nineteen
How was it Christmas again already?
Johanna marveled at how quickly the past year had flown by as she sifted flour into the mixing bowl. The counter around her was a mess of measuring cups, spices, and butter wrappers— the battlefield of Christmas cookie production.
“Need the vanilla?” Walker’s voice came from behind her, closer than she expected.
“Yes, thanks.” She didn’t need to turn to know he’d already grabbed it from the shelf, his movements in sync with her needs.
The year since New Year’s Eve had refined their dance. They worked together, planned therapy sessions and chore rotations and equipment purchases. They existed in careful parallel. Close enough to brush shoulders in the kitchen. Far enough apart that it never quite counted as contact.
She’d told him she needed time. He’d given it. Neither of them talked about how long a year felt when you were both pretending not to want something.
Walker placed the vanilla on the counter next to her hand and stayed there, close enough that she could feel the heatradiating from his body. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the countertop.
“You’re hovering,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice as she poured vanilla into the mixture.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re watching me make cookies.”
“I’m supervising.” He leaned against the counter, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t burn them like last year.”
Johanna flicked a small cloud of flour at him. “That was your fault. You distracted me.”
His eyes caught hers, held for a beat too long. “Did I?”
She turned back to the bowl, her cheeks warming. “Where’s the cinnamon?”
He reached for it at the same moment she did, their fingers colliding over the small jar. Neither pulled away immediately. His hand was rough with calluses, warm against her flour-dusted skin. For a moment, they stood frozen like that, connected by that small point of contact.
Outside, something crashed. Loud enough that Cowboy lifted his head from where he’d been dozing by the fire, ears forward.
“Goddammit, River!” Boone’s voice carried clearly through the window.
“Shit.” Walker pulled his hand back, clearing his throat. “I should go check on that.”
She exhaled softly and resumed mixing, adding a pinch of cinnamon without measuring. “Boone can handle River.”
Walker snorted. “Nobody can handle River. That’s the problem.”
Ugh, that was the truth.
Johanna pressed her palms into the dough, kneading harder than necessary for a yeasted cookie, venting her frustrations on it.
River Beckett had been at the ranch for five months now. In August, he’d taught the goats to open gates. In September, he’d rewired the ranch truck’s horn to play “La Cucaracha.” October brought the great chicken-in-the-bunkhouse incident at 5 AM. Last week, he’d replaced Walker’s coffee with decaf for three days running, which had sucked for everyone. And, this week, he’d rigged the Christmas lights to blink in seizure-inducing patterns and put googly eyes on every reindeer decoration. Yesterday, he’d replaced the nativity baby Jesus with a tiny action figure.
Boone had nearly thrown him off the property.
“He’s getting worse,” Walker said.
“He’s deflecting.”
“He’s being a pain in the ass.”
She divided the dough into rough balls. “He’s testing us. Testing whether we’ll kick him out when he’s too much. Whether this place is real or just another version of the same rejection he’s used to.”
“So we just let him run wild?” He scoffed. “You’re being too soft on him, Jo. He needs structure.”
