The sum total of his life fit into a bag smaller than some women’s purses.
His hangover still pulsed behind his eyes, and he cursed himself for it.
Hank was right.
He was exactly like his father.
The realization burned in his chest, settling alongside the shame of his relapse. His dad had chosen the bottle over his family, too. He’d spent most of Boone’s childhood passed out or raging, leaving Boone’s mom to pick up the pieces. After he died, Boone had sworn he’d never be that man.
Yet here he was.
The zipper on his duffel bag jammed, and he yanked at it with enough force to nearly rip the fabric. Anger flared hot in his chest—at Hank, at his mother’s illness, but mostly at himself. He’d known better than to drink again. He knew what alcohol did to men like him.
Boone glanced at the black Stetson hanging on the bedpost. His father’s hat. The only thing of Micah’s he’d kept after the funeral. He’d worn it every day since, like some kind of talisman against becoming the man who’d once owned it.
Fat lot of good that did.
He crammed the hat onto his head and grabbed his jacket, the worn leather creaking as he shoved his arms through the sleeves.
The cold bit at his face as he stepped onto the porch, duffel slung over his shoulder. His truck sat where he’d left it yesterday, covered in a thin layer of fresh snow. The sun was barely up, casting long shadows across the yard.
He threw his bag into the truck bed and climbed into the cab. The engine turned over with a reluctant growl, the heater blowing cold air that smelled faintly of antifreeze.
And then…
He just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the house, barn, and bunkhouse through the windshield.
He was doing the right thing. He was saving Walker from wasting more time on him. Saving Dr. Perrin from having to pretend he was worth helping. Saving his mother from wandering the streets at night, searching for a son she didn’t even recognize anymore.
Saving everyone from himself.
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. All he had to do was put the truck in gear and drive away. Simple as that. He’d be a ghost before Walker even realized he was gone.
So why weren’t his hands moving?
seven
So much for the breakthrough last night.
Dammit, she really thought she’d gotten through to him.
They’d been gone from the ranch for less than three hours, but apparently, that had been long enough for Boone to pack up his life.
Walker’s good mood vanished as he parked in front of the main house and cut the engine. Bishop whined softly from the back seat, his ears perking up at the tension radiating from Walker. She set a hand on his arm and waited until he looked at her.
“Go talk to him,” she said, giving his arm a light squeeze. “I’ll take Bishop inside.”
Walker nodded and shoved open his door. She watched him stalk toward Boone’s truck and thought,Oh, shit.
Maybe sending him wasn’t the best idea.
“Lead with love, not anger,” she called out the window and swore she heard his grumble from all the way across the yard.
“Oh, boy. We’d better hurry. C’mon, Bishop.” She clipped on the leash they’d bought at the shelter. The dog followed herobediently out of the truck, his nose sniffing wildly at the air as they made their way toward the house.
“This is home now,” she told him, crouching to rub his ears. Bishop leaned into her touch. “You’re going to be so good for Boone. If he lets you in. But how could he not? Look at this handsome face.” She kissed the dog between hs eyes then straightened.
Through the window, she could see Walker standing beside Boone’s truck, one hand braced on the door, his face tight with frustration. Boone sat behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at Walker. The scene reminded her of so many standoffs she’d witnessed in her career—the harder you pushed men like Boone, the more they retreated.
