Chapter 10
ten
Johanna folded the last sweater and tucked it into her duffel bag, her fingers lingering on the soft wool.
Outside the cabin window, weak winter sunlight glinted off the snow, casting long blue shadows across the yard.
She’d been avoiding packing for three days now, making excuses.
One more session with Boone. One more meeting with Walker about ranch plans.
She zipped the bag closed and surveyed the cabin.
A week ago, it had felt alien and cold. Now, little traces of her presence were everywhere: the mug she’d claimed as hers sitting beside the small coffeemaker, the stack of books on the nightstand, the throw blanket she’d arranged just so on the single armchair.
The cabin smelled like her shampoo and the vanilla candle she’d burned to cover the musty scent that had greeted her arrival.
Her phone buzzed on the bed. A text from her office manager:
Happy New Year! Office ready for your return on the 2nd. Calendar already filling up.
Reality calling.
She pushed her phone into her pocket without replying and grabbed her bag. She crossed to the door, pulled it open, and—
Walker stood on the small porch, hand raised to knock.
“Oh.” She took a half-step back. She didn’t know why she was surprised to see him, but she was. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. His breath clouded in front of him, the tip of his nose reddened from the chill. “Uh, wanted to see if you need help with your bags?”
“Just have this one.” She held up the duffel. “Only packed for a week.” Less, actually, but she didn’t want to tell him that.
“Right.” He nodded and stepped back to let her pass.
They walked together across the yard, their boots crunching through the fresh layer of snow that had fallen overnight.
The main house glowed warm in the distance, smoke curling from the chimney.
Boone’s truck was parked beside it, no longer packed for escape.
“Roads are clear,” Walker said, breaking the silence. “Checked the forecast. Should be good driving all the way to Missoula.”
“Good.” A single syllable that conveyed nothing of the knot tightening in her chest.
Her Subaru sat in the driveway, a thin layer of snow already dusting the windshield. Walker brushed it away with his sleeve while she put the duffel in the back.
“I added antifreeze to your radiator yesterday,” he said, not looking at her. “Checked your tires too.”
“Thanks.” She closed the hatchback and tried not to flinch at the finality of the sound. “I appreciate it.”
Then they just stood awkwardly beside the car, neither making a move to end this awkward dance. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The cold seeped through her boots.
“I got you something,” Walker said suddenly. He pulled a small package from his coat pocket, wrapped in brown paper and twine. “For Christmas. It’s not much.”
“Oh.” She took it, surprised by the weight of it in her palm. “I didn’t get you anything.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “You gave me exactly what I wanted. Boone’s staying. So think of this more like a thank you than a Christmas gift.”
She swallowed hard against the unexpected lump in her throat. Walker was right; she’d accomplished what she came here to do. Boone was staying. He was connecting with Bishop. The foundations for something meaningful were taking root. Her job was done.
“Thank you.” She unwrapped it carefully, hyperaware of his gaze on her. Inside was a carved wooden ornament, a small pine tree with intricate details burned into its surface. At the base of the tree, three figures and a dog. “Oh, Walker. You made this?”
“Started that night we decorated the tree, then added the people and dog after we got Bishop.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Thought you might want a souvenir. Something to remember...”
He trailed off, but she knew what he meant. Something to remember us by. This place. This week.
She clutched the ornament to her chest. “Thank you,” she said again. The words felt inadequate, but she didn’t know what else to say.
Walker nodded, then turned to look back at the house. She followed his gaze.
Boone stood on the porch, Bishop seated by his side. The young man’s posture had changed in just this week. Less hunched, less defensive. He lifted his hand in a half-wave when he saw them looking.
“He’s doing better,” she said.
“Thanks to you.”
“And Bishop. And you.” She smiled slightly. “He needed family more than he needed therapy.”
Walker made a noncommittal sound, but she could tell her words had landed. He was still looking at the ranch, at the corrals waiting for horses that didn’t exist yet, at the bunkhouse that stood empty save for Boone, at all the potential still unrealized.
“It could work,” she said softly. “It really could work.”
He turned to her, his eyes serious.
“Stay.” The word hung in the cold air between them. “Help me build this.”
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. “Walker...”
“I’m not asking because of what we were before,” he clarified quickly. “Or... not just because of that. This place, what it could be for guys like Boone. You’ve seen it too, I know you have.”
She had. From the moment she’d watched Boone with Bishop, she’d seen the possibilities. More dogs. Horses. A place where broken men could heal by caring for something besides their own pain. But she’d pushed those thoughts away, telling herself it wasn’t her vision, wasn’t her responsibility.
“My practice,” she began, but the excuse felt hollow even to her own ears. “My patients...”
“You’re not happy there, Jo,” he said with his typical gruffness. “I saw it all over you the moment you stepped out of your car. Here, you could build something better than an office with beige walls and tissues on the table.”
The image struck her—her sterile office in Missoula versus this living, breathing place with its challenges and possibilities.
The idea of it was daunting.
“I failed him,” she said quietly. “Nick. I was supposed to help him, and I couldn’t.”
Walker didn’t flinch at her husband’s name. “I know.”
“What if I fail again? What if I can’t help these men? What if something happens and I lose—” She stopped, unwilling to finish the thought aloud.
Lose you. Lose this. Lose everything, all over again.
