17. Beckett
Chapter 17
Beckett
“Beckett?” Sheriff Lucas calls through the door. “Need to talk to you. Both of you, I imagine.”
George's eyes widen, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she whispers.
I can't help the smug satisfaction that curls through me at the thought that he knows. I want everyone to know this woman is mine and I’m hers.
“Give us a minute,” I call back, not taking my eyes off George.
“Take five,” the sheriff replies, his voice gruff but not angry. “Coffee’s waiting at the main house when you're ready.”
His footsteps retreat, and George buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. For a moment, I think she's crying until she lowers her hands, and I see her beautiful blue eyes shining with glee.
“This is not how I planned to tell my father,” she says between giggles.
I think we made it pretty clear last night when we gave him a show on the workbench,” I say wryly, pulling her hands to my mouth and pressing a kiss to each palm. “No regrets?”
Her laughter fades, replaced by something more serious, more profound. “Not a single one.”
We dress quickly, stealing kisses between articles of clothing, unable to stop touching even for a few moments. When she pulls on my shirt instead of looking for her own, something primal and possessive roars to life inside me.
The walk to the main house is quiet, our hands linked. The morning air is cool and fresh, the ranch spread around us in all its rugged beauty. For the first time since coming back from war, I experience a sense of peace so profound it's almost frightening.
Sheriff Lucas is waiting for us at the kitchen table, three mugs of coffee steaming before him. His expression is unreadable as he takes us in—George in my too-big shirt, my hand at the small of her back, the unmistakable marks on her neck that I left in the heat of passion.
“Sit,” he says simply, pushing the mugs toward us.
We do, George's knee pressing against mine under the table. A silent reassurance, but I'm not going anywhere.
The sheriff takes a long sip of his coffee, studying me over the rim, lingering on the protective way my hand covers George's on the table.
“How’s the wrist, kiddo?” he asks, his eyes on the compression wrap.
George shrugs. “Fine. I’ll heal.”
He nods, sets his mug down, and looks at me. “I read the file you gave me yesterday, Beckett. You were right to dig. Marcus is being transferred to county today. He's facing multiple charges, including assault, attempted sexual assault, and threats of violence.” He pauses, his eyes shifting to his daughter. “You'll need to give a formal statement.”
George nods, her posture straightening with that quiet strength that drew me to her from the beginning. “I will.”
The screen door creaks open, followed by heavy footsteps and a familiar voice.
“Thought I'd find you all here.” Angus strides into the kitchen, a platter of freshly baked muffins in one hand and his ever-present coffee mug in the other. His hat is missing, and fresh teeth marks adorn the toe of his boot.
“Morning.” He nods to each of us before setting the platter down.
“Don’t ‘morning’ me,” the sheriff grumbles. “Your goat tried to eat my patrol car's antenna.”
Angus groans and pulls up a chair. “For the last time, Sheriff—she's not my goat. She's a goat. One of many on this ranch.”
A soft “baa” follows as Cheese Puff trots into the kitchen with Angus's mangled hat hanging from her mouth like a trophy.
“Don't deny it, Sutton.” I smirk. “That little demon follows you around all day, making eyes at you. She's got a crush.”
“She follows me because I'm usually carrying feed,” Angus mutters. His gruff denial is completely undermined when he subtly slides a small carrot from his pocket onto the floor for Cheese Puff to find. “Menace knows exactly where the food comes from.”
Cheese Puff drops the hat and gobbles up the carrot before making a beeline for George. The sheriff chuckles despite himself. George reaches down to scratch Cheese Puff behind the ears.
“Traitor,” Angus mutters at the goat. “Even my livestock is Team George.”
Angus’s gaze shifts from me to George, taking in our proximity and the way she leans into my side. His lips twitch. “Looks like you two sorted some things out.”
I can feel George's eyes on me, hear the slight hitch in her breath. “We did.”
Angus nods, unsurprised. “Good. About damn time.” He turns to the sheriff. “So, you got him locked up?”
The sheriff nods. “Thanks to a bit of help from these two.”
Angus leans forward, elbows on the table, his expression shifting to something more serious. “All those ‘accidents’ we've been having at the ranch lately, the cut fence lines and such, Beckett wasn't messing around. He's been running surveillance, tracking info, and finding our weak spots so we can shore them up.”
The sheriff looks at me with new understanding. “You're not just some drifter.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “Never claimed to be.”
“Beckett served with me,” Angus explains. “Former Navy SEAL. Saved my ass in Kandahar when things went sideways.”
The sheriff's expression hardens slightly. “Still, running private surveillance without coordinating with local law enforcement...” He lets the sentence hang.
“Unconventional methods,” I acknowledge without apology. “But understandable given the circumstances.”
