Page 22 of Beckett
“Eat.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ve been working since dawn. Even soldiers need fuel.”
The sandwich sat there between us, ordinary and somehow monumental. When was the last time someone had made me food? Not restaurant food or gas station food, but something made by human hands specifically for me?
“Thank you.” The words came out smaller than intended.
He nodded once and turned to go, then paused. “There’s more in the house if you’re still hungry. Lark keeps the kitchen stocked.”
I waited until he’d disappeared around the barn before reaching for the sandwich. The first bite almost made me cry. Real turkey, not the processed stuff. Actual cheese. Fresh bread that wasn’t the end pieces. Crisp lettuce and tomato.
I ate slowly, savoring each bite, trying not to think about how this simple kindness made something crack inside my chest. The apple slices were perfectly tart, probably from the same batch the horses got but somehow better for being cut and arranged on a plate.
By the time I finished, my hands had stopped shaking from low blood sugar. The hollow ache in my stomach had quieted to something manageable.
I washed the plate at the outdoor spigot and left it on the porch steps, not brave enough to actually knock and return it directly. But I made sure it was spotless, a tiny thank-you for an act of generosity I couldn’t repay.
Reenergized, I threw myself back into work. The afternoon tasks were lighter and flew by, mostly checking water and doing a second round of kennel cleaning. I was in the process of refilling Duke’s water bowl when movement caught my eye.
Beckett sat in the grass near the training area, a tiny orange kitten in his lap. The kitten was all needle claws and tiny fangs, attacking Beckett’s hands with fierce determination. But Beckett just chuckled, a low rumble I felt more than heard, letting the kitten gnaw on his fingers without pulling away.
“You think you’re tough, huh?” He held the kitten up, and it mewed fiercely, paws swiping at air. “All eight ounces of you?”
The kitten latched on to his thumb, biting with enthusiasm. Beckett didn’t even flinch.
“That’s it. Get all that energy out.” He lowered the kitten back to his lap, where it immediately attacked the hem of his shirt. “Better my clothes than someone else’s furniture.”
I’d seen him work with the dogs—patient but firm, establishing himself as the alpha without ever raising his voice. But this was different. Gentler. The kind of careful softness reserved for fragile things that needed extra time to trust.
The kitten climbed his shirt, tiny claws finding purchase in the fabric. When it reached his shoulder, it mewed triumphantly before launching itself at his ear.
Beckett laughed. Actually laughed, warm and genuine, catching the kitten before it could fall. “Okay, warrior. You win this round.”
Something in my chest loosened at the sound. When was the last time I’d heard genuine laughter? When was the last time I’d laughed?
I tried to back away quietly, not wanting to intrude on the moment. But my foot caught a bucket, sending it clattering across the concrete.
Beckett’s head snapped up, soldier’s instincts engaging before recognition settled in. “Audra.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not.” He stood in one fluid movement, the kitten cradled against his chest. “Come meet Chaos.”
“Chaos?”
“Seemed appropriate.” He held out the kitten, who hissed at me with impressive ferocity for something so small. “He doesn’t like people much. Came in last week, found in a dumpster. Won’t let anyone near him except?—”
The kitten chose that moment to scale Beckett’s shirt again, purring like a tiny motor.
“Except you, apparently.” A smile pulled at my lips.
“I have a way with the difficult ones.” He plucked Chaos from his shoulder, holding him at eye level. “Probably because I am one.”
The admission surprised me. Beckett Sinclair didn’t seem like the type for self-reflection, much less self-deprecation.
“Want to try holding him?” He offered the kitten.
“Oh, I don’t think?—”
“Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? He draws blood? I can pretty much guarantee he will.”
