Boone snapped up the lantern, turned on his heel without another word, and stalked toward the door.
“I’m not the one who needs fixing,” he called over his shoulder, voice thick with anger and whiskey. “Maybe you should worry about Nash instead of me.”
The barn door slammed behind him, leaving her alone in the darkness.
Johanna sighed and pulled herself to her feet, brushing hay from her clothes. Her hands were numb with cold, and shelonged for the warmth of her cabin. As she walked across the yard, she glanced back at the barn.
Boone had stopped halfway to the bunkhouse. He stood motionless in the falling snow, bottle in one hand, lantern in the other, looking for all the world like a man caught between two equally impossible choices. Then he shook his head once, as if answering some internal question, and dumped the remaining whiskey into the snow. He disappeared into the darkness, the light from his lantern fading as he trudged toward the bunkhouse.
Progress.
She smiled to herself as an idea took shape. What Boone needed wasn’t more therapy, more talking about his pain. What he needed was a way to channel it, to make meaning from it.
Her gaze drifted back to the barn with all of its empty stalls. Walker had mentioned wanting to bring in rescue horses eventually. Therapy animals.
“A lot of guys don’t talk, but they’ll talk to a horse,”he’d said.
Maybe he was on to something there. Maybe what Boone needed wasn’t someone to fix him, but something to fix. Something—or someone—to care for that wasn’t just his ailing mother or his own damaged soul.
She turned the thought over in her mind and continued to her cabin through the deepening snow. And by the time she closed her door against the cold, she knew exactly what she needed to do tomorrow.
five
Walker dumped the old coffee grounds into the trash and measured fresh ones into the filter. The kitchen was cold enough that he could see his breath, little puffs of white that disappeared as the old furnace kicked on with a metallic groan. Outside, the sky had lightened to the color of dirty cotton, heavy with the promise of more snow. He glanced at the clock: 6:17 a.m. Another night of barely any sleep, but at least the Christmas tree looked better in daylight than he’d expected, the mismatched ornaments catching what little sunlight filtered through the kitchen window.
He pressed the brew button and leaned against the counter, listening to the coffee maker gurgle and hiss. His mind kept circling back to last night, to the moment Johanna had stood so close he could smell the mint on her breath, to the way her eyes had darted to his mouth before she’d stepped away. Five years, and she still had that effect on him. Five years, and he still didn’t know what to do about it.
The back door creaked, and Walker straightened, reaching for a second mug from the cabinet. Johanna appeared in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a thick navy sweater beneath hercoat, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, peppered with snowflakes. She looked more rested than he felt.
“Morning,” she said, hanging her jacket up next to his and rubbing her hands together against the chill. “Coffee smells good.”
“Almost ready.” He held up the empty mug. “Want some?”
“God, yes.” She moved toward the counter, close enough that the sleeve of her sweater brushed his arm. “Black is fine.”
Walker nodded and set the mug beside his own. They stood in silence, watching the coffee drip into the carafe, steam rising in lazy curls.
“Any sign of Boone this morning?” she asked.
“Not yet.” He opened a drawer, fishing out a Tootsie Pop from his stash. Cherry, his least favorite, but better than nothing. “He probably has a hangover after last night.”
Johanna raised an eyebrow. “You know about that?”
He popped the candy into his mouth. “I know everything that happens on my ranch.”
“Uh-huh.” Doubt dripped from her tone. “Well, Mr. I-Know-Everything, do you know he had a breakthrough last night?”
The coffee maker beeped, and Walker poured two mugs, sliding one across the counter to her. “A breakthrough? That’s a pretty strong word for a man drinking alone in a barn at three in the morning.”
Johanna wrapped her hands around the mug, absorbing its warmth. “He talked to me. Really talked. About his mother, about what happened with that man he killed.” She took a cautious sip. “He’s carrying a lot of guilt.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“So I had an idea last night,” she continued, ignoring his sarcasm, and blew across the top of the steaming coffee. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, about therapyanimals. Horses, dogs. I think Boone might benefit from that.”
Walker rolled the Tootsie Pop to the side of his cheek. “How so?”
“As I said, he’s carrying a lot of guilt, a lot of anger.” She chose her words carefully, and Walker could tell she was balancing what Boone had shared with her professional judgment. “He needs someone who doesn’t see his past when they look at him.”
