The military records painted an equally bleak picture. Boone had enlisted at eighteen, served with distinction in Afghanistan, then watched as an IED took out most of his unit during a routine patrol. The survivors—including Boone—had been pinned down for seventeen hours before extraction. Three more men died waiting for help.
She flipped through page after page of disciplinary reports upon his return. Bar fights. Disorderly conduct. Insubordination. Self-medication with alcohol. Classic signs of PTSD that no one had bothered to properly treat.
Then came the manslaughter charge. Johanna read the court transcripts twice, piecing together what had happened. Boone had been drinking at a roadhouse outside of Solace when he witnessed a man roughing up a woman in the parking lot. He’d intervened—violently. The police report described the victim as having multiple facial fractures, a crushed trachea, and a fractured skull. He’d died at the scene. According to three witnesses, Boone had “snapped” and kept hitting the man long after he was unconscious.
The woman later testified that she hadn’t been in danger, that Boone had misinterpreted a lover’s quarrel and attacked her boyfriend without provocation. And after the judge ruled that all the domestic violence reports between the couple were inadmissible, her testimony had been the nail in Boone’s coffin. He’d been sentenced to eight years, but was released just last month after serving four.
So now, not only did he have his childhood trauma and PTSD, but he also had the added weight of a violent felony conviction and time served. The pattern was all too familiar—a broken childhood, military trauma, and a system that cycled him through punishment rather than treatment.
Walker sure knew how to pick the hard cases, didn’t he?
A knock at the door startled her, and she closed the laptop before calling, “Come in.”
Walker stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of cold air and woodsmoke. Snowflakes decorated the brim of his weathered brown Stetson and fell ot the floor as he swept it off his head when he crossed the threshold. “Boone’s back. Figured you’d want to meet him.”
She stood and smoothed her sweater. “How is he?”
“Pissed.” Walker’s mouth twisted around the word. “His mom forgot who he was again. Thought he was an intruder and called 911. By the time the sheriff got there to sort it out, she was having a full-blown episode. The sheriff is his mom’s brother and a complete asshole, so that just made it worse.”
“That must have been hard for him.”
Walker nodded, his eyes distant. “He doesn’t talk much about it. Just bottles it up.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
He grunted and turned away. “I’ll give you a tour on the way back to the house.”
Okay, then.
She scoffed, grabbed her coat, and chased him out into the cold.
When Walker first told her he’d bought a ranch, she thought maybe it was a couple of acres and a barn, but this property was huge with a view of the mountains to the west that would be stunning on a clearer day.
“How many acres do you have?” she asked when she finally caught up to him.
“Just under two thousand.”
Wow. Much bigger than she had thought.
“What happened to the other buildings?” she asked, noting the foundations where structures had once stood.
“Previous owners let the place go to hell. Had to tear down most of it. Fire hazard.” He pointed to a large pole barn at the edge of the clearing. “That’s going to be a workshop eventually. Thought the men could learn a trade while they’rehere. Blacksmithing, woodworking, leatherworking. Stuff like that.”
The men. Not just Boone.
Of course Walker was planning for more. He did nothing by half measures.
“No stock yet,” he said as they passed the dark and silent main barn. “Planning on rescue horses, eventually. Therapy animals. Lot of guys don’t talk, but they’ll talk to a horse. Or a dog. Or a goat, if it comes to it.”
“That’s a really good idea,” she said quietly, studying his profile as they walked. The Walker Nash she remembered had been all sharp edges and barbed wire, but this—this vision of sanctuary he was building—suggested something had shifted in him since they’d last seen each other. “I’m so happy you’ve found a new mission. You always needed something to fight for.”
His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment she thought he might say something personal, something that would crack open the carefully maintained distance between them.
Instead, he turned and kept walking. “Not fighting anymore. That’s the point.”
They continued past the barn and eventually ended up back by her car in the circular driveway in front of the main house. The larger building next to the house, which she originally thought was the barn, looked newer than everything else. He led her there next.
“Built this bunkhouse first thing,” Walker explained. “Figured the men would need their own space before I got around to fixing up the main house. Boone’s in here.”
