Page 12 of Finding His Redemption

Across the bakery, Nessie glanced over at them, her brow furrowed with concern. Oliver had abandoned his coloring book and was watching them with the unblinking intensity only children possessed.

Jax forced himself to lower his voice. “I hurt people. I almost killed someone.”

“Yeah, you did.” Boone didn’t flinch from the truth. “And you paid for it. Five years in a cage. But paying for something and learning from it are two different things.”

“Like hell I didn’t learn.” The words came out harder than he intended. “I learned I can’t trust myself. I learned that when I break, innocent people get hurt. I learned that some things can’t be fixed.”

“And I learned that a man who’s truly dangerous doesn’t spend five years in therapy trying to understand why he snapped.”

Jax’s fork clattered against his plate. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Boone leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Thorne. When you helped Nessie with her tire, when you moved those flour bags, when you talked to her boy about fire trucks—did you hurt anyone?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because...” He struggled for words, for the logic that had kept him sane for five years. “Because I was in control.”

“And what makes you think you can’t stay in control?”

Jax picked up his coffee mug, but his throat was too tight, and he couldn’t swallow. He set it down again, the coffee sloshing as his hand trembled.

Oliver piped up from behind the counter. “Jax, are you gonna eat your toast? ‘Cause if you’re not, I know someone who’d like it.”

Both men turned to see the boy grinning at them, oblivious to the weight of their conversation.

“Oliver,” Nessie warned with more amusement than reproach.

Jax looked down at his plate, surprised to find he’d eaten most of the eggs without realizing it. The toast sat untouched, golden and perfect.

“You can have it,” he said roughly.

Oliver’s face lit up like Christmas morning. He scrambled down from his stool and darted across the room to their table.

“Thanks!” He grabbed the toast and took a huge bite, crumbs scattering across the table. “Mom makes the best toast. She puts real butter on it, not the fake stuff.”

“Oliver,” Nessie called. “Let them finish their conversation.”

But Oliver was already heading back to his perch, chattering to himself about the merits of real butter versus margarine.

Boone’s hard expression softened as he watched the kid. “The boy likes you.”

“Kids are stupid.”

“Kids are honest. They don’t see what you used to be. They see what you are right now.”

Jax pushed his plate away, suddenly exhausted. The bakery felt too warm, too bright. “You mentioned rules?”

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.”

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