7. Beckett
Chapter 7
Beckett
The sun beats down mercilessly as Angus and I trudge along the gravel path toward the guest accommodation.
“Tell me again why I agreed to this?” I grunt and wipe the sweat from my brow, already questioning my choices.
Angus leans against the fence, arms crossed, his expression half-amused, half-knowing. “Because you're a man of your word. Always have been.” He grins. “Even when that word was given over whiskey and war stories.”
I snort. “Right. Honor and all that shit.”
"That, and you're running on fumes and need something to do that doesn't involve getting shot at for a paycheck."
I snort. “I don’t get shot at. I get paid to do the shooting.”
“Exactly my point.”
I go quiet, jaw ticking.
Because we both know what he means.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I stopped asking questions.
Stopped caring about the answers.
Angus lets the silence stretch before he chuckles. “And let’s not forget, you still owe me for Kandahar.”
That gets a snort out of me. “Being a goat farmer has fucked with your brain, my friend. I saved your ass in Kandahar.”
“And now I’m saving yours. Look at me, Beckett. Always looking out for you.”
I glare at him, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, real generous of you. I've got enough money stashed away to buy this whole damn valley, but here I am, working for artisanal goat cheese.”
Angus grins. “My goat cheese is worth more than money. People kill for that stuff.”
“If by ‘kill’ you mean ‘die from the smell,’ then yeah, I believe it.”
“See? You're catching on. Besides, you’re the best I know when it comes to security.” Angus pauses, squinting at the horizon. “And what’s not to like about the peace and quiet?”
Peace and quiet. Right. Because mending fences and dodging ornery livestock is exactly what I had in mind for my post-military career.
The mountains rise behind us, purple shadows against the sky. Everything here feels open and exposed. Part of me itches to establish a perimeter and set up surveillance. Old habits. Four years since I left the military, and I'm still cataloging entry points and defensive positions out of habit. I can't turn it off.
Maybe Angus is right. Maybe spending time on the Sutton family ranch will force me to slow down and take stock of the wreckage I’ve been calling my life.
Or maybe I’ll lose my goddamn mind trying to play cowboy.
Angus pushes open the gate leading toward the guest cabin. “Come on, Shadow. Try to enjoy it. Fresh air, no one shooting at you. Hell, you might even get a tan.”
I grunt. “Yeah, because sunburn is exactly what I need. And don’t call me Shadow. I’m Beckett here, remember?”
He chuckles, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay.”
The morning light catches the jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw—a permanent reminder of our last mission in Kandahar.
A reminder of how close he came to not making it out.
My chest tightens, but I shove it down, like always.
“You ever think about it?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Angus doesn’t need to ask what I mean. His fingers brush absently over the scar, a habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. “Every day.”
I nod. Same.
But there’s no point in saying it. We both know.
He tilts his head toward the cabin. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.”
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “Fine. But if one of your demon goats so much as looks at me wrong, I’m eating it for dinner.”
Angus grins. “You’ll have to fight Luna for it. She’s got a soft spot for them.”
Of course she does.
Shaking my head, I follow him down the path, already questioning my life choices.
Peace and quiet, huh?
We’ll see how long that lasts.
“The main house is there.” Angus points to a sprawling ranch house. “Workshop's around back. You'll be staying here. Unless you prefer the bunkhouse with the hands?”
He gestures to a smaller building with a covered porch and a few well-worn rocking chairs. The converted barn-turned-apartment complex sits at the edge of the property, nestled between rolling fields and a line of old oak trees that offer seclusion without feeling isolated.
“Guest apartment is fine.” I keep my voice neutral, but relief floods through me. After years of barracks and shared spaces, I need the quiet.
Angus takes the steps to the porch, opens the door to the apartment I’ve been allocated, and precedes me inside.
The accommodation is simple, sturdy, and built with purpose. The building combines rustic charm and no-nonsense practicality with wood-paneled walls and thick, reinforced windows that provide natural light without sacrificing security. The kind of place that welcomes you in but still lets you keep your back to a solid surface. This place is built for someone like me. Someone who needs a place to breathe. A place to remember how to live outside the battlefield and try to forget the shitty things they’ve done.
“All the apartments are open, uncluttered, easy to move in,” Angus explains as he guides me through the accommodation.
The living area is minimal but cozy, with a worn leather couch and a sturdy wooden coffee table. The bookshelf is mostly empty, save for a few well-thumbed paperbacks and a couple of framed photos of the Sutton family, likely left as a reminder that no one here is alone unless they choose to be.
The kitchen is small but functional, outfitted with basic appliances, a decent coffee maker, and a full fridge instead of some tiny dorm-sized bullshit. Through a short hallway, the bedroom is big enough to hold a solid oak king-size bed and a dresser, with a view that stretches out over the grazing fields. The bed—not some cheap cot, but a real bed with thick blankets that smell like sun-warmed cotton—looks too inviting for a man still used to sleeping with one eye open.
“The bathroom is nothing fancy, but it’s clean and stocked with fresh towels,” Angus continues. “Remember all the times we had to wash with nothing but a trickle of cold water in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yeah, I’ve had enough of that shit for a lifetime.”
