2. Beckett
Chapter 2
Beckett
I’m halfway through a bottle of whiskey when my phone buzzes.
I’m staying in a cheap motel room that stinks of cigarette smoke and regret. Not mine. I don’t smoke. The regret? That’s another story.
I’ve been holed up in this shithole for a week, waiting for the next job. Security. Extraction. A little off-the-books “problem-solving” for people who don’t ask questions.
It’s not ethical work.
Not by civilian standards, anyway. I move in shadows that most people pretend don't exist. The skills that made me valuable as a SEAL—tracking, surveillance, calculated intimidation, the ability to cross lines when necessary—are in high demand by people who need results without the red tape. I don't break kneecaps for loan sharks, but I don't always play by the rules, either. There's a line I won't cross, but that line shifts depending on who deserves what's coming to them.
It pays well enough to numb my conscience and keeps me busy enough to outrun my demons.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between jobs—moments like this one—I wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. Drifting from one motel to the next, one job to another. No roots. No connections. Just me, my skills, and a growing bank account I barely touch. But then I remember why this life suits me. Why I chose it. Or maybe it chose me.
I stare at the screen for a beat before answering. “This better be good.”
Angus’s low chuckle reaches me down the line. “Still an asshole, Shadow.”
A blast from the past. Angus Sutton. Former brother-in-arms and one of the few people I trust with my life.
“Not much else to be. Long time no speak. What’s up?”
A pause. “I need a favor.”
I don’t answer right away. Haven't heard his voice in what? Four years? Not since that last mission in Afghanistan, the one that left the rest of our team in body bags.
The one that left me a different man than I was before.
“You still got that ranch? What was it called? Happyridge?”
“Havenridge,” Angus corrects.
“I hear beef prices are fluctuating, and the weather isn’t helping.”
“We diversified.”
“Diversified, how?”
“Goats.”
“You’re a damn goat farmer?”
Angus's laugh rumbles through the phone—the same laugh that once kept our spirits up during thirty-six hours pinned down behind enemy lines. “It’s a ranch, Beckett. We run cattle, breed horses, and yes, we also have goats.”
I take another sip of whiskey. “I leave you alone for a few years and you turn into a goddamn goat herder.”
“They’re useful.”
“For what? Satanic rituals?”
He sighs. “For eating weeds.”
“I’m picturing it now.” I lean against the motel headboard, stretching my legs out. “Big, tough ex-SEAL, standing in a field at sunrise, playing the flute, serenading his little goat army.”
“They’re not an army,” he mutters.
“Do you give them names?”
“I swear to God, Shadow?—”
“Oh, hell. You do, don’t you?” I sit up, grinning now. “What’s your favorite one called? Be honest. It’s something dumb like Baa-ttle Commander.”
Angus is silent.
I burst out laughing. “No, wait. General Hoofington? Captain Bleat? Rambo the Ram?”
“Are you done?”
I smirk, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “I dunno. You tell me. You gonna start hosting goat yoga next? Maybe launch a luxury skincare line? ‘Havenridge Ranch: Where Tough Men Make Goat Soap.’”
Angus exhales hard. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”
“What about a goat-themed bed-and-breakfast?” I lean forward, thoroughly entertained now. “Guests wake up at dawn, get served fresh goat butter on homemade biscuits, then spend the afternoon cuddling with General Hoofington.”
“There is no General Hoofington.”
“There should be.”
“Jesus Christ, you're still the same pain in my ass you were in Kandahar,” Angus mutters.
I stretch out on the bed. “You love me. Almost as much as you love your little farm of emotional support goats.”
“I called you for a reason.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s the favor, goat whisperer?”
There's a hesitation on the line. “You working right now?”
“In between jobs.” I take another swig of whiskey, feeling the familiar burn. Something clicks in my brain. Despite all the banter and goat jokes, this isn't a social call. Angus doesn't do catch-ups. Never has.
