Chapter 45
forty-five
The crackling of the dying fire accompanied the sound of boots on gravel as the others drifted toward the bunkhouse, their laughter and voices fading with distance.
Ghost remained seated by the fire pit and lit a cigar he absolutely wasn’t supposed to have as he watched the flames fade to glowing embers.
His repaired mug sat empty beside him, the gold-filled cracks catching the dying firelight. He traced one with his thumb, feeling the slight ridge beneath his calloused skin.
Naomi was at the Hub right now.
Packing.
Leaving.
The thought lodged in his chest like shrapnel, but he made no move to stop her. She’d been pulling away since the night he was shot, and he couldn’t blame her. The bullet had changed things between them—or perhaps just accelerated what was inevitable. People left. They always did.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks upward.
He reached for another log, then stopped himself. Let it die. There was a symmetry to it that suited his mood—light fading to darkness, warmth to cold, presence to absence. The story of his life, reduced to elemental transformation.
The night air sharpened as the temperature dropped, carrying the mingled scents of pine, stew smoke, and approaching winter.
His breath fogged in front of his face, and the wound in his side throbbed with the cold, but still he didn’t move.
As if by remaining perfectly still, he could somehow pause time itself, prevent the inevitable moment when Naomi would drive away from Valor Ridge, taking with her the strange, uncomfortable hope that had been growing in him like a weed through concrete.
A warm weight pressed against his leg. Cinder had settled beside him, her dark eyes reflecting the dying firelight as she rested her muzzle on his knee.
“Just you and me again, girl.”
The dog tilted her head, ears perked forward as if she disagreed with his assessment. She’d been doing that a lot lately—challenging him with looks that seemed too knowing for a canine.
He took a long drag of his cigar, holding the spiced smoke deep in his lungs for a moment before releasing it, and looked at his dog—really looked, for what felt like the first time.
She’d been with him for years now, a constant shadow, watchful and wary as he was.
They moved through the ranch like phantoms, present but untouchable, seen but never known.
He’d fed her, sheltered her, but he realized with sudden clarity that he’d never really touched her—not beyond the utilitarian patting of her flank when she’d done something useful, or the occasional scratch behind her ears when he thought no one was watching.
Hesitantly, he placed his hand on her head. Her fur was soft, thick, and warm against his palm.
Cinder didn’t flinch or pull away. She leaned into his touch instead, her eyes drifting closed in what looked remarkably like contentment.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the dying fire’s hiss. “Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
Emboldened by her response, he stroked her from head to flank, feeling the lean muscle beneath her coat, the steady thrum of her heart.
Cinder muttered happily, pressing closer, and his eyes suddenly burned.
From the smoke, he told himself, but he knew better.
His dog—his smart, loyal, beautiful dog—had been mirroring him all this time. Watching, learning, adapting. He maintained distance, so she did too. He remained vigilant, so she kept guard. He avoided touch, so she never asked for it.
He’d thought her aloof, as damaged as he was, when she’d only been following his lead. Being what he needed her to be.
His fingers sank deeper into her fur, finding the place behind her ear that made her leg twitch involuntarily. A sound escaped her—not quite a whine, not quite a sigh, but something in between that conveyed such naked pleasure that the burning in his eyes coalesced into tears.
“I’ve been a real asshole, haven’t I, girl?” he whispered.
Cinder didn’t answer, of course, but she shifted again, rolling to expose her belly—the ultimate canine gesture of trust. Ghost froze, momentarily overwhelmed by the significance.
This wasn’t the behavior of a feral, distrustful animal.
This was a dog who’d been waiting patiently for her human to be ready.
Carefully, he scratched her exposed belly, and Cinder’s back leg kicked in reflexive joy. A startled laugh escaped him.
“All this time,” he said, “I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance. Turns out I was just teaching you to be alone.”
He’d done the same with everyone at Valor Ridge. With Naomi. Holding back, staying vigilant, maintaining control—telling himself it was for their protection when really, it was for his.
And still, they stayed. Still, they waited. Like Cinder, patient beyond reason, hoping for the moment he’d finally be ready to let them in.
Cinder popped up suddenly to lick at the wetness on his cheeks and he wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his face in her fur. She went still for a moment, surprised by this unprecedented embrace, then relaxed against him, her warm breath puffing against his arm.