Walker moved in close enough that she could smell the woodsmoke on his clothes and see the tiny scar above his eyebrow where he’d been hit by shrapnel years ago. She used to trace that scar when they were in bed together.
“I’m scared, too,” he admitted, voice rough. “Scared I’ll screw this up like I have everything else. But I can’t do this without you, Jo. I’ve tried going it alone. It doesn’t work.”
She’d been running from this man for five years. Not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much. Because after Nick died, the pain of staying near Walker, of being reminded of everything they’d lost, had been too much to bear.
Now, standing in the snow with his gift clutched in her hand, she found herself cataloging details she’d miss: the way morning light hit the barn’s weathered boards, Boone’s rare half-smile when Bishop nudged his palm, the smell of Walker’s coffee brewing before dawn.
Her chest tightened as her gaze swept across the empty corrals, seeing not what was, but what could be.
“I’d need my own space.” The words tumbled out before she’d fully decided to say them. “Not just the cabin, but an office.”
Walker blinked, then a slow smile spread across his face. “We could convert part of the barn. Make you a proper office.”
“And I’d want to bring in a horse trainer. For the equine therapy program.”
He nodded, that smile growing more confident. “I’d planned on it.”
“And we’d need proper facilities. A real clinic space, not just improvised rooms.”
“We’ll build it. Whatever you need.”
“Okay,” she said, making up her mind. “I’ll stay.”
When she left her cabin just before midnight, she found Walker and Boone sitting in mismatched chairs on the porch of the main house, a small table between them bearing three mugs and a thermos.
Bishop lay at Boone’s feet, head resting on his boots.
The dog’s ears perked up when she approached, and he thumped his tail twice in greeting.
Stars crowded the black sky above, so bright and numerous they didn’t look real after years of city living.
The porch lights were off, but lanterns hung from the eaves cast a warm glow over the wooden boards.
“Made it just in time.” Walker stood and pulled over another chair for her, its legs scraping against the wooden boards.
“Thanks.” She settled in, accepting the mug he offered. Steam rose from the hot cider, scented with cinnamon and cloves. She wrapped her hands around the mug, grateful for its warmth. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Could go inside,” Boone suggested, though he made no move to do so.
“No,” she said. “This is perfect.”
And it was. The cold air, the vast star-filled sky, the quiet of the ranch stretching out around them. No television blaring the Times Square countdown, no forced party atmosphere. Just the three of them, Bishop, and the expectant silence of a year about to turn.
Boone looked different tonight. His hair was freshly cut, likely his own doing, as evidenced by the slightly uneven edges.
He wore his new jacket buttoned all the way up against the cold, and though his expression was still guarded, there wasn’t as much ice in his eyes now.
Bishop’s influence, perhaps. Or maybe just the knowledge that he didn’t have to run anymore.
“Did you contact your office?” Walker asked her, his voice low.
She nodded. “Called this afternoon. They weren’t thrilled, but they’ll manage.”
“And your apartment?”
“Sublet starts next week. I’ll need to go back to pack up what I want to keep.”
Boone looked between them, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re staying? For how long?”
“Indefinitely,” she said, watching his reaction.
His face revealed nothing at first, then he gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Bishop likes you.”
She smiled. “High praise.”
“Highest there is,” Boone said, scratching the dog’s ears. Bishop leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed in pure bliss.
They fell silent, sipping their cider, watching their breath fog in the cold air. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Reflective. The kind of silence that comes at the threshold of something new.
“You know what this means,” Walker said eventually. “More work for all of us. More dogs. Horses, eventually. More men like you, Boone.”
“Men like me,” Boone repeated softly. “Lost causes, you mean.”
“No.” Walker’s voice was firm. “Men who deserve a second chance. Men who can build something here, same as we are.”
Boone nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the yard. “Never thought I’d make it to another year,” he admitted. “After prison, I mean. Figured I’d end up back inside or...” He didn’t finish the thought.
A lump rose in Johanna’s throat, and she took a sip of cider to ease it. She’d heard variations of this confession too many times in her career, from veterans whose hopelessness had taken them to the darkest places. The fact that Boone could speak it aloud now, here, was significant.
“Well, you made it,” she said. “And from a professional standpoint, I’d say you’re doing remarkably well.”
Boone almost smiled at that. “Yeah? That going in your report?”
“Absolutely. ‘Subject demonstrates improved capacity for attachment, as evidenced by relationship with canine companion. Recommended treatment: continued integration into ranch activities, with emphasis on responsibility and purpose.’”
This time Boone did smile, just a quick upward quirk of his lips. “Thanks for the psychobabble, Doc.”
“Anytime.”
Walker checked his watch again. “Two minutes.”
He reached beside his chair and pulled up a small cooler Johanna hadn’t noticed before. From it, he produced a bottle of sparkling cider and three plastic champagne flutes.
“Best I could do on short notice,” he explained, twisting the cap off the bottle.
“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it.
Walker filled each flute with the bubbling cider and passed them around. Bishop watched the proceedings with interest, his head tilted to one side.
“Should we toast?” Boone asked, looking uncertain.
“To Valor Ridge,” Walker suggested, raising his glass. “And new beginnings.”
“To second chances,” Johanna added.
They clinked their plastic glasses together. No fireworks exploded overhead. No crowds cheered. Just the three of them, raising their glasses in the cold night air, marking the moment with nothing more than their presence.