They climbed the porch steps, snow crunching beneath their feet. Johanna raised her hand to knock, but Leonora shoved her roughly against the door.
“Tell Nash to bring out my son now!”
Johanna swallowed hard and knocked. “Walker? It’s me.”
The door swung open, and Walker stood framed in the light, his expression shifting from hurried to confused as he took in the scene before him.
Before he could speak, Leonora yanked Johanna back against her chest, the knife now pressed to her throat.
“Where’s my son?” she demanded, her voice cracking with hysteria. “Where’s Boone? I know you have him, Walker Nash!”
Walker went completely still. His eyes flicked to the knife at Johanna’s throat, then back to Leonora’s face.
Behind him, Jonah muttered, “What the fuck?”
“Leonora,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s cold out here.”
“Don’t patronize me!” She pressed the knife harder, and Johanna felt a warm trickle down her neck. Blood. “Bring me my son right now, or I start cutting!”
Walker’s eyes met Johanna’s, a silent question passing between them. She gave a tiny nod—yes, Leonora was serious. Yes, she would use the knife.
“Okay, Leonora,” Walker said, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Let’s all just take a breath. Boone isn’t here right now.”
“Liar!” The knife trembled against Johanna’s skin. “You’re keeping him prisoner! My boy would never stay away from me unless you were forcing him!”
He took out his phone, movements slow and deliberate. “I’m going to call him right now. You can talk to him yourself.”
Leonora’s breathing quickened, her grip on Johanna tightening. “Put it on speaker. No tricks.”
Walker nodded and dialed, holding the phone where she could see it. Three rings, then Boone’s voice came through, tight with worry.
“Walker? Did you find her?”
“We found your mom,” Walker said, his eyes never leaving the knife at Johanna’s throat. “She’s here at the ranch.”
twenty-four
Boone gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles ached as his mother's voice came through the speaker, high and fractured in a way that made his stomach drop: “Boone? Baby, is that you?"
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” He forced his voice to stay level, the way he’d learned to do during countless episodes over the years. “I’m coming to you right now. Just stay calm, okay?”
“They won’t let me see you,” she wailed. “They’re keeping you from me!”
Walker cut in, steady as ever, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of fear in his voice: “Boone, she’s holding a knife to Johanna’s throat.”
Jesus. He yanked open his truck door, andBishop popped up from where he’d been napping in the backseat with a questioning look.
“Nobody’s keeping me from you, Mom. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Just don’t hurt Johanna. She’s my friend.”
“Friend?” She all but screeched the word. “She works for him. For Nash. They’re all poisoning your mind against me.”
Boone slammed the truck into gear, tires spinning in the snow before catching. Bishop skidded across the backseat as he whipped into a sharp U-turn. “Mom, I need you to listen. Put down the knife. I’m on my way.”
The line went silent for a moment, then Walker’s voice returned. “She’s still got the knife, but she’s listening. Get here fast.”
Boone hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, pressing the gas pedal until the engine whined in protest. The truck fishtailed on the icy road before straightening out. He gripped the wheel with both hands, fighting to keep control of the vehicle, of his breathing, of the panic clawing up his throat.
He’d known his mother was spiraling. The signs had been there for weeks. Missed appointments, strange phone calls at odd hours, her medication bottles suspiciously full when he checked. But he’d been busy with the ranch, with Sunny’s recovery, with his own life. He’d let the distance grow, telling himself it was better for both of them.