He looks at me for a long moment, not as some drifter who rolled into town. Not as a threat to his daughter. He sees the ex-SEAL. The protector. The man who would rip apart anyone who threatened his daughter.
He gives me a barely perceptible nod. “Sometimes, conventional doesn't cut it. Especially when it comes to family.” His eyes soften as they drift to George before returning to me. An understanding passes between us—some threats require crossing lines. “You keep watching over her.”
I nod. “Always.”
George squeezes my hand, her blue eyes speaking volumes as I turn my head to look at her. I see love, acceptance, trust, and a future I never dared to imagine until now.
We talked deep into the night, the kind of conversation that only happens when the world is quiet and there's nowhere to hide. I told her everything about Marcus—every detail. She told me what went down before I showed up at her workshop. And then she said the part that mattered most. She admitted she was afraid I’d shut her out the way her dad did after the service. I gave her my word that I’d never make her feel that kind of alone. Not ever.
“Of course, that still leaves me with a problem,” Angus says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“What's that?” the sheriff asks.
Angus leans forward and clasps his hands on the table in front of him. “With a ranch this size, we need someone permanent handling security. We still don’t know who’s behind the sabotage, and I need someone who knows what they're doing.” His gaze fixes on me. “Ready to put down some roots? Or are you still planning on building that civilian life somewhere else?”
I go still, sensing where this is headed but not quite believing it. “What are you saying?”
“I'd like to offer you a permanent position here. Head of security for Havenridge Ranch. Full salary, benefits.” Angus's voice is matter of fact but holds something else. Something like hope.
I look at George, who’s watching me with those clear, steady eyes that saw straight through me from the beginning. The woman who pulled a wrench on me when we were officially introduced for the first time. Who looked at my scars without flinching. Who took me as I am, broken pieces and all—despite her reservations about military men and the emotional walls we build.
But doubt creeps in, dark and insidious. I don't deserve these good things. A job. A home. Her. I'm about to say as much when George's hand covers mine on the table, firm and decisive.
“Yes,” I say, the word coming easier than I expected. “I'll stay.”
The relief that washes over George's face makes my chest ache.
“And the guest house?” I ask, recalling our first conversation when I arrived.
“All yours,” Angus confirms. “Unless”—his eyes flick to George, then back to me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—“you have other accommodations in mind.”
I look at George, and the certainty in her eyes steals my breath.
“He does,” she says firmly.
The sheriff clears his throat as he stands. “I should head to the station. Got paperwork to file on Marcus Wade.” He pauses, looking down at us, his expression softening. “George, I'll expect you both at the station this afternoon for those statements.”
She nods. “We'll be there.”
As the sheriff reaches the door, he turns back. “Beckett?”
I meet his gaze, ready for whatever warning or threat comes next.
He hesitates, then adds in a lower voice, “What you did, the surveillance, the intervention, wasn't by the book.” His eyes hold mine, professional assessment giving way to something more personal. “But as her father, not her sheriff... thank you.”
I give him a single nod. Message received. Some things matter more than protocol.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Welcome to the family. God help you.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving us with Angus, who’s already standing to follow.
“I'll let you two talk. Got a ranch to run. Beckett, we'll work out the details later.” He whistles for Cheese Puff, who ignores him completely, trotting after him only when George gives her a gentle nudge.
When we're finally alone, George turns to me, her eyes bright. She winds her arms around my neck, leaning in until our foreheads touch.
“You think I'd let you leave?” Her smirk is pure fire—pure George. Then, softer, meant only for me: “You're mine, Beckett Lawson. You always have been.”
I pull her closer, kissing her like a man who just got everything he never knew he wanted. Because I did.
When we break apart, both breathless, I can't help the words that tumble out next.
“I love you, George.” The confession tears straight from my soul, raw and unplanned but absolutely true. “I have since the moment you parked your perfect ass at The Honey Pot.”
Her eyes widen, bright with unshed tears, but her smile—God, her smile could light up the darkest corners of my battered soul.
“I love you too,” she whispers against my lips. “Probably for just as long.”
I came back from war thinking I had nothing left to fight for, nothing worth living for. But now? Now, I'd fight for this woman until my last breath.
“I'm never spending another night without you again,” I murmur, tucking her hair behind her ear. “So, about moving my things...”
George laughs, the sound vibrating through me like music. “Your duffel bag? All two shirts, a razor, and a tattered paperback?”
“Hey,” I protest in mock offense. “I have at least four shirts.”
She stands, tugging me up with her. “Come on. Let's get you moved in. I want you in my bed. Permanently.”
As she leads me out of the kitchen, her hand warm and certain in mine, I know with absolute clarity that I've found that elusive thing I've been chasing since I left the military—purpose.
Belonging.
Home.
All wrapped up in one fierce, beautiful woman who chose me forever.