Chapter 19
nineteen
How was it Christmas again already?
Johanna marveled at how quickly the past year had flown by as she sifted flour into the mixing bowl. The counter around her was a mess of measuring cups, spices, and butter wrappers— the battlefield of Christmas cookie production.
“Need the vanilla?” Walker’s voice came from behind her, closer than she expected.
“Yes, thanks.” She didn’t need to turn to know he’d already grabbed it from the shelf, his movements in sync with her needs.
The year since New Year’s Eve had refined their dance. They worked together, planned therapy sessions and chore rotations and equipment purchases. They existed in careful parallel. Close enough to brush shoulders in the kitchen. Far enough apart that it never quite counted as contact.
She’d told him she needed time. He’d given it. Neither of them talked about how long a year felt when you were both pretending not to want something.
Walker placed the vanilla on the counter next to her hand and stayed there, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the countertop.
“You’re hovering,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice as she poured vanilla into the mixture.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re watching me make cookies.”
“I’m supervising.” He leaned against the counter, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t burn them like last year.”
Johanna flicked a small cloud of flour at him. “That was your fault. You distracted me.”
His eyes caught hers, held for a beat too long. “Did I?”
She turned back to the bowl, her cheeks warming. “Where’s the cinnamon?”
He reached for it at the same moment she did, their fingers colliding over the small jar. Neither pulled away immediately. His hand was rough with calluses, warm against her flour-dusted skin. For a moment, they stood frozen like that, connected by that small point of contact.
Outside, something crashed. Loud enough that Cowboy lifted his head from where he’d been dozing by the fire, ears forward.
“Goddammit, River!” Boone’s voice carried clearly through the window.
“Shit.” Walker pulled his hand back, clearing his throat. “I should go check on that.”
She exhaled softly and resumed mixing, adding a pinch of cinnamon without measuring. “Boone can handle River.”
Walker snorted. “Nobody can handle River. That’s the problem.”
Ugh, that was the truth.
Johanna pressed her palms into the dough, kneading harder than necessary for a yeasted cookie, venting her frustrations on it.
River Beckett had been at the ranch for five months now.
In August, he’d taught the goats to open gates.
In September, he’d rewired the ranch truck’s horn to play “La Cucaracha.” October brought the great chicken-in-the-bunkhouse incident at 5 AM.
Last week, he’d replaced Walker’s coffee with decaf for three days running, which had sucked for everyone.
And, this week, he’d rigged the Christmas lights to blink in seizure-inducing patterns and put googly eyes on every reindeer decoration.
Yesterday, he’d replaced the nativity baby Jesus with a tiny action figure.
Boone had nearly thrown him off the property.
“He’s getting worse,” Walker said.
“He’s deflecting.”
“He’s being a pain in the ass.”
She divided the dough into rough balls. “He’s testing us. Testing whether we’ll kick him out when he’s too much. Whether this place is real or just another version of the same rejection he’s used to.”
“So we just let him run wild?” He scoffed. “You’re being too soft on him, Jo. He needs structure.”
“He needs safety.”
Walker planted himself in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed. “He needs to stop turning every-fucking-thing into a joke.”
“And he will. When he’s ready.”
“When’s that gonna be?” His voice had an edge now. “When he’s run out of pranks? When he’s burned every bridge here?”
“When he feels safe enough to stop running.” She shaped another ball of dough, pressing too hard, flattening it. “You push him now, you’ll lose him.”
Walker’s expression darkened. “We said that about Evander. ‘Give him time. Give him space. He’ll open up when he’s ready.’ And he left in the middle of the night. Didn’t even say goodbye. Just gone.” He shook his head. “Boone blamed himself for months.”
So did you, she thought, but said, “You can’t make someone stay who doesn’t want to be saved.”
“Maybe not. But I should’ve tried something different instead of just waiting for Evander to be ready. I’m not making the same mistake with River.”
They stared at each other across the counter, flour and cookie dough and three years of unspoken things between them.
