Page 29 of Finding His Redemption

“Ah, that’s Ghost. Legal name Owen Booker, but again, nobody calls him that. Dude’s former CIA and can sneak up on you like nobody’s business. You’ll be alone in a room, turn around, and bam! Ghost. Standing right behind you, silent as the grave. He doesn’t sleep much. Or talk much.” River shuddered dramatically. “He scares the shit out of me, but you two should get along famously.”

Jax nodded toward the paddock below. “And the Marine with the hair?”

River laughed. “That hair’s ridiculous, right? No guy should have hair that pretty. Jonah Reed, resident horse whisperer. If Walker’s the brains behind this operation and Boone’s the spine, then Jonah, there, is the heart. But don’t let that laid-back cowboy act fool you—he’s vain as hell about that mane of his. Spends more time on it than most women I know. Guy treats conditioner like a sacred ritual.”

Jax nodded, filing away all the information. Not that he planned to be here long enough to need it. “What about Walker?”

River’s expression softened. “Walker’s... complicated. Ex-Special Forces. Saw too much, did too much. Started this place after his own spiral nearly killed him. Now he collects broken men like some people collect stamps.”

“And Boone? What’s his story?”

“That’s not my story to tell. But I will say this—when Boone tells you to do something, do it. Man’s got his reasons.” He paused, squinting at something in the distance. “Speak of the devil, we’ve got company.”

Jax followed his gaze to see a rider approaching at a gallop. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking Boone’s rigid posture. The man rode like he was part of the horse, not a passenger on it. His black Stetson was pulled low, his mouth set in a grim line.

Tango danced under River at the approaching hoofbeats, but Lazy Susan just flicked an ear and kept plodding along at her glacial pace until Jax pulled her to a stop.

Boone reined in hard, his horse stamping and tossing its head. “Walker wants you two back at the main house. Now.”

River’s smile dimmed a few degrees. “Something up?”

Boone’s gaze settled on Jax. “Hank Goodwin’s looking for you.”

“Who’s Hank Goodwin?”

River winced. “The sheriff.” He said “sheriff” like most people said the word “cockroach” with a faint sneer of disgust.

Jax felt a cold spike in his gut. He’d been out of prison less than seventy-two hours, and already the law had come sniffing around. He met Boone’s eyes, searching for accusation or warning, but the man’s face was carved from stone.

He didn’t ask what it was about. He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but the shape of it. There was only one reason a lawman went looking for a newly released ex-con… and it wasn’t to welcome him to the neighborhood.

chapter

eight

Walker waitedon the porch of the main house with the sheriff as if he had nothing better to do with his time. He leaned on the railing, arms folded, jaw set, his hat cocked back on his head. Cowboy sat faithfully at his side, the old cattle dog’s ears pricked forward, watching the approaching riders with alert blue eyes.

Sheriff Hank Goodwin looked exactly like what central casting would order for a small-town lawman—tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-gray hair and a mustache that belonged in a 1970s cop show. His uniform was crisp despite the heat, his badge catching the afternoon sun like a mirror. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, the picture of authority.

Jax forced himself to loosen his grip on the reins, but Lazy Susan must have sensed his tension anyway because she stopped without being asked, head swinging toward the house. So the walking glue stick wasn’t completely clueless, after all. She knew trouble when she smelled it, and, judging by her stubborn refusal to take another step, wanted no part of it.

Walker’s voice carried across the yard. “Dismount, gentlemen. Sheriff would like a word.”

River swung down from his horse with his usual careless grace, but he kept his mouth shut for once. Even the class clown knew when to read the room.

Boone dismounted next, the saddle creaking as his considerable bulk left it. The man had to be six-foot-four if he was an inch, with the kind of build that came from years of hard work and harder living.

He handed his horse’s reins to River, then nodded stiffly at the sheriff. “Hank.”

“Boone.” Goodwin’s tone wasn’t particularly friendly. “Been a while.”

Jax stayed in the saddle a moment longer, studying the scene. Walker’s posture. The sheriff’s smirk. The way Boone positioned himself like a wall between the law and the other two men.

This wasn’t a social call.

He dismounted slowly, keeping his hands visible, movements non-threatening. He’d been through this dance before—the careful choreography of questions and half-truths, the way lawmen sized you up like a piece of meat. The difference was, last time he’d been guilty as hell. This time...

This time he didn’t even know what he was supposed to have done.

---