“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s do it.”
Walker exhaled, surprised at the surge of anticipation he felt. It had been a long time since he’d had something to look forward to, something that felt like hope instead of just another day to get through.
“I’ll leave a note for Boone,” he said. “Tell him we’ll be back this afternoon.”
Johanna smiled again, and this time, he let himself smile back. For a moment, they weren’t exes with too much history between them. They weren’t a disgraced soldier and the woman who’d walked away. They were just two people trying to do something good, something that mattered.
“I’ll get my purse,” she said and grabbed her coat as she dashed out the back door.
Walker watched her go, the Tootsie Pop forgotten in his cheek. Maybe this was why he’d really called her, he thought. Not just for Boone, but for himself. Because when Johanna was around, the world seemed a little less dark, a little more full of possibilities.
He picked his coat from the hook and stepped onto the porch. The cold hit him like a fist, sharp and clean, the kind of Montana December morning that froze the inside of your nose on the first breath. A thick layer of snow had fallen all through the night, maybe three inches, enough to muffle the world and make everything look cleaner than it was.
His truck sat in the driveway, passenger side facing him, covered in a thin layer of white. He pulled on his coat and gloves and took three steps before he noticed it.
The truck listed to one side.
“Shit.”
He walked around to the driver’s side. The front tire was flat, completely deflated, rubber sagging against the rim.
He crouched beside it, pulled off his glove, and ran his hand along the tread. No obvious puncture, no nail sticking out, just flat.
The porch door opened behind him. Johanna appeared, coat buttoned, thermos in hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Flat tire.” He stood, brushing snow off his knee. “Must’ve picked up a nail somewhere.”
She came down the steps, careful on the ice, and peered at the tire. “We can take my car.”
He eyed the Subaru. “Not a chance in hell. I’ll change the tire.”
She rolled her eyes. “God save me from cowboys and their fragile masculinity.”
“For the record, my masculinity is just fine,” he said, giving the tire one last look. “But that little Subaru isn’t going to make it up these roads if we get more snow. Which we will.”
She crossed her arms, leaning her weight on one hip. “It has four-wheel drive.”
“Good for it.” He moved to the back of the truck, lowered the tailgate. The spare was there, thank God, along with the jack and tire iron. “But we’re taking my truck.”
“With the flat tire.”
“I can change a tire in ten minutes.”
“In this cold?”
“Fifteen, then.”
She sighed. “Fine, but now I’m timing you.”
Walker grinned and hauled the spare tire from the bed of the truck.
“I can help,” she said.
“I’ve got it.” But he handed her the tire iron anyway,because standing there watching would make her cold, and at least this way she’d have something to do with her hands.
They worked in silence. Walker jacked up the truck, the metal groaning with each pump. Johanna crouched beside him, holding the spare steady while he loosened the lug nuts. The cold made his fingers clumsy, and twice he had to blow on them to get the feeling back.