Angus chuckles. “Figured as much. You’ll be pleased to hear that the shower has decent water pressure. Suttons don’t do things half-assed. You’ll be comfortable here.”
Comfortable. I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.
Angus observes me for a second as if he can read the thoughts I’d rather keep buried. “Give it time. Small-town life has a way of getting under your skin. Welcome to Havenridge Ranch, Beckett.”
I grunt noncommittally as we step back into the main room. A jar of peach preserves sits on the counter. Grabbing it, I inspect the label. Handwritten. A personal touch. A welcome gift from Henry’s or Angus’s wife, no doubt.
“How long do you think this will take?” Angus asks as he heads for the door.
I set the jar back down and follow him outside. “However long it takes to figure out who's been sabotaging the ranch.”
I can't shake the feeling that my stay here might end up being longer than I planned. Especially after the other night at The Honey Pot.
The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. Soft skin under my fingertips. The taste of whiskey on her lips. The way she arched against me, all heat and need. I clench my fist, trying to focus on the fence line ahead, but it's useless. She's there, haunting me with every step.
“You okay there, Beckett?” Angus’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look like you're about to take on a whole platoon.”
I force a chuckle. “Thinking about all the work we've got ahead of us.”
But what I'm really thinking is how I let her slip away. How I woke up to cold sheets and how I've been kicking myself ever since for not getting her number, her full name, anything.
The thought of seeing her again makes suffering through this dusty landscape almost worth it. But tracking her down? That’s like trying to find a half-eaten snack in my truck—possible, but messy. The Honey Pot isn’t exactly around the corner from Clover Canyon, and it’s not like I can just drop in after work every night.
Still, I’m already planning to scout the local bars and ask a few discreet questions. And yeah, I’ll be making a trip back to The Honey Pot the first chance I get.
Because one taste of her wasn’t nearly enough. She turned my world on its axis and made me want better things.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
I shouldn’t want better things. Better means wanting. Wanting means needing. Needing means losing.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
For years, I’ve lived on the edge—never settling, never getting attached, never making promises I couldn’t keep. I took jobs that kept me moving, that made it easy to disappear. I didn’t ask for more because more meant something could be taken away.
But then she walked in.
And suddenly, more didn’t seem so impossible.
Didn’t seem so goddamn terrifying.
Didn’t seem like a death sentence.
Now, she’s all I can think about.
I adjust my grip on the fence post, forcing the thoughts back down where they belong. I came here to help Angus and figure out what the hell comes next. Not to chase ghosts or get tangled up in something I don’t have a name for.
And yet?—
“Damn,” Angus mutters. “You’re really out of it.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been gripping the post so tight my knuckles have gone white.
I force a smirk. “Just thinking about how much I hate ranch work.”
Angus chuckles. “Bullshit.”
He studies me for a beat, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. Angus has seen me at my best and my worst. He knows when I’m lying.
But for once, he doesn’t push. He smirks and claps me on the shoulder. “Well, whatever’s got you so distracted, hope it’s worth it.”
It is.
And that’s the part that scares me.
“Look,” Angus says, “I know you didn't come here for ranch work. But while we figure out who's behind these threats and?—”
“I'll pull my weight,” I insist, cutting him off.
The crunch of gravel under our boots gives way to the soft thud of worn wood as we climb the steps onto the wraparound porch of the ranch house. The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the air, making my mouth water.
Angus gestures to a pair of rocking chairs, weathered gray from years of sun and rain. “Park it. Coffee's coming.”
I ease into the chair, surprised by how good it feels to just... sit.
Angus sets his hat on the railing before pouring two steaming mugs of coffee from a pot already on the porch table. He hands me one, and I take a long sip, savoring the bitter warmth. It's good. Way better than the sludge we drank on deployment.
The Sutton ranch is damn near picturesque in the early morning light. Wide open sky, fields stretching for miles, and the bleat of goats in the distance. It’s a world away from the places I’ve been.
As Angus settles in a chair, propping his boots on the railing, the screen door creaks open. A woman with honey-blonde hair steps onto the porch, her gaze sweeping over the two of us before settling on me.
“So, you’re the infamous Shadow.”
I glance at her, then at Angus. He’s watching her with a soft, unspoken devotion I don’t see often in men like us.
“Beckett, this is my wife, Luna. Luna, meet Beckett,” Angus introduces.
Luna crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly. “Good to finally meet you, Beckett. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Angus smirks, shaking his head. “All good things, of course.”
She raises an eyebrow and grins, her brown eyes twinkling. “Mostly.”
I huff out a short laugh, and something in me eases a little.
A moment of quiet understanding passes between us before she gives me a small nod. Respect. Recognition.
Then, before I realize what’s happening, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me.
I freeze.
Not because it’s unwelcome but unexpected.
Her embrace is warm, steady, and full of gratitude I don’t know how to handle.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice soft but firm. “For bringing him home.”
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I can feel Angus watching, probably enjoying the hell out of my discomfort.
After a beat, I awkwardly pat her back. Then, with a sigh, I give in and hug her properly.