“I’m going to be better,” he promised, the words muffled against her coat. “For you. For...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t say her name, but Cinder seemed to understand anyway, pressing closer as if in encouragement.
Footsteps approached from behind, and Ghost didn’t need to look up to know it was Boone—he’d long since memorized the gait patterns of everyone at Valor Ridge.
Security wasn’t just cameras and locks; it was knowing who moved how, when, and where.
Boone’s steps held the steady purpose of a man who never wasted motion, each footfall precisely where it needed to be.
Ghost expected him to pass by, maybe offer a nod of acknowledgment before heading to his cabin. Boone wasn’t one for unnecessary conversation. But the footsteps stopped, and a warm, calloused hand settled briefly on Ghost’s shoulder.
“She’s been waiting for this.”
Ghost glanced up, unable to hide his surprise at both the touch and the overture. “I know that now. Why did nobody tell me?”
“You needed to figure it out for yourself.” Boone stood like a sentinel at his side, silhouetted against the starlit sky, his shoulders squared as if bracing for impact. Cinder acknowledged him with a brief wag of her tail but made no move to leave Ghost’s side.
“Cold night to be sitting out here,” Boone said, his voice gravel-rough from years of shouting orders and swallowing dust.
“Been in colder.”
Boone huffed something close to a laugh. “Ain’t a competition.” He shifted his weight, the leather of his belt creaking slightly. “Mind if I sit?”
Ghost gestured to the vacant Adirondack chair beside him, curious now.
Boone wasn’t the type for fireside chats, especially not with him.
They worked well together, respected each other’s boundaries and competence, but they’d never crossed the line into anything that could be called friendship.
Too similar, perhaps—both men who’d learned early that silence was safer than speech, distance preferable to closeness.
Boone settled in the chair with a faint grunt, elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the dying embers.
Minutes ticked by in silence, broken only by the distant hoot of a great horned owl and the soft sound of Cinder’s happy pants.
Finally, Boone nodded toward the mug still perched on the arm of his chair. “Anson did a good job with that.”
“He did.”
Boone sucked in a breath. “We sat here just like this the night I talked you into coming back. The night I gave you that mug. I had no idea what it meant to you.”
“Neither did I until it broke.”
A faint smile touched Boone’s lips. “That night feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Yeah,” Ghost agreed, absently running his fingers through Cinder’s fur. “Everything was simpler then.”
“Was it?” Boone’s navy blue eyes reflected the dying embers. “Or were you just pretending it was?”
He considered it. Had anything ever been simple, or had he just been better at compartmentalizing, at walling off the parts of himself that threatened his carefully constructed control?
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Boone said suddenly, startling a laugh from him.
“Yeah, probably. For lots of reasons. Care to elaborate?”
“That woman,” Boone gestured toward the Hub with his chin, “has been through hell. Kidnapped. Beaten. Watched her cousin turn out to be a serial killer. Found out the man she’s in love with nearly died trying to save her.
” His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact.
“And instead of being there for her, you’re out here feeling sorry for yourself because you think she’s leaving you. ”
Oh… fuck.
When Boone took a shot, he didn’t miss, and his aim was deadly.
“When I caught you two going at it in your truck on Main Street, I wasn’t happy about it.
” Boone reached down, picked up a stick, and poked at the remnants of the fire.
Sparks spiraled upward, brief flares of light against the darkness.
“Thought it was reckless. Dangerous. For the ranch, for the program. For you.”
And the final piece—the one that had bothered him throughout his entire recovery—clicked into place. “It was never Isolde. You sent Naomi that text telling her not to trust me.”
Boone nodded.
A flare of defensive anger lit along Ghost’s sternum. “It wasn’t your call to—”
“Yeah, I know. But she didn’t listen, so let me finish,” Boone cut him off, voice firm but not unkind. “I said I wasn’t happy. Past tense.” He looked at Ghost directly now, his weathered face half in shadow. “You took a bullet for her.”
It wasn’t a question, but Ghost nodded anyway. “I’d do it again.”
Boone’s mouth quirked into something like a smile. “That’s when I understood.”
Ghost waited, sensing there was more. Boone wasn’t a man who wasted words any more than he wasted motion.