Chapter 28
twenty-eight
Walker woke to the sound of Cowboy scratching at the bedroom door.
The cattle dog’s nails clicked against the wood in a familiar rhythm that meant he needed to go out.
Sunlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, painting a stripe across the bed that warmed Walker’s bare shoulder.
He blinked, taking in the scent of coffee drifting up from downstairs, mixed with the clatter of pots and pans.
Someone was cooking breakfast. But it was the weight against his side, the soft skin and gentle breathing, that brought the night rushing back to him.
Johanna lay curled against him, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, one arm draped over his chest. The navy quilt had slipped down, exposing the curve of her shoulder and the smooth line of her back. Her face was relaxed in sleep, the tiny worry line between her eyebrows smoothed away.
The scratching at the door stopped. Walker heard Cowboy sigh heavily, then the soft thump of the dog lying down. He’d wait. He always did.
Walker stayed still, not wanting to wake her.
Not wanting to break whatever spell had finally allowed this to happen after years of careful distance.
He traced a finger down her spine, barely touching, counting the small knobs of her vertebrae.
Her skin was warm under his callused fingertip, soft in a way that made his chest tighten.
In sleep, she looked younger. The careful control she maintained during the day—the professional distance, the measured words—all of it gone, leaving just Johanna. His Johanna, now. The thought sent a rush of heat through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the window.
She stirred at his touch, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked confused, blinking up at him. Then recognition dawned, followed by a slow smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
“Hey,” she said, voice husky with sleep.
“Morning.” He couldn’t help but smile back, running a hand over her hair.
She stretched beside him, muscles shifting under skin. “What time is it?”
Walker glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Almost nine.”
“Nine?” She sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest. “We never sleep this late. The guys—”
“Are fine.” He pulled her back down, his arm wrapping around her waist. “Sounds like breakfast is already happening.”
She settled against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if she’d done it a thousand times instead of just last night. “We should get up.”
“Not yet.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair—vanilla and something uniquely her. “Five more minutes.”
They lay together, her heart beating steady against his ribs, their breath finding the same rhythm.
The house creaked and settled around them.
Through the closed window, he heard the distant bark of a dog—Bishop, probably, chasing something in the yard.
The everyday sounds of Valor Ridge continuing without them.
“They’ll know,” she said after a while, her voice quiet against his skin.
He ran a hand down her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in its wake. “They probably already do.”
As if on cue, a wolf whistle drifted up from downstairs, followed by River’s distinctive laugh.
He snorted, burying his face in her hair. “That kid. I swear.”
“See?” she groaned, but she was smiling. “This will be the talk of the ranch for weeks.”
“So?” he said, kissing her shoulder.
She raised her head to look at him, hair falling in her face. “That doesn’t bother you? Everyone knowing our business?”
He brushed the hair back, tucking it behind her ear. “Let them talk. I don’t care.” He meant it, he realized. After years of holding back, of keeping his feelings locked tight, he didn’t care who knew.
He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold beneath his bare feet.
He grabbed his jeans from where they’d landed the night before, pulling them on without bothering with underwear.
Behind him, he heard Johanna sit up, felt her eyes on his back as he fastened his belt.
“You’re really not scared,” she said, a hint of wonder in her voice.
He turned to face her. She’d wrapped the quilt around herself, clutching it to her chest. Her hair was tousled, lips still swollen from his kisses, a small mark visible on her collarbone where his mouth had been.
“Terrified,” he admitted, crossing to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “But not of this. Not of us.”
Her eyes searched his face, looking for something. Whatever she found made her smile, a small, private curve of her lips that he wanted to taste again.
“Where’s my sweater?” She glanced around, spotting it on the floor near the window. “And my jeans?”
Walker watched as she slid out of bed, still clutching the quilt around her. She bent to pick up her clothes, the quilt slipping to reveal the curve of her hip, the small of her back. His mouth went dry at the sight.
“Stop staring,” she said without looking at him, a smile in her voice.
“Can’t help it.” He stood, crossing to her in three long strides. His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lips finding the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”
She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to frame his face. “So are you.” She kissed his temple, his cheek, and finally his mouth, a light brush of lips that promised more.
“We should go downstairs,” she murmured against his lips.
“Eventually.” He tightened his arms around her, not ready to share her with the rest of the world just yet.
She smiled against his mouth, then gently pushed him away. “Now. Before Boone sends out a search party.”
“He would, too.” He sighed, but let her go. He grabbed a fresh T-shirt from the dresser while Johanna pulled on her jeans and sweater from the night before. Her movements were quick and efficient, but he caught the slight tremor in her hands as she buttoned her jeans.
“Ready?” she asked, running fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tame it.
He nodded, reaching for the doorknob. Cowboy rose from his spot in front of the door, tail wagging in greeting. The dog looked from Walker to Johanna and back again, head tilting slightly as if trying to understand the change in their relationship.
“Morning to you, too,” Johanna said, scratching Cowboy behind the ears. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Walker opened the door, letting the dog go first. Johanna followed, and he came last, his hand finding hers as they approached the stairs. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his without hesitation.
