling hand.
He froze.
Slowly, he cracked one eye open and found himself staring directly into a pair of deep brown eyes. A dog. A large German Shepherd with a graying muzzle lay on the floor beside the couch, watching him with an intensity that felt uncomfortably like judgment.
“The hell?”
The dog’s ears perked up, but he didn’t move otherwise, just continued that steady, unblinking stare like he was waiting for something. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Where’d you come from?”
The Shepherd tilted his head slightly, one ear flopping comically to the side.
Boone sat up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. This thing wasn’t a couch. It was a torture device.
The dog rose when he did, stretching his front legs out in a manner that reminded Boone absurdly of yoga instructors he’d seen on TV in the prison rec room. It was the languid, self-assured movement of a creature completely at home in its skin.
Must be nice.
From the kitchen came the sound of murmuring voices, the hiss of bacon hitting a hot pan, the rich scent of coffee brewing.
Boone caught fragments of conversation—Walker’s low rumble, Johanna’s softer tones.
They were talking about him, he was sure of it.
Probably discussing how to handle the unstable ex-con who’d had a breakdown in the front yard last night.
Shame crawled up his neck, hot and prickling. He should leave. Just grab his duffel bag, get back in the truck, and go. But the thought of facing his mom’s empty eyes again, of Hank Goodwin’s smug face when he inevitably had to call for help—it was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.
The dog padded over and nudged Boone’s knee with his nose.
“What?”
The Shepherd cocked his head again, as if to say, “Well?”
With a sigh, Boone stood. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes: jeans and a flannel that now smelled like cigarette smoke.
Damn, he really wanted another one, but he’d chain-smoked the rest of his pack while sitting in his truck last night.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window, and holy shit, he looked like hell.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it.
No use. It stuck up in all directions, long past needing a cut.
But a haircut meant going into town, facing all those eyes that still looked at him like he was one wrong move away from snapping.
The dog followed as he made his way toward the kitchen, staying close without crowding, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood.
Boone paused at the threshold, suddenly reluctant to interrupt whatever moment Walker and Johanna were having.
They stood side by side at the stove, not touching, but moving in each other’s space with a familiarity that spoke of history.
Walker was scowling as he pushed eggs around a cast-iron skillet, while Johanna set plates on the counter, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
“You’re still burning them,” she said.
“They’re not burned. They’re...” Walker paused, clearly searching for a defense. “Crispy.”
“I had no idea crispy eggs were the newest culinary trend.”
Walker grunted, but Boone noticed the corner of his mouth lift. It was strange to see the hard-edged former colonel so... domestic. It didn’t fit with anything Boone knew about the man.
The dog chose that moment to announce their presence, nudging into the kitchen with a soft whine of greeting. Both Walker and Johanna turned, and he found himself pinned by two sets of eyes that held none of the judgment or worry he’d expected.
“Coffee’s ready,” Walker said, nodding toward a mug already set out on the counter.
Boone stepped into the kitchen, hyper-aware of his rumpled appearance, the stubble on his jaw, the lingering shame of last night’s vulnerability. “Thanks,” he managed, reaching for the mug.
The dog followed, settling at Boone’s feet with that same watchful attention. Not once had it left his side since he’d woken up.
“What’s with the dog?” he asked.
Walker flipped the eggs onto a plate, some of them landing on the counter instead. He didn’t seem to notice. “He’s yours,” he said, gruff but matter-of-fact. “Merry Christmas.”
For a moment, Boone couldn’t process the words. They didn’t compute, didn’t fit into any reality he understood. “Mine? What are you talking about?”
Johanna scowled at Walker, then swept up the errant eggs with a paper towel. “We went to the shelter yesterday,” she explained over her shoulder. “This is Bishop. He’s six years old, and he needs a home.”
“I don’t...” Boone looked down at the dog—Bishop—who gazed back with those solemn brown eyes. “I can’t...”
“You can,” Johanna said, all matter-of-fact. “He needs you. And you need him.”
Walker didn’t add anything, just scraped the skillet clean and set it back on the stove top with a clatter.
“I don’t know the first thing about dogs,” Boone protested even as his hand dropped to rest on Bishop’s head. The fur was softer than he expected, warm against his palm. “I’ve never even had a pet.”
“Good thing Bishop knows what he’s doing, then,” Walker said. “He’s got some training. Shelter said he last owner died and left him alone in the world.”
Bishop leaned into his touch, and something in Boone’s chest cracked open.
“Why?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking. Why him? Why now? Why would anyone trust him with something living, something that could be hurt?
Walker and Johanna exchanged a glance, one of those silent communications that passed between people who knew each other well. It made Boone feel like an intruder, a trespasser in a world he didn’t belong to.
“Everyone needs someone to look after,” Walker said finally. “Something to care about besides their own shit.”
Johanna shot him a look that Boone couldn’t quite interpret, but Walker just shrugged and picked up his plate, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“Dogs don’t care about your past,” Johanna added. “They only care about how you treat them now. Bishop has had a rough go of it—lost his family, stuck in the shelter for months. But look at him.” She gestured to where Bishop sat pressed against Boone’s leg. “He’s already decided you’re his person.”
“But I’m not—” He stopped, unsure how to finish.
Not good enough?
Not staying?
Not the kind of person who got second chances?
“You are,” Walker said, cutting through his unspoken doubts with characteristic bluntness. “So stop overthinking it and eat your damn breakfast before it gets cold.”
Just like that, as if giving Boone a dog was the most natural thing in the world, Walker went back to his own eggs.
Bishop nudged his hand with his nose, as if reminding him that it had stopped moving. Absently, he resumed petting. “I don’t have anything for him. No food, no... whatever dogs need.”
“All taken care of.” Johanna gestured to a pile of supplies in the corner— a bag of premium dog food, a bed, a collar and leash. “We picked everything up yesterday.”
That explained the delay in their return, why they hadn’t caught him loading up his truck right away.
They’d been out getting supplies for a dog they’d already decided would be his.
The realization was both warming and terrifying.
They’d had such certainty that he would stay, that he would accept this responsibility.
That certainty felt like a weight and a gift all at once.
“Come and sit,” Johanna said, nodding toward the table. “You look like you could use some fuel.”
Boone had to nudge Bishop out of the way to pull out a chair. The dog settled under the table with a heavy sigh, his warm body resting on Boone’s socked feet.
How strange, this sensation of being accompanied, of not being alone even in the simple act of sitting down for breakfast.
Walker brought over plates loaded with eggs (slightly burned, just as Johanna had teased), bacon, and toast slathered with butter.
It was a simple meal, but it made Boone’s chest constrict.
The normality of it all, the three of them sitting down to breakfast on Christmas morning like they did this every day. Like they were...
Boone shut down that thought before it could fully form. Too dangerous. Too much potential for disappointment.
“You sleep okay?” Walker asked, breaking the silence. “Couch isn’t much, but it’s better than spending the night in your truck.”
Boone nodded, focusing on his food to avoid eye contact. “Fine,” he said. Then, because the word felt inadequate: “Thanks.”
“Your mom can come stay here, you know,” Walker said, his fork halfway to her mouth. “Plenty of room.”
Boone’s head jerked up. “What?”
“If she’s having trouble recognizing her own home, sometimes a change of scenery can help,” Johanna said. “New place, new associations. It could give her brain a fresh start.”