15. Angus
Chapter 15
Angus
The smoke hits me before I see the flames.
By the time I round the tractor shed, the barn is half-eclipsed in rising smoke, thick and mean, pouring into the wind.
I run
“Fire!” Tom’s voice cracks across the yard. “The barn! Get water!”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because I see the flames. Smell the fuel-soaked heat.
My body goes ice-cold in that split second before the panic detonates.
My wife said she’d feed the goats this morning.
“LUNA!”
It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. A gut-deep, blood-boiling bellow .
Henry’s shouting. Dad is on the radio. Tom sprints for the water pump. Horses scream in their stalls.
And me?
I’m back in Kandahar.
A blinding flash.
Smoke. Screams. Heat blistering my gear.
The compound burning, my body buried under rubble.
I shake my head.
Not again.
I’m not losing someone in the fire again.
Not someone. My wife.
The main barn door is jammed. The metal is warped from heat. I try the side door. It’s locked—melted shut.
I throw my shoulder into it—once, twice?—
Tom grabs my arm. “You can’t?—”
“She’s in there!”
That’s all I need to say.
He lets go.
I rip off my coat, press it to my mouth, and kick the door with everything I’ve got. The third time, it bursts inward. Fire explodes out like a dragon’s exhale.
I dive into hell.
Smoke claws at my lungs. Heat melts the edges of my vision. My skin prickles and singes. I drop low, belly to the dirt, crawling, teeth clenched, heart pounding like a war drum.
Get her. Get her. Get her.
My eyes water. I can’t see shit. Everything sounds wrong—roaring and cracking and the high whine in my ears that could be tinnitus or terror.
“LUNA!”
I scream again, voice raw and useless.
I hear a hoarse shout coming from the feed shed adjoining the barn. “In here!”
I dive toward it, searching, searching…
Then—
A shape.
Small. Huddled. Tucked behind the tool bench.
I scramble forward. My knees hit the floor hard.
She’s curled around something.
A goat.
Fucking Cheese Puff.
Luna’s hair is singed. Her sleeves scorched. Her eyes flutter open when I reach her, and that’s when I break—split wide open inside.
“You came,” she breathes.
“I’ll always come for you.”
I scoop her and the goat into my arms and stagger to my feet. Her hands fist in my shirt. She coughs hard—dry and raspy.
“Hold on, baby,” I murmur, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
I move fast. Blind.
The rafters catch. Fire races like it’s chasing us.
The side door is a tunnel of light. Smoke swirls in fury around it. We burst through it just as the roof caves in—heat lashing my back like a blowtorch.
But she’s safe.
She’s safe.
Dad is there with the hose. Tom has a blanket. Shay is sobbing on the porch.
Henry is at my side instantly, hauling the gate open and helping me carry Luna to safety while I’m still half-blind from the smoke.
“I’ve got her,” he says gruffly. “You’re burning up, brother.”
“No,” I growl. I won’t let go. Can’t.
Not until the paramedics arrive and pry her from my arms.
* * *
At the hospital, they bandage Luna’s arms and monitor her breathing. Her burns are minor, but the smoke inhalation scared them enough to keep her overnight, hooked up to monitors and oxygen.
She’s resting now, pale against the white sheets, eyes closed.
I sit beside her in the white noise of machines and antiseptic, gripping her hand like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the present.
“She’s lucky,” the nurse tells me quietly.
“No,” I whisper. “ I am.”
* * *
She wakes near midnight. Eyes bleary. Lips cracked.
“Did we lose the barn?” Her voice is hoarse.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We did.”
Her brow crumples. “I’m sorry.”
I lean forward and press my forehead to her temple. “You’re alive. That’s all I care about.”
She swallows. “Cheese Puff?”
“Safe and sound with Biscuit, Pretzel, and the other goats. Bossy as ever.”
Her hand squeezes mine.
Tears slide down her cheeks as she whispers, “I thought I was going to die. And all I could think about was you. And this place. And how—for the first time—I didn’t want to go.”
She chokes out the next words. “I love you, Angus. So much.”
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for years. “I love you, too, Luna. More than this land. More than air.”
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “Even without the clause?”
“Especially without it.”
I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her mouth.
Then I whisper, “Stay as long as you want.”
Her eyes are red-rimmed. But when she smiles, it’s still hers. “Forever sound good?”
“Yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back gently. “Forever sounds just right.”
* * *
The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and the smoke that still clings days after the fire’s gone out.
Luna is curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the skin on her forearms and hands still pink from her burns. Cheese Puff is nestled at her feet like a smug emotional support goat, chewing on the corner of her blanket like it’s gourmet hay. Across from her, Shay reclines in the armchair with one leg draped over the side. A heating pad is tucked behind her back, and a mug of peppermint tea is balanced on her belly.
Neither of them should be up.
“I’m fine,” Shay grumbles as Henry hovers, fluffing the pillow behind her for the third time.
“You had false labor and a blood pressure spike,” Henry replies gently but firmly. “You’re sitting.”
Tom wanders in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and giving the room a once-over like he’s in charge now. “Y’all realize we’ve officially reversed gender roles, right? You’re on the couch, sipping tea and bossing us around, and we’re out here cooking, cleaning, and doing all the damn chores.”
Shaydoesn’t miss a beat. “Welcome to progress, cowboy. You’re living the feminist dream.”
Lylalifts her mug with a grin. “Honestly, I’m waiting for the foot rub portion of the program.”
