“I miss him.” The words were barely a whisper, torn from somewhere deep.
“I know.”
They stood in silence, the moment stretching between them. The snow fell around them, catching in their hair, on their shoulders, melting on the wooden frame Boone still held. Bishop’s memory hung in the air, almost tangible, as if the dog might come trotting around the corner of the house at any moment, tail wagging, eyes bright.
Boone thought of all the mornings Bishop had followed him through his chores, the nights the dog had lain beside his bed, the moments when Boone’s control had slipped, and Bishop had simply pressed closer, offering silent comfort. How empty his cabin felt now, how quiet his mornings.
“I’ve been thinking about getting another dog,” Boone admitted, the words surprising him as they came out. He hadn’t told anyone that. Hadn’t even fully admitted it to himself.
Walker nodded slowly. “Bishop would approve, I think.”
Boone’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “Yeah, he would.” He looked down at the frame again, at his younger self and the dog who had changed everything. “Not yet, though. But soon.”
More silence, comfortable this time. The snow continued to fall, the soft hiss of flakes the only sound besides their breathing. Cowboy had risen, was sniffing at a spot near the steps where Bishop used to lie. As if sensing their thoughts, he looked back at them, then settled in that exact spot with a contented sigh.
Boone felt the weight of ten years settling on his shoulders,not as a burden but as a testament. Ten years since Walker had pulled him from that bar, told him to get in the truck or go back to prison. Ten years since he’d arrived at Valor Ridge with nothing but anger and guilt and the clothes on his back. Ten years of building something from nothing, of watching broken men find themselves again.
“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate for everything he meant. “For everything. For not giving up on me. For Bishop. For all of this.” His gesture encompassed the ranch, the house behind them, the life they’d built.
Walker was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some middle distance. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “You’re my son, Boone. Not by blood, but by choice.” He turned, meeting Boone’s eyes fully. “First one here. You helped build all of this.”
The words hit harder than Boone expected. Son. They’d never named it before, this thing between them. Walker had been his boss, his mentor. But father? The word had always hung unspoken between them, too loaded, too significant to acknowledge.
Until now.
Boone stepped forward, closed the distance between them. Walker’s arms came up, wrapped around his shoulders in a rare embrace. Boone held the frame carefully between them, Bishop’s memory cradled in the space where their hearts beat. For a moment, he was that broken twenty-nine-year-old again, the one who’d thought he deserved nothing. The one who’d been ready to throw away his second chance until Walker had seen something in him worth saving.
And now he had everything. A purpose. A home. A family cobbled together from broken pieces, stronger for having been mended.
“Come on,” Walker said finally, his voice returning to normal as he stepped back. “Maggie made pie.”
They turned toward the door, toward the warmth and light and noise of the house. Cowboy rose, shook the snow from his coat, and followed at Walker’s heels. Boone paused at the threshold, looking down once more at the frame in his hands.
“Thank you,” he said again, simply.
Walker nodded, understanding all that wasn’t said. “Merry Christmas, son.”
Together, they stepped back inside, carrying the weight of memory and the promise of tomorrow.
thirty-two
Walker stood on the porch beside Johanna, watching as the celebration began to scatter into the snowy night. The yard glowed with Christmas lights strung along fence posts and cabin roofs, turning the freshly fallen snow into a canvas of blue, red, and green shadows. He breathed in cold air that smelled like pine and woodsmoke, listening to the crunch of boots and the murmur of goodbyes as their makeshift family began to disperse back to their corners of Valor Ridge.
“This was good,” Johanna said quietly, her shoulder pressed against his arm. “One of our best.”
He nodded, watching as Ghost helped Naomi into his truck. The man who once refused to celebrate anything was now securing Naomi’s seatbelt, leaning in to say something that made her laugh.
“Never thought I’d see him like that,” Walker said.
“Sometimes the most guarded ones surprise you the most.” Johanna stepped forward to hug Mariah, who held a sleeping Tate on her shoulder. She was obviously slipping out while X was distracted, or else he’d be right here, trailing her like a lovesick puppy.
“Thank you for everything,” Mariah said. “This has been the best Christmas we’ve had in a long time.”
“You’re welcome any time. Text when you’re home.”
Jonah came out next, and Walker shook his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help with dinner.”
“Anytime, boss.” Jonah zipped his coat up to his chin, glancing at the sky. “Storm’s picking up. You need anything before morning?”
