He scoffed. “You think you got it all figured out after a few hours here? You don’t know anything about me or my mother or Walker.”
“I know Walker better than you.” Even as the words left her lips, she realized the statement gave away too much. She hurried to add, “And I know enough to see that he didn’t make a mistake bringing you here. He believes in second chances.”
They stood in silence for several long moments, the wind screaming around them.
Finally, Boone spoke again. He lifted his hand, flexed his bandaged knuckles. “You going to ask about the fight?”
She considered, then shook her head. “Not today.”
He glanced over at her, his surprise evident before he hid it. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not over. You’re still in it. Still fighting.”
Boone barked a short, sharp laugh that clouded against the darkening sky. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
He turned back to the field. He was still tense, but his shoulders had eased a fraction.
She stepped closer, stopping just outside his bubble. “Walker’s betting everything on you. You know that?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “It’s a stupid bet.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
He didn’t answer. She waited, hands stuffed deep in her pockets.
When it became too dark to see the field without a flashlight, Boone finally turned and walked back toward the bunkhouse. He passed her close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, paused, and looked at the main house where Walker was watching. “He’s not going to fix me. And neither are you.”
Johanna watched until he disappeared inside the bunkhouse, door slamming behind him, then turned for the house. She let herself in, shook the snow off her boots, and found Walker in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. He didn’t look up.
“He’s not ready,” he muttered.
“Yes, he is.”
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said. He’s ready. He’s right where he needs to be.” She moved to the stove where a pot of what smelled like beef stew bubbled. “He’s angry, defensive, hostile—all normal reactions for someone with his history. But he’s here, Walker. After all that happened with his mom and the sheriff today, he came back. He chose that, and he didn’t have to.”
Walker was quiet for a long moment, his knuckles white against the counter. Then his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled a breath.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “He came back.”
She watched the hope settle into his features, tempering that constant vigilance he wore like armor. For the first time since she’d arrived, Walker looked like he believed this might actually work.
And, suddenly, she desperately wanted it to work, too.
He lifted his head and met her gaze, and her heart squeezed at the raw vulnerability there.
“Thank you for coming, Jo.”
She nodded and moved to the stove, picking up a spoon to stir the stew. She didn’t trust herself to say more. A whole week here suddenly felt like both too long and not nearly enough time.
three
The digital clock on the microwave blinked 2:17 a.m., its blue glow the only light in the kitchen besides the dying embers in the woodstove. Walker stood at the window, staring at nothing, a half-eaten Tootsie Pop stuck in his cheek. The house creaked and settled around him, a sound he still wasn’t used to after six months of living here.
He crunched down on the candy, the last sweet bit giving way to the chocolate center. In prison, they hadn’t allowed Tootsie Pops. Too much potential for making weapons out of the sticks, they said. Six years without his vice had made him appreciate them more now.
He needed sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Not with Jo in the cabin out back, close enough to feel like a pulse against his skin.
