“Let him try.” Walker’s voice carried an edge that made Cowboy lift his head. “We’ve weathered worse.”
They stood there, five broken people in a living room, surrounded by a crooked Christmas tree and scrap metal sculptures and the aftermath of trauma. Outside, snow began to fall again, covering the bootprints from last night, the tracks left by the ambulance and sheriff’s car.
“We should eat something,” Johanna said finally. “None of us have eaten since yesterday.”
“I’m not hungry,” River said.
“You’re eating anyway,” she told him. “All of you. Kitchen. Now.”
There was no arguing with that tone. They filed into thekitchen, exhaustion making their movements slow. Johanna started pulling things from the refrigerator—eggs, cheese, the bread Jonah had baked two days ago. Simple food, but it was something.
Walker found himself standing beside Boone at the counter, watching Johanna move through the kitchen like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.
“You kissed her,” Boone said quietly.
It wasn’t a question. Walker didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah.”
“About damn time.”
Walker glanced at him, surprised. Boone’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile but was close.
“We’ve all been waiting for you two to figure it out,” Boone continued. “Even River noticed, and he’s oblivious to everything that’s not mechanical.”
“I heard that,” River called from across the kitchen.
“You were supposed to,” Boone replied.
Jonah cracked eggs into a bowl while River buttered bread for toast. Boone set the table with hands that had finally stopped shaking. Johanna moved between them all, orchestrating without making it obvious, the way she always did.
And Walker stood at the center of it, watching these broken people who’d become family, and felt something shift in his chest. The guilt was still there, would probably always be there. But underneath it was something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
They ate in relative silence, forks scraping plates, coffee mugs being refilled. Cowboy and Bishop made the rounds, hoping for dropped scraps. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Valor Ridge in white.
“My mother asked about you,” Boone said to River as they were finishing. “At the hospital. Before they sedated her. Sheremembered you. Said you were the nice boy who fixed her water heater and told her jokes.”
River’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Boone’s voice was rough. “She liked you. Even through the psychosis, she remembered that.”
“I liked her too,” River said quietly. “I’ll visit her, if you’re okay with it.”
“Yeah,” Boone said roughly. “I’m okay with it.”
Johanna’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked rapidly, turning away.
Walker’s hand found hers under the table, squeezing gently. She squeezed back, her fingers lacing through his.
This was Christmas at Valor Ridge. Not the holiday they’d planned, not the peaceful morning they’d hoped for. But something real, something earned through blood and fear and the stubborn refusal to give up on each other.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even close.
But it was theirs.
twenty-six
The fire pit crackled and popped as Johanna added another log, sending sparks spiraling up into the clear night sky. New Year’s Eve at Valor Ridge looked exactly as she’d pictured it when they planned this gathering three days ago. Five chairs circled around the flames, everyone bundled against the Montana cold, breath clouding in front of their faces. Above them, stars filled the sky, bright pinpricks against endless black, no city lights to dim their glow. The dogs lay at their feet—Cowboy alert beside Walker and Bishop pressed against Boone’s leg.
Johanna settled back into her chair, pulling her new blue scarf tighter around her neck. Walker sat to her right, close enough that she felt the shift in the air when he moved. The firelight caught in his eyes when he looked her way, blue turned amber in the glow.
