Page 11

chapter

six

The second morning was just as disorientating as the first.

It was the silence that bothered Jax the most. No shouting. No cell doors slamming. Only the creak of the bunkhouse and the faint ticking of the old clock mounted on his wall.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there staring at the ceiling, counting off the reasons he should leave.

He’d only been here a day. Walker wouldn’t be surprised if he disappeared before breakfast. Hell, he probably expected it and already had Boone primed to drag him back again.

He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to them that he stayed.

Yeah, technically, this was his parole, but he could go back to California and do the more traditional parole.

He didn’t belong here. He hadn’t belonged anywhere in a long time.

But then…

Echo.

He thought of the dog. The way she’d watched him yesterday, tense and trembling, ready to bite. But she’d let him near. Let him touch her, just for a second.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something .

He shoved the blanket off and swung his legs to the floor, rubbing a hand down his face.

The floor was cold. So was the air. Montana didn’t give a damn that it was technically spring.

He tugged on a hoodie and stepped into the common room, expecting the smell of burnt coffee and the laughter and teasing of yesterday.

Instead, the room was empty.

Almost.

One goat stood in the middle of the living room rug, happily chewing on what was unmistakably a pair of someone’s red plaid boxers, the waistband looped around one of its horns like a crown.

The other had somehow made it onto the kitchen island and stood there majestically, silhouetted by the glow of the open fridge like a feral statue.

They both turned to look at him.

Jax stared.

The goat on the island let out a long, slow bleat.

The one with the boxers took a few deliberate steps toward Jax.

“Nope,” he muttered. “Absolutely not.”

The island goat stomped a hoof.

Jax raised his hands, already backing up. “You win. Whatever the hell this is? You win.”

He glanced at the door. Could still leave. Could still call this a mistake, hitch a ride back to town, and vanish before anyone noticed.

A door creaked open down the hallway.

River Beckett stepped out of his room, shirtless, sleep-mussed, and wearing the same pair of plaid pajama pants, the same faded pink bunny slippers.

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a nest of dark curls pointing in every direction.

He looked like a man who had spent the better part of the night drinking and not enough of it sleeping.

One eye was still closed, and his mouth pulled into a grimace that suggested a solid hangover.

Given Boone’s firm list of rules yesterday, Jax figured the goats had a better shot at staying on Boone’s good side than River did.

“Morning, sunshine,” River drawled, then froze mid-stretch as he caught sight of the goats. “Well, shit. They’re back.”

Jax stared. “This a normal thing?”

River squinted at the goats. The one on the counter was now attempting to knock over the paper towel holder with its snout. The one with the boxers… screamed. There was no other word for it.

“Yup,” River said, popping the p at the end of the word. “The noisy one’s Rip. Which means the drama queen on the counter is Ruckus. Or maybe it’s the other way around. X keeps swapping their collars just to mess with me.”

He shuffled toward the kitchen, deflecting a headbutt from the goat with the boxers.

“Go on. Git.” He shooed at the one on the counter, who let out an indignant bleat and refused to move.

He pulled open a cabinet and grabbed a box of off-brand cereal.

“They’re Walker’s problem children. Found ‘em half-dead in a ditch last winter during a blizzard. Been causing chaos ever since.” He shook the box of cereal at the goats.

“Don’t let them see your fear. They thrive on it.

Bribe ’em with cereal, but not the good stuff.

They’ll get a taste for it and bankrupt us. ”

Jax blinked. That wasn’t a sentence. It was a verbal ambush. “You say all that like it makes sense.”

River grinned. “Welcome to Valor Ridge. Are you wishing you stayed away yet?”

I’m wishing a lot of things were different, Jax thought, but said, “Right now, I’d settle for a cup of coffee that doesn’t require negotiating with goats.”

“Ah, a man with priorities.” River gestured toward the coffee maker with a flourish. “Help yourself. Just don’t touch the blue mug. That’s Ghost’s, and he’s territorial as fuck about his caffeine delivery system.”

