Chapter 22 #2
Johanna’s boots crunched through the fresh layer of snow as she made her way back to the main house.
Nearly midnight now, Christmas Eve sliding into Christmas Day while she’d sat on that cold garage floor.
Her back ached, her fingers were stiff with cold despite her pockets, but something had shifted with River.
Not fixed, not healed, but a crack in the wall.
A start. The windows of Walker’s house glowed amber against the darkness, Christmas lights twinkling along the roofline.
Through the front window, she could see the tree they’d decorated together, slightly crooked because Boone had insisted on using the stand from last year even though one leg was shorter than the others.
She stomped the snow from her boots on the porch and pushed open the front door.
Warmth rushed to meet her, along with the lingering scent of dinner and pine.
The house was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace.
She shrugged off her coat, hanging it on the hook by the door, and followed the glow of firelight into the living room.
Walker sat on the couch, one hand absently scratching Cowboy’s ears.
The cattle dog lay with his head on Walker’s knee, eyes closed in contentment.
A single lamp burned on the side table, casting long shadows across the room.
The Christmas tree lights blinked in their uneven pattern, illuminating the few wrapped presents underneath.
“You waited up,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet room.
Walker looked up, his face softened by firelight and fatigue. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Cowboy lifted his head at the sound of her voice, tail thumping once against the couch cushions before he settled back down. Johanna crossed to the fireplace, holding her cold hands toward the heat. The flames had died down to mostly embers, glowing orange in a bed of white ash.
“Did you reach him?” Walker asked, his voice carefully neutral.
She sank onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Her muscles protested the movement, stiff from sitting too long on concrete. “Maybe. A little.”
Walker waited, giving her space to continue or not. Johanna watched the embers pulse with each subtle draft, remembering the way River’s hands had finally stilled on the wrench, the moment his walls had cracked enough to let that truth slip through. I don’t know how to stop.
“He talked,” she said finally. “Not much, but... honestly. Without the jokes.”
Walker nodded, his profile strong against the firelight. “That’s more than the rest of us got.”
“He’s exhausted, Walker. Keeping up that front, all that energy and noise.” She rubbed her temples, a headache building behind her eyes. “He’s running on fumes.”
“And guilt,” Walker added quietly. “That’s a heavy load to carry alone.”
The fire popped, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney. Cowboy’s ears twitched at the sound, but he didn’t open his eyes.
“You’re good at this,” Walker said after a moment. “Better than me.”
She turned to look at him, surprised by the admission. “At what?”
“Waiting. Being still. Letting people come to you.” His fingers traced a pattern on the couch cushion between them. “I push too hard. Always have.”
“We’re good at different things,” she countered. “You gave Boone structure. Jonah purpose.” She thought of the way Walker had rebuilt both men, giving each exactly what they needed to find themselves again. “River needs... space to be broken without being judged.”
Walker’s eyes met hers, blue even in the dim light. “What would I do without you?”
The question hung between them, weighted with everything they’d never said aloud. Three years of careful distance, of professional boundaries slowly blurring into something neither of them had named. Her throat tightened.
“You’ll never have to find out,” she said, the words barely above a whisper.
His hand moved across the cushion, covering hers. His palm was warm, callused from years of ranch work, solid against her skin. She turned her hand over, letting their fingers intertwine. Such a small gesture, holding hands like teenagers, yet her pulse jumped at the contact.
Walker’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, then back to her face. Something shifted in his eyes, a decision forming. He leaned forward slightly, just enough for her to feel his breath warm against her cheek.
She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t, even as her mind raced with all the reasons she should.
This was Walker, who carried the guilt of her husband’s death like his own sin.
Walker, who’d built Valor Ridge from nothing, who poured everything into saving broken men because he believed himself beyond redemption.
Walker, whose touch made her feel more alive than she had in years.
But the memory of Nick rose between them, unbidden.
Not the husband she’d loved before deployment changed him, but the stranger who’d come back wearing Nick’s face.
The Nick who’d watched her from his car outside the VA.
Who’d called at three in the morning, alternating between apologies and accusations.
Who’d found them in bed together and left that awful note before taking his own life.
You took my only reason to live. I hope you’re happy together. I hope it was worth it.
Walker carried that guilt like a stone in his chest. She saw it in the way he’d pulled back after the funeral, the way he’d kept their conversations clinical, professional. The way he’d built Valor Ridge as if saving enough broken men might somehow balance the scales.
But she carried it too. The knowledge that she’d let herself feel something for Walker while Nick was struggling, even if they had been separated at the time. The first date that had ended in her bedroom with one of the best nights of her life, quickly followed by the worst morning.
Nick had been looking for a reason. She knew that. His therapist had said it. The note had said it, in its own twisted way. He’d been circling that decision for months, maybe years, and she and Walker had just happened to be there when he finally chose.
Knowing didn’t make it easier.
The moment stretched, taut as a wire. Neither of them moved to close that final distance.
“Merry Christmas, Jo,” Walker said finally, his voice rough with something that might have been regret.
She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “Merry Christmas, Walker.”
He didn’t release her hand. She didn’t pull away. They sat together in the firelight, the Christmas tree blinking its silent rhythm, closer than they’d allowed themselves in years but still separated by the ghosts between them.
Outside, snow began to fall again, covering their footprints in the yard.
Tomorrow would bring presents and breakfast and all the forced cheer of a holiday at Valor Ridge.
But for now, there was just this: the fire, the quiet, their hands joined on the couch cushion while the clock ticked toward midnight.
Cowboy sighed in his sleep, settling more firmly against Walker’s leg. The fire crackled.
And somewhere in the house, a phone began to ring.