Angus grumbles something unintelligible before cutting to the chase. “I need an extra set of eyes around the ranch. Strange shit’s been happening. Fences cut, livestock going missing. I don’t think it’s just bad luck.”
The whiskey suddenly tastes sour in my mouth.That sobers me up a little. Angus Sutton doesn't scare easily. Never has. But I can hear it now, that edge of raw fear beneath his words.
“You got enemies, Sutton?”
A dark chuckle. “More than I’d like, it seems.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. This isn’t my problem. I should tell him no. Should let him handle his own shit like I handle mine. But I'm already sitting up, already mentally packing my bag.
Non-paying job. A favor for an old friend. But it doesn't matter. I'd approach it with the same precision and commitment as any contract that comes with a hefty deposit. Maybe more. Money buys my skills but not my loyalty. That's a currency far rarer in my world.
“You’re one of the very few people I trust, Shadow. You saved my life.”
And just like that, I’m back there.
Heat. Blistering, suffocating heat. The kind that clings to your skin and seeps into your bones. The kind you can’t shake, even years later.
Our team was deep in enemy territory, gathering intel on a high-value target. Simple in theory. A fucking disaster in reality.
The ambush hit before we even had time to react.
One second, we were ghosts. The next, we were prey.
Bullets kicked up sand, explosions ripped through the compound. Comms went to shit.
I remember the screams.
I remember the blood.
And I remember Angus—pinned down, bleeding out, the light in his eyes dimming.
I should’ve left him. That’s what they train us for. Acceptable losses. Mission over man.
But I didn’t.
I dragged his ass out of there, half-carrying, half-hauling him through fire and bullets. Killed three men on the way. Don’t even remember pulling the trigger. I only remember the weight of him, the sound of his breath rattling in his chest, and the way he kept telling me to leave him behind.
We were the only ones who made it.
The last two standing.
After that? I didn’t stand for much.
I push the memories back and focus on the conversation. “So you need a babysitter, is that it?”
Angus snorts. “If I had a baby, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near it, you shady mofo.”
“So what do I get out of this?”
“A roof over your head, decent food, and a break from whatever shady shit you’ve been up to.”
He’s not wrong.
Still, I’m not sold yet. “Why not hire some local ranch hands? Or, hell, get one of your brothers to help.”
“They’ve got their own lives.” There’s a beat of hesitation before he adds, “And we have more at risk now. I’m married now. Henry, too.”
I pause mid-drink. “Bullshit.”
Angus chuckles. “Swear on my life.”
“Never thought Henry would tie the knot again after that shit with his ex. And you always said you’d never get tied down.”
“Yeah, well.” His voice is lighter now, amused. “I met the right woman.”
I shake my head, setting the glass down. Angus fucking Sutton. Married. If that doesn’t prove how much time has passed, I don’t know what does.
“What’s she like?” I ask.
“Strong as hell. Smart. Heart as big as Havenstone.” There’s a pause, and when he next speaks, his voice is rougher around the edges. “And I almost lost her recently. Someone set the barn on fire while she was inside.”
I sit up straighter. “What?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” he says flatly. “She was supposed to die in there.”
The whiskey sours in my gut. “Jesus, Angus.”
“Smoke inhalation. Some burns. She’ll recover. But”—he clears his throat—“I was almost too late.”
I don’t say anything right away. Because what do you say to that? That she was lucky? That it could’ve been worse?
Instead, I say the only thing that feels solid. “You’re not gonna let that happen again.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”
The anger in his voice isn’t loud, but it’s deep. Like bedrock.
I lean back, jaw tight. “So you want me to watch your six while you figure out who’s playing with matches.”
“I want you to do what you’re best at. Set up surveillance. And when they come back,” he says, steel in his voice now, “I want to be ready.” Another pause. “So, what do you say, Shadow?”
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I’m doing this, there’s one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Nobody outside your family needs to know who I am or what I used to be. You brought me in as security. Leave it at that.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line. Then: “Understood.”
I exhale, tightening my grip on the whiskey bottle. Looks like I’m headed to Clover Canyon.