Jax edged around the goat, still chewing on the boxers, and started the coffee maker.

As it burbled, he watched River attempt to wrestle the refrigerator door closed while the other goat—Ruckus?

Rip?—jumped down from the counter and headbutted the door, putting a sizable dent in the stainless steel.

The standoff ended with River cursing and the goat bleating victoriously.

“Where is everyone?” Jax asked, glancing at the clock. 5:03 AM.

“Walker and Ghost are looking at some new security measures along the property line. Everyone else is out on the property somewhere. You’ll get used to the rhythm. Or you won’t and you’ll leave like the last guy.” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned either way.

“The last guy?”

“Evander Cole. Real grumpy bastard. The only guy Boone couldn’t convince to come back.

” River grabbed a handful of cereal and crunched it loudly, then tossed some on the floor.

The goats took instant interest. “Funny thing, though. He left but didn’t actually leave .

He got some property that borders the ranch and a dog that looks like it’d rather eat you than be friends.

You might see him out there when we ride the fence line later. Do you ride?”

Jax just stared at the man. His brain was still stuck somewhere back on Ghost’s mug, trying to picture a man named Ghost and wondering why the hell a coffee cup mattered.

He’d briefly had a cellmate like River—a guy who just said things because he wanted to fill the space.

It had driven Jax crazy within three days, and he’d requested a transfer.

Except he couldn’t transfer out of here.

But he could still leave.

Maybe that Evander Cole guy had the right idea.

The coffee maker sputtered its last drops.

Jax poured the black liquid into a plain white mug and took a careful sip as he watched River lure the goats toward the door.

The coffee was strong enough to strip paint and tasted like it had been brewing since yesterday.

Awful. But he’d had worse, and so he drank it anyway.

River suddenly stopped short, much to the goats’ dismay. “Oh, shit. Don’t tell me you can’t.”

Can’t what? Jax looked up from his mug to see River staring at him, waiting for an answer. He racked his brain to find the thread of the conversation again.

River had asked if he could ride.

Right.

“X couldn’t ride for shit when he came here. City boy,” River added in a tone that suggested there were few worse sins. “It was a pain teaching him. You a city boy?”

Jax took another long sip of coffee, buying time. He wasn’t sure he wanted to invite more questions and had a feeling telling River he’d grown up in San Diego would earn a long lecture on the evils of urban life.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “but I can ride.”

Every summer, his mother had signed him up for riding lessons at some overpriced stable on the edge of the city.

He’d spent entire summers of his childhood sulking in a saddle, counting the minutes until he could go back to his friends.

He’d hated it. Or at least he’d pretended to until his mom finally stopped signing him up.

In reality, he’d missed the horses more than he’d been willing to admit.

The memory of those summers and his mom sent a pang through his chest. He’d last seen his mom at the trial. His parents had sat in the back of the courtroom, rigid and quiet, unsure how to reconcile the son they thought they knew with the strung-out, angry man in handcuffs before them.

He pushed the thought away. “I can ride,” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

“Well, thank Christ for small mercies,” River said, dropping more cereal as the goats followed the trail toward the door. “Come on, you little demons. Outside where you belong.” He opened the door and nudged them with his bunny-slippered foot. The goats protested but eventually trotted out.

“And stay out,” River called after them before pulling the door shut. He yawned and scrubbed both hands vigorously over his face. “Ugh. I need a shower.”

Jax watched him go, the absurdity still settling in.

Again, he thought about leaving, then remembered Echo’s suspicious eyes.

All of the puppies he’d trained in prison had been bred and selected explicitly for their temperaments.

They’d been friendly, eager to please, and easy to train.

Echo wasn’t like that. She didn’t trust. She didn’t want to please. She was wounded and wary.

He’d never worked with a dog like her before.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by the challenge.

He took another sip of scorched coffee and watched through the kitchen window as the goats scaled the woodpile. Rip still had the boxers in his mouth.

Yeah, he thought. Maybe one more day.

He could always leave tomorrow.