Twenty minutes later, Bear pulled the truck through the front gates of Valor Ridge. The ranch spread out before them, fields and pastures giving way to the main house and outbuildings, the mountains rising in the distance. In the afternoon light, it looked peaceful—just another working ranchin Montana, not the place where broken men came to rebuild their lives.
It felt like home. Not that rickety house on Maple. Not that he’d admit it to Logan.
He pulled up in front of the main house and killed the engine. King, who’d been dozing in the back seat, immediately perked up, tail wagging as he recognized the familiar surroundings.
“Wait here,” Bear said, opening his door. “I’ll be right back.”
But Logan was already climbing out, earbuds still in, shoulders hunched against the world. “Whatever.”
Cowboy appeared from around the corner of the house, tail wagging as he trotted toward them. The merle cattle dog was Valor Ridge’s official greeter, and he took his job seriously. He circled Bear once, then went to Logan and sat at his feet, head cocked.
Logan took out his earbuds and backed up a step. “What… does it want?”
“That’s Cowboy,” Bear said. “He belongs to Walker.”
The dog’s blue eyes stayed fixed on Logan with unnerving intensity for several long seconds. Then Cowboy leaned forward and nudged Logan’s hand with his wet nose.
Logan flinched but didn’t pull away. “Is he going to bite me?”
“No. He’s just saying hello.”
Bear watched as Logan tentatively reached out and touched the top of Cowboy’s head. The dog’s tail thumped against the ground in approval.
“Come on,” Bear said, starting toward the porch. “Let’s see who’s around.”
He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what he was going to say to Walker or anyone else. He just knew he couldn’t go back to that empty house yet, couldn’t face another hour of Logan’s silence and his own failures.
The porch door banged open before they reached the steps. River Beckett emerged in bunny slippers, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt, a mixing bowl of cereal clutched in his hands. His dark curls were longer and wilder than usual, sticking up at odd angles, and he hadn’t shaved in at least three days.
“Holy shit,” River said, stopping dead when he saw Logan. “You brought a kid. Walker, there’s a kid.”
A voice came from inside the house. “I know there’s a fuckin’ kid. He’s standin’ on my porch wearin’ bunny slippers, eatin’ my cereal.”
River looked down at the cereal bowl, then back through the door. “Your cereal? Walker, I have been eating this cereal every morning for nine years. At what point does it becomemycereal?”
“At the point where you buy your own damn box,” Walker called back, followed by the sound of his boots on the hardwood floor.
“Nine years of almost-free labor and the man draws the line at Cocoa Puffs,” River muttered before shoving a big spoonful into his mouth. He eyed Logan as he chewed, taking in the earbuds, the hunched shoulders, the jaw set like the kid was waiting for something to go wrong. He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said, mostly to himself, and set the bowl aside. He wiped his hand on his pajama pants before sticking it out to Logan. “Hi. I’m River. I don’t know how to talk to teenagers. It’s been a long-ass time since I was one, but I’m gonna try anyway. You like Coco Puffs?”
Logan eyed the outstretched hand with suspicion. “Not the way you’re eating them. Is that strawberry milk?”
“Ask me, it’s the only way to eat them.” River waved that away. “But what about horses? You like horses?”
“No, not really.”
Two whole answers. A new record. Bear hadn’t heard that many syllables out of the kid in days. Should’ve figured if anyone could pull a reaction out of Logan, it would be River.
River all but bounced down the porch steps. “Excellent. Come meet a horse named Lazy Susan. She also doesn’t like horses or my dietary habits. You’ll get along like toast and butter.”
Logan didn’t move, glancing back at Bear with something close to panic in his eyes.
Bear nodded. “Go look at the horse.”
He thought Logan would refuse, would stand his ground and force a confrontation right there on Walker’s porch. But then his son’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he turned to follow River down the steps and across the yard toward the barn.
Bear watched them go, River chattering nonstop, gesturing animatedly with his free hand while Logan trailed three steps behind, hands shoved deep in his pockets. King trotted between them, somehow managing to be underfoot for both, until River’s dog, Goose, came barreling in from the side yard, all floppy, gangly teenage limbs and big feet. The new arrival distracted King, and the two dogs circled each other in a frenzy of wagging tails and sniffing.