* * *
The road stretches ahead, an unbroken ribbon of asphalt cutting through miles of empty land. Wide sky. Open fields. Nothing but space.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other tapping my thigh. Restless. Aimless. The hum of the engine beneath me is the only steady thing I’ve got left.
Maybe Angus knew that when he called three days ago.
Maybe that’s why I said yes.
Even though the idea of staying in one place makes my skin itch.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I see the familiar sign glowing in the distance.
The Honey Pot.
A smile pulls at my mouth as I recall the last time I was here.
Before.
Before the war sank its claws into me.
Before I lost my team.
Before I became the man I am now—a shadow of the man I used to be.
Back then, I was different. Lighter. Less hollow.
I was here with my team when we visited Angus on leave—loud, laughing, drinking, swapping war stories like we were invincible.
“Three tours in and not a scratch,” Cooper bragged, raising his glass. “ I’m like goddamn bulletproof Kevlar.”
“Jinxing yourself,” Marlowe warned, shaking his head. “Gonna regret that.”
We didn’t know how prophetic those words were.
But we laughed because we had no reason not to back then.
We were still whole.
Still together.
Still alive.
That night, we played pool, hustled a couple of locals, and drank The Honey Pot’s famous beer like it was water. I even danced with some redhead who pulled me onto the floor while the guys whistled and hollered.
I don’t dance anymore.
Don’t laugh much, either.
And the men I was here with that night?
All gone. Apart from Angus.
My smile fades as I pull into the lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The past is dead.
The man I used to be is buried with it.
But some bonds don't break. Brotherhood. Loyalty. The unspoken oath we took to have each other's backs, no matter what. Angus's wife nearly died. Someone tried to murder her. And now he's calling in a favor—one I owe him a hundred times over.
I'll grab a room here for the night before hitting the road at dawn. Angus needs someone he can trust, and there aren't many of us left.
I kill the engine and step into the cool night air, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
Inside, the air is warm and rich with the scent of oak, whiskey, and slow-roasted barbecue. The polished wood floors gleam under the low light, and the familiar murmur of conversation fills the space.
The Honey Pot hasn’t changed.
Not in the years since I last passed through, and maybe not in the decades before.
The walls are lined with polished wood and old photographs, making the place feel lived-in rather than rundown. A jukebox hums in the corner , playing some slow, sad country song about women leaving and dogs dying.
A far cry from the seedy hole-in-the-wall accommodation I’m used to. The Honey Pot has standards.
The “Rooms Available” sign near the entrance catches my eye—hand-carved, not slapped together like an afterthought.
The guy behind the front counter is built like a damn mountain , arms thick, expression unreadable.
He looks me over, assessing me. “Need a room?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just for the night.”
He grunts, reaching under the counter and sliding over a brass key. I turn it over in my palm, feeling its weight. It’s heavy and worn smooth from decades of use, like a relic from a time before plastic cards and digital access.
“Third door on the left, upstairs,” the mountain rumbles. “Breakfast is served from six to ten. Don’t start shit, and we won’t have a problem.”
Fair enough.
I pocket the key and climb the stairs to my room to unpack—not that I have much. Traveling light comes with the territory.
I could use a drink, so I head back downstairs, nodding to the bartender as I slide onto a stool.
“Beckett?”
I turn at the sound of my name. A genuine smile tugs at my mouth for the first time in a long time. “Well, hell. If it isn’t the only park ranger who could probably break a grizzly in half.”
Emmett Furbane looks exactly the same—broad shoulders, steady eyes, and the quiet confidence of a man who knows every inch of the wild and could disappear into it without a trace. A man who sees more than he says.
“Damn, Beckett,” he says, clasping my hand in a firm shake before pulling me in for a quick, back-thumping hug. “Didn’t think I’d see your fugly mug in my bar again.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Didn’t think I’d be back.”
Emmett leans against the counter, arms crossed, his grin easy but assessing. “You look like shit.”
