Page 23 of Finding His Redemption

Nessie reached for her phone in the pocket of her apron and scrolled until she found Boone’s number. He’d given it to her more than a year ago, back when she thought he might make a move and call her for a date. He never had, but she’d never deleted it, thinking he’d be a good person to have on her side in case of an emergency. And this felt like one, but what would she even say? That she was worried about a man she’d met only once? That Sheriff Goodwin seemed determined to pin a murder on him?

She slid the phone back into her pocket.

Margery was right. She needed to stay out of it.

chapter

six

The second morningwas 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 wassomething.

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 drinkingand 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.”

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