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Boone reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, smoothing it flat against the table’s worn surface.

“Rule one: You work. Every day. This isn’t a resort, and it sure as hell isn’t a mental health retreat.

You’ll earn your keep, mucking stalls, training dogs, fixing fences, whatever needs doing. ”

Jax nodded once, eyes fixed on a coffee stain on the table.

He’d spent five years doing laundry duty and training shelter dogs in prison.

Hard work didn’t scare him. Nothing scared him anymore, except maybe the thought of freedom with nowhere to go and nothing to do but think about all the ways he’d destroyed his life.

“Rule two,” Boone continued low enough that only Jax could hear. “No booze. No drugs. No exceptions. One slip, and you’re out. That clear?”

His gaze drifted past Boone’s shoulder to where Nessie stood at the counter, her dark hair catching the morning light as she leaned over to help Oliver with something.

She tucked a strand behind her ear with flour-dusted fingers, laughing at whatever the boy was saying.

The sound carried across the diner, bright and unexpected, like birdsong in winter.

“Thorne.” Boone’s voice hardened. “I asked if that was clear.”

He dragged his gaze back to the man. “Crystal.”

Alcohol and drugs had been his downfall after the mission went bad in Afghanistan. He’d spent years in a chemical fog before he’d finally crossed the line and hurt Alexis. Sometimes he still woke up tasting tequila and blood, and had no intention of going back to that kind of life.

“Rule three: Therapy is mandatory. Twice a week with Dr. Johanna Perrin. You talk, or you don’t talk—that’s between you and her. But you show up.”

A muscle in Jax’s jaw twitched. He’d had enough therapy in prison to last several lifetimes. None of it had helped. What was the point of talking about things that couldn’t be changed? Dead teammates stayed dead. Broken minds stayed broken.

“Rule four: Respect the animals. Every animal on that ranch has issues, just like the men. You treat them right, or you answer to me personally.” Boone’s tone made it clear that answering to him wasn’t an experience anyone would enjoy.

The bell above the door jingled as a woman with a toddler on her hip entered. Nessie greeted them both, mom and child, by name, her smile warm and genuine. The little girl reached for her, and without hesitation, Nessie took her, balancing the child on her hip while she took the mom’s order.

It looked so easy, so natural. The casual way people touched each other in the real world. Jax couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without a clinical purpose or violent intent.

“Rule five,” Boone was saying, “you’re not a lone wolf anymore. We watch each other’s sixes here. You’ve got brothers at the Ridge, whether you want them or not.”

Nessie set the little girl in a high chair, then moved behind the counter to pour coffee for an older man. Under the ridiculous apron, she wore faded jeans and a black tank top, practical clothes for a woman who worked with her hands. Nothing special, nothing flashy.

Boone snapped his fingers in front of Jax’s face, the sound sharp as a gunshot. “Pay attention, Thorne. This is important. You screw up, you’re gone. Simple as that. And you’ll probably end up back inside. Men like us don’t do well without a purpose.”

Jax’s throat constricted as an old familiar panic washed through him at the thought of going back to a cell. Five years in a box made a man appreciate open sky, even if he didn’t deserve it.

“You got family?” Boone asked abruptly.

“Parents in San Diego.” Technically true, though he hadn’t spoken to them since… he couldn’t remember. His father had sent exactly one letter during his incarceration: We raised you better than this. The disappointment in those five words had been more suffocating than any prison cell.

“They know where you are?”

“No.” And he wanted to keep it that way. Let them think he was still locked up. Or dead. That seemed kinder.

Boone slid another folded paper across the table.

“Your schedule for the first week. Wake up at five. Breakfast at five-thirty. Work assignments start at six. You’ll be with me today, learning the routine.

The rest of the week, you’ll do whatever needs doing.

You’ll meet with your parole officer on Thursday, and Dr. Perrin on Mondays and Wednesdays. ”

Jax picked up the paper, fighting the urge to crumple it in his fist. His entire life reduced to time slots and duties, just like prison. The only difference was the scenery.

“You share the bunkhouse with six other guys. They’re good men. They’ve all been where you are.”

Jax doubted that. He folded the schedule carefully and slipped it into his pocket, more to have something to do with his hands than out of any real interest in its contents.

“Rule six,” Boone said, leaning forward with those implacable eyes fixed on Jax’s face. “No lies. No bullshit. You want to be left alone? Fine. You don’t want to spill your guts at dinner? Also fine. But don’t play games. We see through it.”

Nessie passed by their table again with a coffeepot. She topped off Boone’s mug. “More for you, Jax?”

“I’m good. Thanks,” he added a beat too late. The words felt rusty in his mouth, but he managed them.

She smiled, a quick upturn of lips that creased the corners of her eyes, before moving on to the next table.

“Last rule,” Boone said after she’d gone. “Valor Ridge doesn’t save people. You save yourself. We just give you the tools.”

Tools. Like Jax was some broken machine that could be fixed with the right wrench. Like all he needed was a little tune-up, and he’d be good as new.

“What if I don’t want to be saved?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Boone studied him for a long moment, face unreadable. “Then you’re wasting everyone’s time, including your own.” He tapped a finger against the table. “But I don’t think that’s true. Man who doesn’t want saving doesn’t stop to help a woman with a flat tire.”

Jax looked away, jaw tight. That was different. The woman had needed help. It was basic human decency.

“It’s your move, Thorne,” Boone said, settling back in his chair. “You ready to go back?”

Jax took another bite of eggs, mostly to buy himself time.

Part of him still wanted to run—to walk out that door and keep walking until Valor Ridge and its rules and expectations were far behind him.

But where would he go? What would he do?

He had no money, no job prospects, and a reputation that would follow him everywhere.

And if he was honest with himself, he was tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of being alone with the darkness in his head.

“Yeah,” he said finally, setting down his fork. “Let’s go.”

Boone nodded, satisfied, and signaled for the check.

But when Nessie approached, she waved him off. “It’s on the house,” she reminded him, then smiled at Jax. “For fixing my tire and moving all that flour.”

Jax reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, part of the small amount of cash he’d been given upon release. He smoothed it on the table and slid it toward her.

“For the kid,” he said quietly. “For a monster muffin to keep him brave.”

Surprise shone in her eyes. “He’ll be thrilled,” she said, softer now. “Thank you.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the bill, and he felt a spark. Static from the dry air, but it jolted him nonetheless. She pulled back quickly, tucking the money into her apron pocket.

“Come back anytime,” she said, and sounded like she meant it.

Boone pushed back from the table and reached for his hat. “We’ll see you around, Nessie.”

Jax grabbed his duffel and followed Boone toward the door, conscious of the other patrons watching them go.

At the threshold, he paused and glanced back. Nessie stood behind the counter, Oliver at her side, the little boy waving enthusiastically. The bakery glowed with warm light and the scent of cinnamon, a pocket of normalcy in a world that had felt anything but normal for too long.

Nessie raised her hand in a small wave, and for a brief moment, Jax allowed himself to imagine a different life—one where he was just a guy getting breakfast, not an ex-con on a tight leash.

One where he could sit in that bakery without counting exits and assessing threats. One where he might actually belong.

Then Boone honked from outside, and the moment shattered.

Jax hitched his duffel higher on his shoulder and stepped out into the cold Montana morning, letting the door swing shut behind him.