In three years, this was their first real fight about how to help someone. About methods, philosophy, timing. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Walker led with structure and discipline. She led with patience and space. They’d been dancing around this collision since the day she’d arrived.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, the kitchen door banged open, bringing a blast of cold air and River, whose dark curls were dusted with snow.
“It’s freezing out there,” River announced, stamping his boots on the mat. His gaze bounced from Johanna to Walker, taking in their proximity at the counter. A slow grin spread across his face. “Well, well, well. What’s cooking in here besides cookies?”
“Nothing,” Walker said, too quickly, and backed away from her. “What did you break?”
River waved a dismissive hand. “Just one of those glass ball things. And technically, Boone broke it. I merely created the circumstances in which it could be broken.” He hopped onto a stool at the island, watching them with unabashed interest. “You two seem cozy. So are you gonna make out or make cookies? The suspense is killing me.”
The wooden spoon froze in her hand, hovering over the bowl. Beside her, Walker went completely still, his body suddenly radiating tension rather than warmth.
Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the soft ticking of the wall clock.
River looked between them, eyebrows raised. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
“Don’t you have decorations to hang?” Walker’s voice had that dangerous calm that usually sent the men of Valor Ridge running for cover.
“Nope.” River popped the ‘p’ sound, settling more comfortably on the stool. “Boone fired me. Said I’m a ‘hazard to public safety and Christmas spirit.’” He reached over and snagged a cookie from the cooling rack. “These are good, Doc. Your secret talent.”
“River,” Walker warned.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” He grabbed another cookie, dodged Walker’s swat, and backed toward the door, cackling as he went.
The silence that followed was thick enough to slice and serve with coffee.
Johanna realized she was still holding the wooden spoon midair, like a conductor frozen mid-symphony. She lowered it slowly, setting it in the bowl.
Walker cleared his throat. “Sorry about him.”
“He’s not wrong, though.”
Crap. She hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to cross the line they’d been so careful not to approach since New Year’s Eve. Since the kiss that had been perfect and terrifying and had changed exactly nothing because she’d told him she wasn’t ready.
Walker moved, reaching across the counter. Then he stopped. Pulled back.
“Jo,” he started, his voice lower than usual, rough around the edges.
Another crash outside. This one louder. Followed by Jonah’s shout, baffled and exasperated.
Walker closed his eyes briefly as if praying for patience. When he opened them again, whatever he’d been about to say seemed to have retreated behind his usual reserve.
“I should—” He gestured vaguely toward the window.
“Yeah.”
He hesitated, looking at her for a long moment. Then he nodded once and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “We’ll finish this conversation.” It wasn’t a question.
“We will,” she agreed, not entirely sure if she was looking forward to it or dreading it.
The door closed behind him, and Johanna let out a long breath. She pressed her palms flat on the counter, breathing through her nose.
The house creaked around her.
The tree lights blinked their irregular rhythm in the other room.
Somewhere outside, River was probably breaking something else, and Walker was probably trying very hard not to strangle him.
And she was standing here, covered in flour, realizing that three years hadn’t made this any easier.
That wanting Walker and being terrified of losing him felt exactly the same as it had when she first arrived at the ranch.
That maybe River had been right to call them out, because they were stuck.
Trapped in this careful dance where they both knew the steps but refused to move forward.
The door opened again. Walker came back in, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared.
“He put the goats in the bunkhouse,” he said, kicking the door closed behind him.
“Of course he did.”
“Boone’s ready to kill him.”
“Boone’s always ready to kill someone.” She put another tray of cookies in the oven and set the timer for twelve minutes. “I’m guessing the talk with River didn’t go well?”
Walker moved to the sink, turned on the water, and scrubbed his hands. The silence stretched. He dried his hands carefully on a towel and set it down, then finally turned to face her.
“That implies we actually talked.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in salt-and-pepper spikes. “He turned everything into a joke. Again. Every time I try to get him to open up about what happened with his friend, he deflects. Makes some smart-ass comment. Walks away.”
Johanna scooped cookie dough onto a fresh baking sheet. “River’s not Boone or Jonah. Or even Evander. His defense mechanisms are different.”