The stairs creaked under their weight, announcing their descent. Walker kept his hand in hers, thumb rubbing small circles on her skin. At the bottom step, he squeezed once, then moved his palm to the small of her back as they entered the kitchen.
River stood at the stove, flipping pancakes and singing something off-key. Boone sat at the table, newspaper open in front of him, a mug of coffee at his elbow. Jonah leaned against the counter, cup in hand, watching River with an expression of mild alarm.
All three looked up as Walker and Johanna entered. Conversation stopped. River’s singing cut off mid-verse.
“Morning, lovers,” River said, a grin spreading across his face. “Sleep well?”
Johanna’s cheeks went red. She tucked her hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture Walker had come to recognize over the years.
Jonah smirked at Boone. “Told you so.”
Boone grunted, turning back to his paper. “Eggs are getting cold,” he said, not quite managing to hide his smile.
Walker pulled out a chair for Johanna, then sat beside her.
His knee bumped hers under the table, a small point of contact that sent warmth spreading through his chest. For three years, they’d sat at this same table every morning, careful not to touch, careful not to reveal anything.
Now, he could brush his hand against hers, could lean in close, could let everyone see what she meant to him.
Jonah set a plate in front of Johanna—bacon, eggs, toast. “Extra crispy, just how you like it,” he said, nodding to the bacon. “Congrats, by the way. Took you two long enough.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, reaching for her fork.
“Boone’s smirking behind that paper because he won the bet,” River announced, flipping another pancake with unnecessary flourish. “Said you two couldn’t make it through another holiday without jumping each other.”
Walker’s hand was steady as he poured the coffee, but when Johanna touched his wrist, a slight tremor ran through him. Not from fear, but from the newness of being allowed to touch her, to be touched by her, in front of everyone.
“I should get half the winnings,” River continued, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “My brilliant plan is what finally got you two together.”
“Your brilliant plan was grabbing Jonah’s arm and saying ‘let’s get out of here so they can make out,’” Boone deadpanned, not looking up from his paper.
“And it wasn’t like we hadn’t tried the same thing last year,” Jonah pointed out, taking a bite of toast.
Walker cleared his throat. “If you’re all done discussing our personal lives—”
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” River interrupted, sitting down with his plate piled high with the slightly singed pancakes. “We’ve got months of pent-up commentary to unleash.”
Boone set his coffee down with a soft clink and finally folded the paper. “So. This is happening?” He met Walker’s eyes, the question loaded but not unkind.
Walker took Johanna’s hand, lacing their fingers beneath the table where only she could feel it. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Boone nodded, solemn as a judge. “About damn time.” Then he looked away, but not before a quick, rare smile flickered across his face.
The conversation pivoted easily, as if some locked door had been thrown open.
Boone launched into a rundown of the day’s chores—fence repair after the last snow, moving feed from the storage barn before the next storm, checking on the new calves up at the North Meadow.
River tossed in a joke about Boone’s eternal feud with the fence-line, but even that felt lighter, less like a shield than it had just a week ago.
Johanna’s hand remained in Walker’s under the table, her thumb tracing absent circles along his knuckles.
It was a small thing, but it felt like oxygen.
He was conscious of every contact, every glance, every shared private moment that no longer had to be hidden or explained away.
It was as if his body had remembered something it used to need and been deprived of for too long.
When Boone and River moved on to a debate about winterizing the old tractor—River’s theory was that it needed a new starter, Boone’s that the entire thing was “nothing but scrap held together by rust and white-knuckle hope”—Johanna leaned close to Walker and lowered her voice.
“You’re sure this is okay?” she whispered, her words barely for him.
He looked at her, at the worry still etched behind her eyes. “I’m sure.” He squeezed her hand, willing her to believe it.
She smiled, then covered it quickly by sipping her coffee. But he caught the smile anyway, and in the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, he saw the same mixture of relief and hope that ran through his own veins.
Jonah cleared his throat. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, we should probably get moving. River’s got to break at least one major appliance before noon or he’ll lose his edge.”
River slouched back in his chair. “Don’t challenge me, Reed. You know I’ll do it.”
Boone jabbed a thumb at the clock on the wall. “Let’s roll, then.” He drained the rest of his coffee, dropped the mug into the sink with practiced ease, and gave Bishop a low, two-fingered whistle. The dog rose instantly, tail wagging, ready for whatever came next.
When the kitchen cleared out, Johanna lingered by the sink, rinsing her plate and lining it up with the others. Walker watched her, counting the heartbeats until she looked up.
“I meant what I said last night,” she said quietly. “About not being afraid. About wanting this.”
He crossed the room, stepped behind her, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Me too.”
She leaned into him, the tension in her body unspooling by degrees. “It’s not going to be easy, is it?”
“No,” he said. “But nothing worth having ever is.” He turned her gently, and in the bright, morning-lit kitchen, kissed her for the first time without hiding it. She tasted of coffee and sleep and something sweet—honey or vanilla, maybe, but he didn’t care to put a name to it.
And to Walker, it felt like the start of everything. He took another sip of coffee, felt Johanna lean into his shoulder, and let himself believe they had finally gotten it right.