It’s brief, but it settles something deep in my chest.
Luna pulls back, smiling like she knows exactly how much she’s rattled me.
I clear my throat, shifting my weight. “Was just doing my job.”
Angus snorts. “That’s his way of saying ‘you’re welcome.’”
Luna chuckles. “I figured.”
I shake my head, sinking into the chair beside Angus. “I’m glad you’re okay, Luna. Angus told me about the barn fire.”
Her smile falters for a fraction of a second—long enough to glimpse the memory behind her eyes. Then she nods. “Yeah. It was close.”
Too close. I don’t need the details to know that. It’s in the way Angus looks at her like she’s a miracle. In the faint shadows still lingering beneath her eyes.
“He said it wasn’t an accident,” I say quietly.
“No,” Luna replies, voice level. “Someone meant to hurt us. Me.”
The weight of that sits between us for a moment, solid and cold.
“But they didn’t,” she adds, a spark lighting her gaze. “They failed. And we’re still here.”
Angus reaches out, lacing his fingers through hers, grounding her. Or maybe the other way around. I look away, giving them a moment.
A few beats later, Luna’s voice softens. “The new barn’s going up fast. We’re trying to finish it for the Veteran’s Day Fundraiser.”
I nod slowly. This woman is stronger than she looks. No wonder Angus married her.
“I’ll keep watch,” I say. “During the rebuild. During the fundraiser. You won’t have to look over your shoulder.”
Angus nods. “That’s why I called you.”
Luna’s smile is soft. “I don’t like the circumstances that brought you here, Beckett, but I’m glad you came.”
I glance at Angus, then back at her. “Me, too.”
The sound of hammering rises from the distance. I lean back, letting the scenery wrap around me, the scent of cedar and sawdust in the air.
“You need anything, just ask,” Luna says with a warm smile before heading back inside.
Angus watches her go, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him. “She wanted to meet the man who saved my life.”
I huff out a quiet breath, my gaze still on the door she disappeared through. “Didn’t feel like saving anyone at the time. It felt like surviving.”
Angus doesn’t answer. We both know what it cost to get out of that hell alive.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “She’s got guts, your wife. The fire didn’t get her, and neither will the bastard who lit the match.”
Angus nods, slow and steady. “No. Not while I’m drawing breath.”
I look out over the fields, watching the cattle roam in the distance. “So, what's the plan for today? Fence mending? Hay baling?”
“About that. We had another incident yesterday.”
I straighten, instantly alert. “What happened?”
Angus’s expression darkens. “Someone cut the fence line on the north pasture. Again. Livestock got out. It took hours to round 'em up.”
He pulls a folded paper from his shirt pocket and slides it across the table. “These are the incident reports. Too many 'accidents' that aren't accidents, the barn fire being the worst. My security cameras keep getting disabled.”
I lean across to get a better look. “You think it’s connected to the phone calls pressuring you to sell?”
"Has to be. And ours isn't the only ranch being affected."
I set my mug down, my mind already mapping out surveillance points. “I'll start my sweep today. Set up some cameras and see what I can find.”
“Good.” Angus nods, taking another sip of his coffee. “But before that, I've got another task for you. Our tractor's acting up again, and I need you to look at it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Thought you had a mechanic for that sort of thing.”
“We do. George is an independent operator. Does work for most of the ranches in the area. Brilliant with engines but can't be everywhere at once,” Angus explains, leaning back in his chair.
“So you want me to play handyman?” I ask, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Angus grins. “Consider it part of your cover. You'll need to borrow tools from George's workshop, though. I'll introduce you two once we finish our coffee.”
A soft “baa” sounds from behind us. A goat, barely knee-high, with oversized floppy ears and large brown eyes, has its gaze fixed on Angus’s hat, perched innocently on the railing.
“Cheese Puff,” Angus warns.
I snort. “Cheese Puff?”
Angus pinches the bridge of his nose. “She's a menace.”
The goat darts forward, snatching Angus’s prized Stetson.
“Son of a—” Angus pushes to his feet. “Cheese Puff! Drop it!”
Cheese Puff, unimpressed by Angus’s command, prances in place, the stolen hat dangling from her mouth, the hard-won trophy already sporting a healthy number of teeth marks.
I bite back a smile. “Tactical disadvantage. The enemy knows your weakness.”
“The enemy is a goat.”
“Never underestimate your opponent.”
Angus shoots me a baleful look. “Don't encourage her. She’s got a bigger ego than a prize-winning buck in rutting season.”
Cheese Puff pauses her escape to peer back at us. The hat slips, momentarily covering her eyes. Then, with a sassy toss of her head, the pint-sized terror takes off, zigzagging down the porch steps.
Despite his exasperation, a hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Angus’s mouth. “I swear, the little monster is trouble. It’s only a matter of time before she decides my boots look tasty too.”
I lose it then, doubling over with laughter. “You've got a goat kleptomaniac called Cheese Puff. Gotta admire her spirit, though.”
Angus chuckles. “Come on, let's rescue my hat and introduce you to George. Between the three of us, we might just get that tractor running.”