Boone’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Drinking.” He lifted the bottle slightly. “Figured that was obvious.”
“I can see that,” she said. “I meant why here? It’s freezing.”
He shrugged one massive shoulder and took another long pull from the bottle. The cigarette had burned down to the filter. He dropped it and crushed it under his boot heel.
A strange thought flickered through her mind. The tree branch that had crashed through Walker’s window... could it have had help?
Could Boone have…?
No. She dismissed the idea almost immediately. The wind had been fierce enough to do the damage on its own.
“Mind if I sit with you?”
He didn’t answer, just took another drink. She took his silence as permission and looked around the empty stall. There was a saddle blanket folded neatly on a nearby railing, probably left there by the previous owners. She grabbed it, shook off the dust, and laid it on the straw next to Boone, leaving enough space between them that he wouldn’t feel crowded. Then she sat down, her back against the same wall, and didn’t say anything else.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the howl of the wind against the barn and the occasional soft clink of the bottle when Boone lifted it to his lips. It was freezing, their breath visible in the cold air, but Johanna didn’t move. Sometimes, silence was the most effective therapy.
Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Finally, Boone spoke, his voice rough around the edges. “This the part where I’m supposed to start crying and spill all my tragic backstory?”
“This isn’t therapy, Boone.”
He looked at her then, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “Bullshit. Everything’s therapy with your type.”
“My type?”
“People who think they can fix other people. Walker’s the same type.” He took another drink, grimacing at the burn. “But some things can’t be fixed.Ican’t be fixed.”
She didn’t argue with that. Couldn’t, really. After what happened with Nick, she knew better than most that some breaks were permanent.
“I don’t know if I believe in fixing people,” she said carefully. “Helping them find their way back to themselves, maybe. But fixing implies something was broken in you to begin with.”
“You don’t think I’m broken?” His voice had an edge to it now, challenging, almost desperate for her to contradict him.
“I think you’ve been through hell. But that’s not the same thing.”
Boone stared at the bottle in his hands, turning it slowly, watching the liquid catch the light. “You know what happened today? With my mom?”
Johanna nodded. “Walker mentioned it.”
“My own mother looked at me like I was a stranger breaking into her house. Called the cops on me.” His knuckles whitened around the bottle. “And you know who showed up? My uncle. Sheriff Hank fucking Goodwin, with his stupid badge and his ‘I always knew you’d be trouble’ look.”
Johanna waited, sensing there was more.
“He’s her brother. And he just... stood there with this smirk, not saying a fucking thing.” Boone’s voice cracked. “And the whole time, he’s looking at me like I’m scum. Like I don’t have a right to be there, in the house my father built, trying to take care of the only person who’s ever given a damn about me.”
He took another long drink, then set the bottle down hard on the straw-covered floor. “The Goodwins. Pillars of the community. Owners of half the damn town. They disowned my mom when she married my dad because he was ‘just a cowboy.’ Cut her off completely. And now that she’s sick, they still won’t help. Won’t even acknowledge her at church. ButHank, he’ll come to her house when she calls 911, just so everyone can see what a good sheriff he is.”
Johanna’s heart constricted at the raw pain in Boone’s voice. She knew family wounds like these—the kind that never really healed, just scabbed over until someone picked at them again.
“That’s rough,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Having to deal with family politics on top of your mom’s condition.”
Boone snorted, a harsh sound in the quiet barn. “Politics. That’s a nice word for it.”
The wind howled outside, rattling the barn doors. She pulled her coat tighter, but the cold seeped through her layers despite the shelter. The hay beneath her was prickly through the saddle blanket, but she didn’t move.
“She’s getting worse,” he continued, softer now. “She’s paranoid, thinks everyone is watching her, thinks someone is keeping me from her. The doctor says early-onset Alzheimer’s, but I think it’s more than that. Ever since dad died...” He stopped, eyes fixed on something only he could see. “Mom was never the same after that. Started forgetting things, getting confused. Everyone thought it was grief, but it never got better. Just worse, year by year.”
