Page 47 of Finding His Redemption

“Shit,” he whispered, staring at his hand where he could still feel the cool press of her nose. “You did it.”

Echo settled back into her corner, but her body language had shifted. Her tail wasn’t tucked quite so tightly. Her eyes, while still wary, held something that might have been interest.

Jax’s shoulders relaxed slightly, some of the perpetual tension bleeding out of them. He hadn’t even realized how tightly wound he’d been until that small release.

Echo had touched him. Voluntarily. It was such a small thing, but it felt monumental. Felt like the first step toward something he couldn’t quite name.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to Nessie and her dark, knowing eyes. The way she’d looked at him that day in the bakery, like she could see past all his defenses to whatever broken thing was still worth saving underneath. The way she’d shown up with her apologies and that ridiculous muffin, like she gave a damn what happened to him.

I know you didn’t kill that girl.

He’d replayed those words a hundred times in his head, turning them over like worry stones. How could she be so sure? What did she see that made her believe in him when he barely believed in himself?

“You’d like Nessie,” he told Echo quietly. “She sees things.”

“Most women do.”

Jax’s head snapped up, muscle memory from prison kicking in—never let someone approach from behind without noticing. But it was just Ghost, materializing in the kennel doorway like he’d been conjured from shadow.

Ghost’s ice-gray eyes took in the scene with clinical detachment, cataloging everything from Echo’s slightly relaxed posture to the empty food bowl to Jax’s position on the floor. His lean frame filled the doorway, but he made no move to enter the space. Always maintaining a precise distance. Always calculating.

“Didn’t hear you coming,” Jax said, rising slowly to his feet, careful not to spook Echo.

Ghost’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “You weren’t meant to.”

The two men regarded each other in silence for a moment. Jax had barely spoken to Ghost since arriving at the ranch. The man kept to himself, disappearing for hours and reappearing without explanation. But there was something in his eyes—a quiet vigilance, a bone-deep wariness—that Jax recognized. The look of a man who’d seen too much and done worse.

“Heading into town,” he said, voice flat as the Montana plains. Not a question, not quite an offer either. Just a statement of fact that hung in the air between them.

Jax hesitated. Town meant people. Stares. Whispers about the ex-con who might have killed Bailee Cooper. But it also meant a chance to get away from the ranch for a while, to breathe air that wasn’t laced with expectation.

“Walker wants me to stay close to the ranch.”

“Not asking for Walker’s permission.” Ghost’s expression was neutral, except for his eyes. Those gray eyes held a challenge. “Asking if you want to go.”

Jax glanced back at Echo, who was watching them with alert interest. “Sheriff’s looking for me.”

“Sheriff’s looking for a scapegoat,” Ghost corrected. “Big difference. If he really wanted to arrest you, hiding out here ain’t going to change that. He knows where you are.”

Jax studied the other man, trying to read the angles and shadows of his face. Ghost remained the most enigmatic resident at the ranch. While the others wore their damage like badges—River with his manic charm, Bear with his barely contained rage, X with his weaponized swagger, Jonah with his too-bright smile, Anson with his stoic silence, Boone with his granite discipline—Ghost was a blank slate, impossible to read. The only things Jax knew for certain were that Ghost had been CIA, was extremely skilled with computers, and could slip in and out of rooms without making a sound.

“Why do you want me to go?”

Ghost’s mouth twitched. “Because you’re better company than River.”

“That’s a low bar.”

“The lowest.”

Jax considered the offer. Staying on the ranch meant safety, predictability. But it also meant sitting with his thoughts, waiting for the sheriff to show up with handcuffs and that smug, gotcha smile that cops got when they’d finally cornered their prey.

He looked back at Echo. She’d inched forward again, head cocked slightly as she watched the exchange.

“I’ll be back,” he told her softly. “Keep the corner warm.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the dog’s tail twitched in acknowledgment.

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