Chapter 25
twenty-five
He’d almost lost her.
The thought circled in Walker’s head all night as he tossed and turned in his bed.
He could have so easily lost her.
Now he stood at the kitchen window, watching gray dawn light creep across the snow-covered yard.
His fourth cup of coffee had gone cold in his hand an hour ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to pour another.
Cowboy lay at his feet, chin resting on his paws, eyes tracking Walker’s restless movements.
The house felt too quiet after last night’s chaos.
The ambulance had left at two in the morning, red lights painting the snow as they took Leonora to the psychiatric unit in Missoula.
Hank had shown up twenty minutes later, his face carved from stone as he took statements.
Walker had watched Boone answer questions in a flat, distant voice, his mother’s blood still on his coat.
Johanna had refused the hospital. The EMTs had cleaned and bandaged the knife wound on her neck, declared it shallow enough not to need stitches, and she’d sent them away. Then she’d disappeared into the guest room upstairs and hadn’t come out.
Walker wanted to check on her. Had stood outside her door three times in the past five hours, hand raised to knock, unable to make himself do it. What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry my employee’s mentally ill mother held a knife to your throat on Christmas Eve?
The front door opened, bringing a gust of cold air. Boone stepped inside, snow dusting his shoulders, his face gray with exhaustion. He’d been at his mother’s house since three, collecting her things, securing the property. Doing what needed doing because that’s what Boone did.
“Coffee,” Boone said, his voice scraped raw.
Walker poured a fresh mug, watched Boone’s hands shake as he took it. Neither of them spoke. What was there to say?
Footsteps on the stairs made them both turn. Johanna appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing the same clothes from last night, her hair loose around her face. A white bandage stood out stark against her throat. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.
“You should be sleeping,” Walker said, the words coming out rougher than he meant.
“So should you.” She crossed to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Her hands were steady. “How’s Leonora?”
Boone stared into his mug. “Sedated. They’re doing a full psych eval, but the doctor said...” He swallowed hard. “It’s schizophrenia, which she’s been treating with meth.”
The silence that followed felt like a physical weight.
“The sabotage,” Johanna said quietly. “All of it. That was her?”
Boone nodded, still not looking up. “Thought if she could scare everyone away, I’d come home.”
Walker saw Johanna’s throat work as she swallowed. Saw her hand drift to the bandage at her neck.
“She needs help,” Johanna said. “Real help. Long-term care.”
“Yeah.” Boone’s voice cracked. “Hank’s already talking about pressing charges. Criminal trespassing, assault with a deadly weapon, destruction of property.” He finally looked up, his navy eyes hollow. “He wants to make an example of her. Show the town what happens when you cross the Goodwins.”
“Like hell,” Walker said, the words coming out sharp enough to make Cowboy’s ears prick. “We’re not pressing charges.”
Boone’s eyebrows rose. “Walker—”
“No.” Walker set his mug down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim. “She’s sick. She needs treatment, not a jail cell.”
“She nearly killed Johanna.”
“She’s not responsible for her actions right now.” Johanna’s voice was calm, clinical. The therapist in her taking over. “Psychosis doesn’t excuse what she did, but it explains it. She needs psychiatric care, not criminal prosecution.”
The door opened again. Jonah stamped snow from his boots, his face drawn. He took in the three of them standing in the kitchen, the exhaustion written on every face, and headed straight for the coffee.
“Sunny ate,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “Leg looks good. No sign of infection.” He turned, leaning against the counter. “How’s everyone here?”
Nobody answered.
Jonah’s gaze landed on Johanna’s bandaged neck, and something dark flickered across his face. “That should’ve been stitched.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
“It’s not fine.” Jonah’s voice carried an edge Walker had rarely heard from him. “None of this is fine.”
“No,” Boone said quietly. “It’s not.”
More footsteps on the porch, lighter this time. River pushed through the door, his curls wild, grease smudged on his jaw. He stopped short when he saw them all gathered in the kitchen, his eyes going immediately to Johanna’s neck.
“You okay, Doc?” The usual manic energy was gone from his voice, leaving something raw underneath.
