He took a long drag of his cigar, holding the spiced smoke deep in his lungs for a moment before releasing it, and looked at his dog—really looked, for what felt like the first time.
She’d been with him for years now, a constant shadow, watchful and wary as he was. They moved through the ranch like phantoms, present but untouchable, seen but never known. He’d fed her, sheltered her, but he realized with sudden clarity that he’d never really touched her—not beyond the utilitarian patting of her flank when she’d done something useful, or the occasional scratch behind her ears when he thought no one was watching.
Hesitantly, he placed his hand on her head. Her fur was soft, thick, and warm against his palm.
Cinder didn’t flinch or pull away. She leaned into his touch instead, her eyes drifting closed in what looked remarkably like contentment.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the dying fire’s hiss. “Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
Emboldened by her response, he stroked her from head to flank, feeling the lean muscle beneath her coat, the steady thrum of her heart.
Cinder muttered happily, pressing closer, and his eyes suddenly burned.
From the smoke, he told himself, but he knew better.
His dog—his smart, loyal, beautiful dog—had been mirroring him all this time. Watching, learning, adapting. He maintained distance, so she did too. He remained vigilant, so she kept guard. He avoided touch, so she never asked for it.
He’d thought her aloof, as damaged as he was, when she’d only been following his lead. Being what he needed her to be.
His fingers sank deeper into her fur, finding the place behind her ear that made her leg twitch involuntarily. A sound escaped her—not quite a whine, not quite a sigh, but something in between that conveyed such naked pleasure that the burning in his eyes coalesced into tears.
“I’ve been a real asshole, haven’t I, girl?” he whispered.
Cinder didn’t answer, of course, but she shifted again, rolling to expose her belly—the ultimate canine gesture of trust. Ghost froze, momentarily overwhelmed by the significance. This wasn’t the behavior of a feral, distrustful animal. This was a dog who’d been waiting patiently for her human to be ready.
Carefully, he scratched her exposed belly, and Cinder’s back leg kicked in reflexive joy. A startled laugh escaped him.
“All this time,” he said, “I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance. Turns out I was just teaching you to be alone.”
He’d done the same with everyone at Valor Ridge. With Naomi. Holding back, staying vigilant, maintaining control—telling himself it was for their protection when really, it was for his.
And still, they stayed. Still, they waited. Like Cinder, patient beyond reason, hoping for the moment he’d finally be ready to let them in.
Cinder popped up suddenly to lick at the wetness on his cheeks and he wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his face in her fur. She went still for a moment, surprised by this unprecedented embrace, then relaxed against him, her warm breath puffing against his arm.
“I’m going to be better,” he promised, the words muffled against her coat. “For you. For...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t say her name, but Cinder seemed to understand anyway, pressing closer as if in encouragement.
Footsteps approached from behind, and Ghost didn’t need to look up to know it was Boone—he’d long since memorized the gait patterns of everyone at Valor Ridge. Security wasn’t just cameras and locks; it was knowing who moved how, when, and where. Boone’s steps held the steady purpose of a man who never wasted motion, each footfall precisely where it needed to be.
Ghost expected him to pass by, maybe offer a nod of acknowledgment before heading to his cabin. Boone wasn’t one for unnecessary conversation. But the footsteps stopped, and a warm, calloused hand settled briefly on Ghost’s shoulder.
“She’s been waiting for this.”
Ghost glanced up, unable to hide his surprise at both the touch and the overture. “I know that now. Why did nobody tell me?”
“You needed to figure it out for yourself.” Boone stood like a sentinel at his side, silhouetted against the starlit sky, hisshoulders squared as if bracing for impact. Cinder acknowledged him with a brief wag of her tail but made no move to leave Ghost’s side.
“Cold night to be sitting out here,” Boone said, his voice gravel-rough from years of shouting orders and swallowing dust.
“Been in colder.”
Boone huffed something close to a laugh. “Ain’t a competition.” He shifted his weight, the leather of his belt creaking slightly. “Mind if I sit?”
Ghost gestured to the vacant Adirondack chair beside him, curious now. Boone wasn’t the type for fireside chats, especially not with him. They worked well together, respected each other’s boundaries and competence, but they’d never crossed the line into anything that could be called friendship. Too similar, perhaps—both men who’d learned early that silence was safer than speech, distance preferable to closeness.
Boone settled in the chair with a faint grunt, elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the dying embers.
Minutes ticked by in silence, broken only by the distant hoot of a great horned owl and the soft sound of Cinder’s happy pants.
