“Where’d you come from?”
The Shepherd tilted his head slightly, one ear flopping comically to the side.
Boone sat up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. This thing wasn’t a couch. It was a torture device.
The dog rose when he did, stretching his front legs out in a manner that reminded Boone absurdly of yoga instructors he’d seen on TV in the prison rec room. It was the languid, self-assured movement of a creature completely at home in its skin.
Must be nice.
From the kitchen came the sound of murmuring voices, the hiss of bacon hitting a hot pan, the rich scent of coffee brewing. Boone caught fragments of conversation—Walker’s low rumble, Johanna’s softer tones. They were talking about him, he was sure of it. Probably discussing how to handle the unstable ex-con who’d had a breakdown in the front yard last night.
Shame crawled up his neck, hot and prickling. He should leave. Just grab his duffel bag, get back in the truck, and go. But the thought of facing his mom’s empty eyes again, ofHank Goodwin’s smug face when he inevitably had to call for help—it was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.
The dog padded over and nudged Boone’s knee with his nose.
“What?”
The Shepherd cocked his head again, as if to say,“Well?”
With a sigh, Boone stood. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes: jeans and a flannel that now smelled like cigarette smoke.
Damn, he really wanted another one, but he’d chain-smoked the rest of his pack while sitting in his truck last night.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window, and holy shit, he looked like hell. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it. No use. It stuck up in all directions, long past needing a cut. But a haircut meant going into town, facing all those eyes that still looked at him like he was one wrong move away from snapping.
The dog followed as he made his way toward the kitchen, staying close without crowding, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood.
Boone paused at the threshold, suddenly reluctant to interrupt whatever moment Walker and Johanna were having. They stood side by side at the stove, not touching, but moving in each other’s space with a familiarity that spoke of history. Walker was scowling as he pushed eggs around a cast-iron skillet, while Johanna set plates on the counter, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
“You’re still burning them,” she said.
“They’re not burned. They’re...” Walker paused, clearly searching for a defense. “Crispy.”
“I had no idea crispy eggs were the newest culinary trend.”
Walker grunted, but Boone noticed the corner of his mouth lift. It was strange to see the hard-edged former colonelso... domestic. It didn’t fit with anything Boone knew about the man.
The dog chose that moment to announce their presence, nudging into the kitchen with a soft whine of greeting. Both Walker and Johanna turned, and he found himself pinned by two sets of eyes that held none of the judgment or worry he’d expected.
“Coffee’s ready,” Walker said, nodding toward a mug already set out on the counter.
Boone stepped into the kitchen, hyper-aware of his rumpled appearance, the stubble on his jaw, the lingering shame of last night’s vulnerability. “Thanks,” he managed, reaching for the mug.
The dog followed, settling at Boone’s feet with that same watchful attention. Not once had it left his side since he’d woken up.
“What’s with the dog?” he asked.
Walker flipped the eggs onto a plate, some of them landing on the counter instead. He didn’t seem to notice. “He’s yours,” he said, gruff but matter-of-fact. “Merry Christmas.”
For a moment, Boone couldn’t process the words. They didn’t compute, didn’t fit into any reality he understood. “Mine? What are you talking about?”
Johanna scowled at Walker, then swept up the errant eggs with a paper towel. “We went to the shelter yesterday,” she explained over her shoulder. “This is Bishop. He’s six years old, and he needs a home.”
“I don’t...” Boone looked down at the dog—Bishop—who gazed back with those solemn brown eyes. “I can’t...”
“You can,” Johanna said, all matter-of-fact. “He needs you. And you need him.”
Walker didn’t add anything, just scraped the skillet clean and set it back on the stove top with a clatter.