“I’m okay.” She offered him a small smile. “Thanks to you.”
River shoved his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight. “Yeah, well. Couldn’t let her hurt you. You’re the only one who sits on cold garage floors with broken people.”
The words hung in the air, honest and unguarded.
Boone cleared his throat. “Thank you again. For talking her down. I couldn’t reach her, but you did.”
River shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the gratitude. “She just needed someone who understood what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning. To need someone to throw you a rope instead of lectures.”
Walker watched the two men look at each other, something passing between them that hadn’t been there before. Understanding, maybe. Or just the shared weight of last night.
“Anyone sleep?” Jonah asked, breaking the moment.
Head shakes all around.
“Right.” Jonah set down his mug. “So we’re all running on fumes and trauma. Merry Christmas.”
The bitter laugh that escaped Boone sounded like broken glass.
“I should go,” Johanna said, setting her untouched coffee on the counter. “Let you all process this.”
“Stay.” The word came out of Walker before he could stop it. “Please.”
Her eyes met his, searching. Whatever she found there made her nod slowly and pick up her coffee again.
The morning stretched on in fits and starts.
Jonah disappeared to check on Sunny again.
River vanished into the garage, the sound of metal on metal and blasting music carrying across the yard.
Boone made phone calls, his voice low and tense as he navigated insurance claims and hospital administrators.
Walker and Johanna ended up in the living room, the crooked Christmas tree standing in the corner like a monument to the holiday they’d tried to have. The presents underneath looked wrong now, frivolous in the face of what had happened.
“I keep thinking about her face,” Johanna said quietly, staring at the tree. “When she realized Boone had grown up. That desperate need to turn back time, to get her little boy back.” She touched the bandage at her throat. “I’ve never seen grief that raw.”
Walker sat beside her on the couch, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t.” She turned to look at him, her brown eyes steady. “River talked her down. Boone caught her. It ended without anyone dying.”
“This time.” The words tasted bitter. “Next time—”
“There won’t be a next time. She’ll get the help she needs.” Johanna’s hand found his on the couch cushion, her fingers threading through his. “You can’t control everything, Walker. You can’t protect everyone from every possible threat.”
“I should’ve known. Should’ve seen the signs.”
“How?” Her grip tightened. “Boone didn’t even know how bad she’d gotten. You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s mental illness.”
But he did. Would. Because that’s what he did, carried the weight of everything that went wrong at Valor Ridge, every injury, every setback, every near-miss.
“Hey.” She shifted closer, her free hand coming up to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Stop. I can see you spiraling, and I need you to stop.”
The touch burned through him, her palm warm against his face. He wanted to lean into it, to let her take some of this weight. But guilt sat heavy on his chest, choking him.
“I asked you to stay,” he said, voice rough. “Knew it might be dangerous. Knew the town hated us, knew we had enemies, and I asked you anyway.”
“And I said yes.” Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. “I chose this, Walker. Chose you. Chose this place. Nobody forced me.”
“Jo—”
“I’m not leaving.” The words came out fierce, certain. “Whatever you’re about to say, whatever guilt-spiral you’re working yourself into, stop it. I’m not leaving.”
He stared at her, at the bandage on her throat where his employee’s mother had held a knife.
At the exhaustion in her eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
At the woman who’d sat on a cold garage floor with River, who’d stayed calm with a blade at her throat, who was telling him now that she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I almost lost you,” he said, the confession scraping his throat raw.
“But you didn’t.” She leaned forward, close enough that he could feel her breath against his lips. “I’m right here.”
The distance between them collapsed. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he closed the final inches. Her lips were soft against his, warm and alive and real. She made a small sound, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss tasted like coffee and exhaustion and three years of wanting. He tried to be gentle, tried to remember the bandage at her throat, the trauma of last night. But she kissed him back fierce and hungry, like she needed to prove she was alive, that they both were.
When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his, both of them breathing hard.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, and despite everything, despite the chaos and blood and fear, Walker felt something in his chest crack open. Something that had been locked down for years, maybe decades.
“Merry Christmas, Jo.”