Chapter 44
forty-four
Ghost scowled from the front porch of Walker’s house, his body a constellation of aches that radiated from the through-and-through bullet wound in his side.
Three weeks since Julius had put a bullet in him.
Two weeks since he’d been released from the hospital with strict instructions to rest—instructions he’d already dismissed as suggestions.
It hadn’t snowed in the valley yet, despite the white creeping farther down the mountains each day.
In fact, it was downright balmy for early November, and the Montana sun warmed the wooden planks beneath him…
but he couldn’t shake the persistent chill that had settled in his bones since that night in Ava’s cabin.
He watched the activity around Valor Ridge through narrowed eyes, cataloging movements and assessing threats out of habit, even though his brain knew there were none. Not here. Not anymore.
He absently traced the edge of his wound through his shirt. The doctors had used words like “lucky” and “millimeters from major organs.”
He didn’t believe in luck.
He believed in angles, trajectories, and the fact that Julius Charlo had been a lousy shot—something that had worked in Ghost’s favor, but had cost several women their lives.
He adjusted his position, stubbornly ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his side. The limp he’d developed was harder to hide, but he managed a passable imitation of his regular stride whenever anyone was looking.
Pride, maybe.
Or simply a refusal to be perceived as wounded, vulnerable.
Either way, he’d be damned if he’d let anyone see him struggle up the porch steps.
Movement near the firepit caught his eye. River and X lugged a folding table across the yard. They were bickering, as usual—something about optimal table positioning relative to smoke drift—but there was no heat in it. Just the easy rhythm of men who’d found their places in each other’s orbits.
River stretched a banner between two posts, and Ghost’s stomach clenched.
The red letters, glittering in the afternoon sun, proclaimed “WELCOME BACK” in handwriting that looked suspiciously like Oliver’s—all uneven capitals and backward letters made charming by enthusiasm.
Below the banner, the folding table quickly accumulated items: mismatched mugs, a steaming pot that could only be Jonah’s famous beef stew, a plate of bacon still sizzling and releasing tendrils of mouth-watering scent into the air, and a tray of Nessie’s cinnamon rolls.
They were throwing him a goddamn welcome-back party.
His jaw clenched as he surveyed the setup.
The last time anyone had celebrated his existence had been.
.. when? The CIA promotion dinner a decade ago?
The sad birthday party at his tenth foster home placement?
Ghost couldn’t remember, and that fact alone told him everything he needed to know about how he should feel about this unwanted gesture.
He didn’t deserve celebration. Didn’t know what to do with it.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat to the Hub, to lock himself away with his monitors and his solitude.
But even that sanctuary had been compromised—Naomi’s scent still lingered there, her files still occupied a corner of his desk, her coffee mug (chipped at the rim where she’d dropped it during a late-night research binge) still sat beside his computer.
And even after weeks, her scent was all over his bed.
A truck pulled up the drive, kicking up dust that caught golden in the late-afternoon light.
Greta was at the wheel, her distinctive strawberry braid visible through the windshield.
Mariah emerged from the passenger side, elegant as always despite the gravel and dust, with Tate trailing behind her, his copper curls gleaming in the sun.
The boy clutched a paper bag to his chest with the serious concentration of a child entrusted with something precious.
Ghost’s scowl deepened. This was spreading beyond the usual Valor Ridge crew. Becoming a... thing. The kind of thing people remembered, talked about, expected you to participate in. The kind of thing that created connections he’d spent years carefully avoiding.
His gaze drifted across the yard, past the growing gathering, to the fence line where Naomi stood with her arms crossed.
The sun caught in her hair, turned her skin to warm gold.
Even from this distance, Ghost could see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth—not her professional smile or her placating one, but something genuine and warm that made his chest ache in ways his wound never could.
When had she arrived? How had he missed her approach? The questions bothered him almost as much as the celebration brewing in the yard.
He was slipping. Getting comfortable.
The thought sent a cold spike of panic through his gut.
Ghost pushed himself to his feet, determined to escape before anyone could drag him into whatever misguided festivity they’d planned. He’d make it to the Hub, lock the door, and claim he needed rest.