“Good to see you, too.”
He nods toward the bar. “What’s your poison?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
“On the house,” Emmett says to the bartender, who grabs a bottle and pours. “And here I thought you came back for the beer.”
“I did,” I admit, tipping my head toward the rich amber brew on tap—the Honey Pot’s famous secret-recipe beer. “Still won’t tell me what’s in it?”
Emmett smirks. “Not a chance.”
I take a sip of the whiskey the bartender sets in front of me, the tension in my shoulders easing.
“They your ancestors?” I ask, spotting the old black-and-white photograph hanging behind the bar.
A group of men stand in front of what looks like the Town Hall on Main Street, though the surroundings are different—older, less developed. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothing with stiff collars and work-worn coats, their expressions serious, like they were holding on to a secret. The Furbane family is right in the center.
The engraving on the bottom of the frame reads: Founders of Silverpaw Hollow.
Emmett follows my gaze, then gives a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. “Yeah. That’s the original crew. My great-great-granddad is right in the middle, beard like a mountain man and a scowl that could sour milk.”
I smirk. “Runs in the family.”
“Damn straight.” He chuckles. “The Furbanes came up here back when this place was all wilderness, cold and unforgiving. They carved out Silverpaw Hollow with nothing but grit and a stubborn refusal to die.”
He nods toward the photo. “They built the town hall, the first mill, the general store. Hell, they even strung the original power lines when no one else would hike the ridge in a snowstorm. The town has changed since then, but some names still mean something.”
There’s weight behind his words. Unspoken layers. Legacy, maybe. Or a warning.
“You always knew how to tell a story,” I say, sipping my drink.
Emmett shrugs. “Not a story. History.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Talking of history, it’s good to see this place still standing.”
“It’ll be standing long after I’m gone.” He pauses, eyeing me curiously. “So, what brings you back to town?”
“Business.
Emmett gives me a look. “You working for someone?”
“Not exactly. Angus Sutton needs a favor.”
Emmett’s expression tightens slightly. “Angus?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “He wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t serious.”
I lift a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Figured I’d stop here first, see what’s been going on in town. You hear about any trouble?”
Emmett hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. And not just in Clover Canyon. Silverpaw Hollow’s had a rash of wildfires lately. They all started in places that don’t make sense, areas that don’t burn easily. It’s not lightning, and it sure as hell isn’t accidental.”
That gets my attention. “Arson?”
“Looks that way.” His jaw tightens. “Whoever’s behind it knows how to cover their tracks.”
I file that away because I don’t believe in coincidences.
Emmett glances at the clock on the wall. “I gotta head out. Early patrol tomorrow.”
I nod. “I might need your skills at some point while I’m here.”
He taps the counter once before heading toward the door. “You know where I am,” he tosses over his shoulder before disappearing into the night.
I barely get my hand back around my glass when the front entrance swings open , letting in a rush of cool air and a woman who doesn’t so much walk in as claim the space around her.
She moves like she has shit to do and no patience for anything in her way. Chestnut hair pulled into a messy braid. Blue tank top that molds to a curvy frame built for work, not decoration. Ripped jeans that showcase a spectacular ass. Boots that have seen more dirt than pavement.
And then there’s her face.
Stubborn chin, full lips, eyes like a damn storm. Not soft. Not delicate. Striking. Breathtaking.
A jolt low in my gut knocks me back.
Because I know her type.
Not the beauty—that’s secondary. I know the energy. The way she moves. The tension in her shoulders and the weight in her stance. As if she’s always ready for a fight, even if she doesn’t want one.
I know it because I carry that same weight.
She doesn’t see me yet. She doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t hesitate. She marches straight toward the bar, dropping onto a stool like the weight of the world just got a little heavier.
“Whiskey,” she mutters. “And keep it coming.”
The bartender smirks. “Rough night?”
“Rough life,” she mutters.
Something in my chest shifts. Clicks. Tightens.
And just like that, I know I’m in trouble.