Boone nodded once, jaw still tight. Then his gaze shifted to Jonah, who stood a few paces away, looking deeply uncomfortable. “What the hell were you thinking, calling him?”
Jonah straightened, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in Boone’s focus. “I was trying to help. Someone broke in. In the real world, you call the police.”
Boone stepped closer, towering over Jonah despite their similar heights. “This isn’t the real world. This is Solace, and that wasn’t a cop.” He jerked his thumb toward the retreating vehicle. “That was my uncle, who’s had it out for me and this place since day one, and you just handed him an engraved invitation to poke around.”
Walker moved to intervene, but Johanna’s hand on his arm stopped him. She shook her head slightly. “Let them work it out.”
Color drained from Jonah’s face. “I didn’t know.”
“No, you didn’t, because you’ve been too busy hiding in the barn with the horses to learn the first thing about this place or the people in it.” Boone’s voice rose slightly. “This isn’t your fight, Reed. You’re just passing through, makingsure your parole officer sees you’re following the rules. But some of us are trying to build something here.”
“Boone,” Walker said, his tone carrying a warning. “That’s enough.”
Jonah stood frozen, his face a careful mask. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have interfered.” He glanced toward the barn, clearly eager to retreat to the safety of the horses. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on Sunshine.”
Walker watched him go, cursing silently. Just when they’d started to make progress with the kid, to draw him out of his shell, this happened.
“He was trying to help,” Johanna said quietly after Jonah had gone.
Boone ran a hand through his hair, the first signs of regret crossing his features. “I know. But Hank’s going to use this. You heard him. Zoning regulations, permits. He’s looking for any excuse.”
“We’ll handle Hank,” Walker said, though the threat settled heavily in his gut, eating at the lining of his stomach. “Right now, I’m more concerned about that kid.”
Boone groaned softly. “I’ll talk to him.”
Johanna stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could turn away. “Give him some time first. Why don’t you go check on your mom? I know you’re dying to.”
Boone glanced toward the barn, then back to his truck. “I’m worried about her. What if he’s right and she’s getting worse? What if the caregiver missed something?”
“Yeah, go,” Walker said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ve got things covered here.”
fifteen
Walker tightened the last screw on the new window lock and gave it a firm tug to test its strength. Better than before, though still not what he’d call secure. They’d need to reinforce the entire frame, maybe install impact-resistant glass—whatever it took to keep Johanna’s office safe. Through the window, he spotted Jonah across the yard, methodically splitting firewood, each swing of the axe precise and controlled. The kid had been at it for hours, moving from one solitary task to another, keeping himself useful but separate.
He hadn’t said a word to anyone since Boone’s outburst.
Walker set down the screwdriver and watched Jonah work, the rhythmic thunk of steel biting into wood carrying across the cold air. The kid’s form was textbook—feet planted, core engaged, letting the weight of the axe do most of the work.
Thwack. The chunk of pine split in two clean pieces. Jonah reset the next log, stance squared off like he was preparing for inspection. Thwack. The pile beside him grew, neat and orderly. Not so much as a twig out of place.
Okay, enough. If the kid could’ve outworked his own brain, he’d have done it by now.
Walker grabbed his coat from the back of Johanna’s chair and his hat from the hook by the door, then stepped outside.
“Jonah,” he called as he crossed the yard. “Got a minute?”
Jonah all but snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Drop the ‘sir,’” Walker said, stopping a few feet away. “And take a break. You’ve been at it all day.”
“Almost done here,” he said, and although the ‘sir’ went unspoken this time, it was still there, tacked silently on the end. “Weather report says snow tonight. Figured we should have extra wood ready.”
“Good thinking. But that’s enough for today.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to finish.” He avoided eye contact, and his hands never stopped working, stacking, arranging. “Makes me feel useful.”
Walker understood the need to earn your place through work, to prove you deserved the space you occupied. He’d spent years doing the same thing, stacking evidence of his worth like cordwood against the cold reality that some people would always see him as the sum of his worst decisions. People, including his own daughter.