Tomgroans and mutters something about forming a support group with other mistreated cowboys.
Ben enters with his arms full of folded laundry. “Don’t forget goat-sitting. Biscuit just head-butted the back door.”
Shay smirks. “He’s sensitive.”
“He’s a menace,” Ben mutters.
I stand near the window, arms crossed, looking at the charred skeleton of what used to be our barn. The sky is heavy with clouds again, promising another late-season snow. There’s still ash in the air. Still a scorch mark on the porch. Still a hollow in my chest I can’t seem to fill.
Sheriff Lucas came by yesterday with the report.
Arson.
Accelerant used.
Not an accident. Not lightning. Not negligence.
Someone meant for Luna to die in there.
And that knowledge is a slow, simmering rage I can’t turn off.
I glance back at Luna. She’s laughing at something Shay said, her smile soft but tired. She lifts her mug with her bandaged hand and winces.
She almost didn’t make it out.
I swallow hard and leave the room.
Closing the office door behind me, I pull out my old phone from the drawer. Not the everyday one. The old one I always keep charged, though I don’t know why. The one with a cracked screen and a handful of contacts, including Beckett “Shadow” Lawson.
I haven’t used it in years.
Because reaching out to Beckett would mean remembering things I’ve tried to bury. It would mean dragging the past into the present.
But I’ll be damned if I leave Luna at risk. Not for pride. Not for fear. Not for anything.
I hit the call button.
The line crackles as it rings.
Three tones.
Then—
“This better be good,” Beckett’s voice rumbles, low and dry, like he’s halfway through a bottle of whiskey and a bad mood.
I exhale hard, relief loosening in my chest. “Still an asshole, I see.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a gruff laugh. “Sutton. Damn. Long time. What’s up?”
I glance at the window, at the skeleton of the barn, and at the faint outline of Luna through the glass door—healing but alive.
“I need a favor.”
His voice sharpens. “Talk.”
I lean against the desk, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. “Someone tried to kill my wife.”
Silence.
Then, colder now: “Say that again.”
“They set fire to the barn while she was inside. It wasn’t random. Wasn’t an accident. She was supposed to die in there.”
Beckett swears softly under his breath. Then I hear the glug of liquid—probably whiskey. “You got proof?”
“Sheriff’s report came in yesterday. Arson. Deliberate. Same as the other shit that’s been happening—cut fences, busted water pipes, missing livestock. I didn’t want to see it at first. Thought it was bad luck. But now?—”
“Now it’s a pattern.”
“Yeah.” I rub the heel of my hand over my brow. “And I’m done pretending it’s not personal.”
Another pause. Then, “You think it’s about the ranch?”
“I think it’s about control. Land. Maybe the will. I don’t know. But whoever it is, they’re not afraid to escalate.”
His voice drops. “You think they’ll come back.”
“I know they will.” My throat tightens. “And I won’t be caught off guard again. Not with Luna here. Not with Shay pregnant. Not with everything we’ve built.”
Beckett’s quiet for a beat. I can hear the weight of it settling in on his end—years of instincts kicking in.
“All right,” he says finally. “What do you need?”
“Eyes. Muscle. Backup for when I can’t be here. I need someone who doesn’t spook easy. Someone who knows how toset up and monitor discreet surveillance systems. A good friend who knows how to track a threat without making a damn mess.”
I can almost hear Emmett’s smirk. “You need me.”
“The job’s yours if you want it.”
Another long silence. Then a low, humorless chuckle. “Didn’t think the first time I’d hear your voice again would be over goat-based domestic terrorism.”
“Don’t start.”
“No, I mean it. You’ve got sabotage. Threats. Arson. A grumpy ex-SEAL turned goat dad. It’s like a Hallmark Christmas special with explosions.”
I huff a sharp breath, but it doesn’t turn into a laugh. I’m wound too tight. “This isn’t a joke, Shadow.”
“I know. I heard it in your voice the second you said ‘wife.’” A pause. “You sound different.”
I stare at the old photo on my desk—Mom holding a foal in her lap, sun in her hair, Dad laughing beside her. “I am.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer, “Is she okay?”
“She will be.” My voice grits out low. “Smoke inhalation. Minor burns. But if I’d been a few minutes later…”
“You weren’t.”
“But I could’ve been.”
Beckett lets out a slow exhale. “Still carrying it, huh?”
“You don’t ever stop carrying it.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you can decide where to set it down.”
I close my eyes, signaling the end of this impromptu deep and meaningful. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be there in two days.”
“You sure?”
“If someone’s coming after you—after her—they’re gonna learn real quick that shadows bite.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I’ll provide food and a roof over your head.”
“You got a dog?”
“Four dogs. And goats.”
“Christ.” He groans. “Do I get hazard pay if one of them tries to climb me in the night?”
“You’ll love Cheese Puff.”
“I already don’t.”
“You’ll need to keep a low profile. I haven’t told Luna I’m bringing in help yet.”
Beckett grunts. “You think she’s gonna like having some half-drunk ex-merc skulking around the ranch?”
“No. But you get a pass because you saved my life. She wants to meet you.”
That lands with silence. The kind Beckett never fills unless it matters.
“Two days,” he says finally. “And Angus?”
“Yeah?”
“If it comes to it—if whoever this is doesn’t back off—you know I won’t hesitate.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The call ends. I set the phone down and press both palms to the desk, breathing through the quiet rage curling low in my gut.
Someone came for what’s mine.
Now I’m bringing hell to their door.