Chapter 17
seventeen
Walker stood at the base of the fallen cottonwood, hands on his hips, breath puffing white in the cold morning air.
The tree looked worse in daylight. Branches thick as his thigh splayed across the snow-covered ground, some driven deep into the frozen earth from the impact.
Jonah’s truck was still there, crushed flat beneath the trunk.
Metal glinted through gaps in the wood where the roof had buckled.
“Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse,” Boone said beside him.
Walker grunted. His chest tightened every time he thought about how close it had been.
Five seconds. Maybe less. He’d watched them sprint away from his window, watched the tree come down, and for those few seconds before he knew they were safe, his whole world had narrowed to getting outside, getting to them.
Behind them, Cowboy bounded through the snow, his blue-gray coat already dusted white.
The puppy barked and leaped at Bishop, who tolerated the chaos with the patience of a saint.
The older dog would occasionally lift a paw to pin Cowboy when the pup got too rowdy, then release him to tumble through the drifts again.
Walker watched the puppy attack a snowbank, disappearing into it nose-first before backing out with a sneeze. “You really thought I needed a dog?”
“Everyone needs a dog,” Boone said.
“I’ve got enough to worry about without cleaning up puppy shit.”
“Jo’s already in love with him.” Boone pulled out a cigarette, cupped his hands to light it. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Walker couldn’t argue with that. Johanna had spent twenty minutes last night cooing over the damn thing, scratching behind his ears while Cowboy wriggled in her lap like he’d found heaven.
The name had been her idea, too. She’d taken one look at the blue merle and those bright eyes and declared him Cowboy on the spot.
So he supposed he had a dog now.
He circled the trunk, inspecting the damage. The tree had split clean near the base, the wood pale and raw where it had torn apart. Snow had already started to fill the hollow cavity inside. Rot. The center was soft, decayed from years of exposure and Montana winters. Should’ve seen it coming.
“Johanna’s been after me to take this thing down,” he admitted.
Boone exhaled smoke. “How long?”
“Since last Christmas. Took out a window on the house the night she found you drinking in the barn.” He nudged a chunk of bark with his boot. “Told her I’d get to it.”
“Guess it got to itself.”
Jonah approached from the other side, his boots crunching in the snow.
His face was drawn, shadowed with exhaustion.
Walker doubted the kid had slept much. Hell, none of them had.
They’d stayed up late dealing with the mess, clearing enough debris to make the yard passable, moving Jonah’s belongings from the wreckage into the bunkhouse.
“Found something,” he said and held up an ax, the blade crusted with frozen wood shavings. The same one he had been using to split wood yesterday.
“Where was it?”
“Near the stump.” Jonah gestured toward the base of the tree, where the trunk had torn free. “Wedged in the snow.”
Walker took the ax and turned it over in his hands. “Did you leave it here?”
“No. I left it by the barn.”
“Huh.” Walker crouched, brushing snow away from the base of the tree. Cuts scored the wood, deep gouges that bit into the heartwood. Fresh cuts. Not weathered or old.
His jaw tightened.
Someone had been working on this tree. Deliberately. The cuts weren’t random. They circled the trunk at the base, weakening it. He straightened, scanning the area. The snow had covered any tracks from last night, but the evidence was there in the wood itself.
Boone moved closer, cigarette dangling from his lips. He bent to inspect the cuts, ran his gloved fingers over the scored wood. “Fuck, this wasn’t an accident.”
“No,” Walker said. “It wasn’t.”
Jonah’s face went pale. “You think someone sabotaged it?”
Walker didn’t answer right away. He looked at the crushed truck, at the way the tree had fallen directly onto it. Perfect timing. Perfect placement. If they’d been inside when it came down, they’d both be dead.
“Who’d want to hurt us?” Jonah asked.
That was the question. Walker’s mind went to Hank Goodwin first. The sheriff had been making a lot of noise lately, stirring up trouble in town about Valor Ridge.
Calling it a haven for criminals. Saying men like them didn’t deserve second chances.
But would Hank escalate to attempted murder?
Hard to say. The man had a mean streak and a grudge that ran deep.
Could’ve been someone else. They’d made enemies over the last year. Men who didn’t want them here, who thought the ranch was a stain on the valley.
But sabotaging a tree? That didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.
“Walker?”
