And in that moment, looking at the faces gathered around her table—scarred and smiling, broken and healing, each one precious beyond measure—Johanna knew with absolute certainty that they had built something that would outlast them all. Something real and true and lasting.
Valor Ridge was more than a ranch, more than a rehabilitation program. It was a home. It was a family. And as chaotic and messy and wonderful as it was, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
thirty-one
The kitchen was chaos after dinner, plates clattering and voices overlapping as everyone helped clean up, still buzzing about Jax’s proposal. Boone stacked dishes by the sink, watching his mother from the corner of his eye. She was having a good day, seated at the table with Maggie, who listened patiently to a story Leonora had already told twice. Walker caught his eye across the room, tilted his head toward the door. A silent question. Boone nodded once, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Whatever Walker wanted, it could wait until the dishes were done.
He finished rinsing the last pot, handed it to Lila, who was drying, and moved back toward his mother. “Going to step outside for a minute,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You okay here?”
Leonora looked up, recognition clear in her eyes. “I’m fine. This sweet girl is keeping me company.” She patted Maggie’s hand. “We’re talking about Christmas when Boone was small.”
Maggie smiled up at him, something gentle in her expressionthat made him look away. “I’ll stay with her,” she said. “Take your time.”
Boone nodded his thanks, unable to form the words around the sudden tightness in his throat. These moments with his mother—when she was present, when she remembered—they were precious now. Growing rarer. He squeezed her shoulder once more before heading toward the mudroom.
Walker was already pulling on his coat, Cowboy at his heels. Boone followed suit, the familiar routine of boots, coat, and gloves. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Ten years of working side by side had given them a language beyond words.
The door opened, releasing them into the night. Cold air hit Boone’s face like a slap, sharpening his senses after the heat and noise of the house. Snow was falling again, not the heavy, wet flakes of earlier but something finer, drier, glittering in the porch light. Cowboy trotted ahead of them, pausing to lift his leg against the railing before settling by Walker’s feet.
Walker leaned against the porch railing, staring out at the ranch. Snow had softened every edge, turning the barn and paddocks and fences into something almost unreal. The only sounds were their breathing, the soft creak of the railing under Walker’s weight, the distant hum of voices from inside. Boone waited. He’d known Walker long enough to recognize when the man had something to say but was searching for the words.
“Hell of a Christmas,” Walker said finally.
Boone made a noise of agreement, watching his breath cloud in front of him. “Jax surprised everyone.”
“Not me.” A hint of pride in Walker’s voice. “He asked for my blessing last week. Said he couldn’t imagine doing it anywhere but here.”
“Makes sense.” Boone studied the yard, noting the fresh tracks from earlier—River chasing after that damn rooster, thekids rushing between buildings, everyone coming together for the meal. “Valor Ridge is where he found his life again.”
Walker turned, something shifting in his posture. “It’s where you all did.”
Boone glanced at him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. There was something different about Walker tonight. A tension in his shoulders, a set to his jaw that Boone recognized from difficult conversations over the years.
“What’s on your mind, boss?” he asked, turning to face him fully.
Walker reached into his jacket, pulled out a small package wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine. He held it for a moment, turning it over in his hands before extending it toward Boone.
“Made this for you,” Walker said, his voice rough. “For Bishop.”
Boone stared at the package, not reaching for it immediately. Bishop. The name still hit him like a knife through the heart sometimes, nine months after losing him. His loyal shadow. His constant companion. The dog who’d seen him through the darkest times, who’d slept by his bed every night for ten years, who’d somehow known exactly when Boone needed quiet company.
His hands were unsteady as he finally took the package. It had weight to it, solid and substantial. The paper crinkled under his fingers as he carefully untied the twine, folded back the wrapping to reveal what lay inside.
A wooden frame. But not just any frame. This was Walker’s craftsmanship at its finest, every edge and corner carefully detailed. The wood was rich, warm, and polished to a soft glow that caught the light from the porch. Along the bottom, carved in Walker’s steady hand, were two dates—Christmas Day ten years ago, when Bishop had come to live with him, and the day in March when the old dog hadslipped away in his sleep at the ripe old age of sixteen. Between them, two simple words: “Faithful Friend.”
But it was the photograph inside that made Boone’s chest constrict, made his breath catch in his throat. Him and Bishop, from those early days at Valor Ridge. Boone seated on the porch steps, looking younger, harder, his expression closed and wary. And Bishop beside him, head resting on Boone’s knee, eyes fixed on his human with complete devotion. Boone couldn’t even remember who had taken the picture. Johanna, probably.
He stared at it, unable to speak. His throat had closed up completely, a pressure building behind his eyes that he refused to acknowledge.
“He was here from the beginning,” Walker said quietly. “Just like you.” He shifted his weight, boots scraping against the wooden planks. “Wanted you to have something to remember him by.”
Boone ran a thumb over the carved letters, feeling each groove and line. Walker must have spent hours on this. Days, maybe. Getting every detail right. He remembered the night Bishop came to him—Christmas night, this very porch. Walker had led him outside, said there was one more gift. Bishop had been waiting, a ribbon around his neck, looking up at Boone with those intelligent eyes. Not a puppy, not young, but steady. Present. As if he’d been waiting for Boone his whole life.
“I think about that first Christmas,” Boone said, his voice coming out rough, broken. “How you gave him to me.” He swallowed hard, the memory sharp and clear. “How he saved my life.”
Walker’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and solid. “You saved each other.”
And they had. Bishop had given Boone a reason to get out of bed on the worst days, someone to care for when hecouldn’t care for himself. Someone who didn’t care about his past, didn’t judge him for his mistakes. And Boone had given Bishop a home, safety, love that the shelter dog had never known before.
