Page 38 of Finding His Redemption

“Hmm.” Walker’s expression gave nothing away. He turned away. “You have a visitor.”

Jax’s stomach dropped. After yesterday’s visit from Sheriff Goodwin, a visitor at dawn couldn’t mean anything good. He pushed himself to his feet, joints protesting, and brushed dust from his jeans.

“Who?”

“Nessie Harmon.” Walker’s weathered face remained neutral, but there was concern in his eyes. “She’s waiting by the main house. Says she needs to talk to you.”

The woman who’d told the sheriff about seeing him on the road. The one whose testimony had put him squarely in Goodwin’s crosshairs. The woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

Jax’s jaw tightened, anger and betrayal warring in his chest. “What’s she want?”

“Didn’t say. But she brought muffins for the crew.” Walker studied him for a long moment. “You want me to tell her you’re not available?”

The offer was tempting. Hide behind Walker’s authority, avoid the confrontation entirely. But that was the coward’s way out, and Jax had spent enough years running from hard conversations.

“No. I’ll talk to her.”

chapter

eleven

Nessie clutchedthe muffin tin to her chest like a shield, the metal still warm against her ribs, and shut her car door. Dawn had barely cracked the sky open, painting Valor Ridge in shades of pink that made the place look softer than it was. The ranch sprawled before her, all weathered wood and rusted metal, a patchwork of buildings that had seen better days but still stood strong. Just like the men who lived here, she supposed.

The ranch was quiet at this hour, just the occasional whinny of horses from the paddock and the distant barking of dogs. The air smelled of hay and damp earth, with undertones of manure and pine that mingled in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. A few trucks sat in the gravel lot, their windshields gleaming in the pale morning light.

She hadn’t planned on coming. Had told herself the whole drive over that this was stupid. Dangerous, even. But the image of Sheriff Goodwin’s satisfied smile when she’d mentioned meeting Jax on the road kept replaying in her mind like a horror movie she couldn’t turn off. She’d inadvertently given him the ammunition he’d been wanting for years.

Ammunition that could destroy this ranch and all the men that lived here. Especially Jaxon Thorne.

So, since it was Sunday and the bakery was closed, and since Oliver had a sleepover with his best friend Tate last night, she’d spent the night guilt-baking muffins for the men at Valor Ridge. Blueberry for Bear, Jonah, and Anson. Chocolate chip for X, River, and also for Boone, because the man needed sweetness in his life. Banana nut for Walker, because it was his favorite. An everything bagel for Ghost, because he didn’t do muffins.

And one monster muffin for Jax, because her son had insisted on making him one yesterday.

She’d made extra of all but the monster muffin. Too many, really, because her hands had needed something to do while her mind churned with guilt and worry. Baking was her meditation, her way of making order from chaos. But even the familiar rhythm of measuring and mixing hadn’t been enough to quiet the voice in her head that kept whispering:You might have just ruined an innocent man’s life.

Okay, so if Jax was living here, he technically wasn’t an innocent man. But she knew without a doubt he hadn’t killed anyone before she met him on the road that morning. She’d been around enough monsters to know what evil looked like when it wore a human face, and Jax Thorne wasn’t it.

She spotted three men near the barn. River leaning on a fence, that ever-present grin on his face; Boone’s massive frame dominating the space beside him, arms crossed; and Dewey Stafford, the local postal worker whose route included Valor Ridge. He wasn’t dressed in his uniform today, though, but instead wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a blue canvas jacket. He was gesturing animatedly with his gap-toothed smile wide, his trucker hat pushed back on his head.

“I swear on my momma’s grave,” Dewey was saying as Nessie approached, “that fish was THIS big!” His hands spread wide, the universal sign of an exaggerated fishing tale. “Biggest brown trout I ever seen in Coldwater Creek.”

Boone’s face remained impassive, but River snorted. “You know what they say about men who exaggerate the size of their... fish.”

Dewey’s laugh was just a touch too loud, his eyes flicking around the yard like he was making sure everyone heard it. Nessie had served him coffee often enough to recognize his pattern. Dewey collected stories like currency and spent them wherever he thought they’d buy him belonging.

“Morning, fellas,” she called.

River straightened, grin widening. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite purveyor of baked goods. You’re a vision, darlin’.”

“Can it, Beckett,” Boone growled, but there was no real heat in it.

Dewey’s gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Nessie! Heard all about that dead girl you found off the Ridge Road the other day.”

Was that what everyone was saying?

“Uh, no. I… didn’t find her. I was just driving past and may have seen a truck near the crime scene. Probably nothing.” At least, that was what she’d tried to convince herself during her baking marathon last night.

Dewey tsked. “Terrible business. Just terrible.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “They’re saying it was Bailee.”

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