Not entirely a lie—his side throbbed with dull insistence, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs despite his stubborn refusal to acknowledge it.
He made it precisely three steps before River materialized in his path, grinning that shit-eating grin that meant trouble.
“Where you think you’re going, Casper?”
“No,” Ghost replied flatly.
River’s grin widened. “Yes.”
“No,” he repeated, more firmly this time, drawing himself up to his full height—an intimidation tactic that had worked on hardened operatives across six continents but somehow failed spectacularly against River Beckett.
“We’ve got bacon,” River said, as if this settled the matter entirely. “And Nessie’s rolls. The ones with the extra cinnamon that you pretend not to like but always steal when no one’s looking.”
Jesus, that sounded good. Maybe he could—
He growled softly. “Absolutely not.”
“We’ve already committed, man,” X called from where he was arranging food on the table. “There’s glitter.” He gestured to the sign as if presenting evidence in court. “Glitter. We played with the herpes of craft supplies for you.”
Ghost calculated his chances of making it to the Hub if he simply shouldered past them.
Low, given his current physical state. Lower still, when he noticed Cinder padding silently around the side of the porch to sit directly in his alternate escape path, her dark eyes fixed on him with canine innocence that didn’t fool him for a second.
He stared down at the dog. “Et tu, Brute?”
Cinder’s tail thumped against the dirt, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth in what could only be described as a grin.
Ghost exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him. He was outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and—though he’d never admit it—secretly, treacherously grateful for it all.
He let himself be herded toward the firepit, where the rest of the Valor Ridge crew had gathered. The men formed a loose semicircle around the crackling flames, passing dishes back and forth with the easy camaraderie of soldiers who’d eaten too many meals together to stand on ceremony.
Bear towered at the edge of the group, massive hands cradling a mug that looked comically small against his bulk.
X laughed at something Jax said, the sound carrying across the yard.
Jonah tended the fire, while Boone stood with arms crossed, observing everything with his usual stern vigilance.
Walker sat in a weathered Adarondak chair like a king holding court, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched his men.
A familiar discomfort crawled up Ghost’s spine—too many people, too much attention, all of it directed at him.
“There he is,” X called out, raising his mug in greeting. “The man who won’t stay dead.”
“That’s a terrible toast,” Jax muttered, elbowing X hard enough to slosh liquid over the rim of his cup. “Besides, he wasn’t dead, just shot. Big difference.”
“Having experienced both, I can confirm they’re different sensations,” Walker drawled, which earned a rumble of dark laughter from the men.
Ghost stood awkwardly at the edge of the circle, unsure where to position himself in this tableau of belonging that he’d never quite mastered.
River thrust a plate into his hands. The bacon glistened in the firelight, perfectly crisped, releasing an aroma that made his stomach growl despite his determination to remain unmoved by the gesture.
He fucking loved bacon.
“Eat,” Jonah urged quietly, materializing at his elbow. “The doctor said you need protein to regain your strength.”
“The doctor also said I shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ghost replied, but he took a strip of bacon anyway, biting into it with a defiant crunch.
Jonah grinned. “Never known you to follow orders you didn’t agree with.”
A truth Ghost couldn’t argue with. He ate another piece of bacon, letting the salt and smoke fill his mouth while he tracked the movement around the firepit.
Everyone maintained a careful distance from him, he noticed—close enough to include, far enough not to crowd.
They’d learned his boundaries over the years and respected them, even as they nudged against them.
“Speech!” River called, raising his mug high. “The returning hero should say a few words.”
“I will shoot you,” Ghost replied without heat. “Again.”
“Promises, promises,” River shot back with a grin that said he wasn’t remotely intimidated by the threat. “Besides, Nessie would never forgive you for getting blood on her cinnamon rolls.”
X laughed, throwing an arm around River’s shoulders. “Maybe let the man eat before you ask him to get emotional. He was technically dead for like, what, two minutes?”
“One minute, forty-seven seconds,” Walker corrected, his tone deliberately casual though his eyes remained fixed on Ghost. “According to the paramedics.”