Johanna’s voice cut through his thoughts. She stood on the porch, wrapped in her heavy coat, her breath visible in the cold air. “Breakfast is ready. You three coming in, or are you planning to freeze out here?”
He glanced at Boone and Jonah. Boone crushed out his cigarette in the snow. Jonah still looked shaken, his eyes fixed on the ax in Walker’s hands.
“Yeah,” Walker called back. “We’re coming.”
He carried the ax with him as they trudged toward the house. Cowboy and Bishop trotted alongside, and the puppy’s face was coated in snow. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted through the open door, warm and inviting after the bitter chill outside.
But Walker’s mind wouldn’t settle. Someone had done this. Someone had tried to kill two of his men. And until he knew who, none of them were safe.
He paused at the base of the porch steps, looking back at the fallen tree. The snow was already covering it, softening the jagged edges, hiding the evidence beneath a blanket of white. By tomorrow, it would look almost peaceful. Just another casualty of winter.
But Walker knew better.
“Walker?” Johanna called again, concern creeping into her tone.
He shook his head, dismissing the worry for now. No point in ruining Christmas breakfast with speculation.
He climbed the steps and followed Boone and Jonah inside, where warmth and the smell of Jo’s cooking wrapped around him like a blanket. Butter, maple syrup, and coffee—his favorite combination of scents.
Johanna stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. She glanced over her shoulder at them, her eyes lingering on the ax in Walker’s hands.
“Everything okay out there?”
“Fine,” Walker said, propping the ax against the wall by the door. He’d deal with it later. Or not deal with it. The tree was old, rotted through. The ax had probably just been misplaced. Simple as that.
He moved to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup. The heat seeped through the ceramic into his palms.
Jonah slid into a chair at the table, shoulders hunched. Boone took the seat across from him, Bishop settling at his feet. Cowboy tried to climb into Walker’s chair, got shooed down, and settled for sprawling across Boone’s boots instead.
“Puppy’s going to be a handful,” Johanna said, setting a plate of pancakes on the table.
“Already is,” Walker muttered, pulling out his chair at the head of the table.
“These look amazing,” Jonah said and added a heaping stack to his plate. The hesitant, withdrawn kid from yesterday had vanished, replaced by a man who radiated the same eagerness as the puppy.
“Jo makes the best pancakes in three counties,” Boone confirmed, already drowning his in syrup.
“Family recipe,” Johanna said with a small smile. “The secret is buttermilk and patience.”
Walker pulled his phone from his jeans pocket before he sat. The screen lit up with the date—December 25—and a notification from his email. Nothing from Stella. Not that he’d expected anything; his daughter hadn’t responded to his Christmas text, same as last year and the year before that.
His thumb hovered over her name. He could try again.
He typed out a message:
Hope your Christmas is good. The ranch is growing. We’re adding new cabins in the spring. You’re welcome anytime.
Then he stared at the words, reading and rereading them until they blurred together. Too casual? Too pushy? Not enough? He couldn’t tell anymore. The gulf between them had grown so wide that even simple communication felt impossible.
He deleted it without sending. Maybe next time.
“So,” Jonah said, breaking into Walker’s thoughts, “how many new residents are you adding next year?”
Walker set his phone aside, screen down, and took his seat. “Thinking three or four to start. Keep it manageable. We have a new guy coming in January. Evander Cole.”
“But you’ve got land for more, right?” Jonah pressed, setting down his fork. “You said the property is almost two thousand acres.”
“Most of that’s grazing land and forest,” Walker explained. “The developed area is maybe thirty acres, centered around the house and barn.”
Jonah nodded, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Mind if I ask what the current septic system is rated for?”
Boone nearly choked on his coffee. “Septic system? That what keeps you up at night, Reed?”
“It’s a legitimate question,” Jonah said, not taking the bait.
“If you’re adding residents, you need infrastructure to support them.
Water, waste, electricity. And if you’re expanding the equine program, you’ll need proper drainage systems for the barn, additional hay storage, possibly a covered arena for year-round work.
And if you want to add more dogs, you’ll need kennels, too.
” He looked at Walker directly. “Unless you’ve already worked all that out? ”
Walker blinked, caught off guard. “We’ve got some rough plans. Nothing detailed.”
Jonah reached for a napkin and pulled a pen from his pocket. He began sketching, quick, efficient lines forming what Walker recognized as a basic site plan of the ranch.